#so it just never occurred to me that telling people the history books were shelved in chronological order wouldn't help them

[an-ruraiocht]

i mean this in as non-judgmental a way as i can because not everybody has the same knowledge and that is a morally neutral fact but it does astound me that people can know enough about beowulf to know that it's in old english but not know enough about either of those things to understand what period they belong to

[husbandohunter]

Dottore with short drabble “You only ever brought me pain and I’m sick of it.”

Something angsty pls? Thank you!

Tainted Glass [Dottore x Reader/Genshin Impact]

Synopsis: Can you escape the prison you made?

(A twisted Cinderella story. The girl was covered in cinders because she was fatally addicted to drowning in flames.)

Warnings: angst, emotional abuse, violence, death

(A/n): To be honest anon, I didn’t know what the word ‘drabble’ means until I googled it. I uh...hope you don’t mind the length :> 

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

You fell back against the cold hard floor with your arms bent and head turned sideways. The stinging pain spreads across your cheek. It burns. But your mind was still trying to register what had just came into fruition. 

Why?

The thought was so foreign somehow as if you could hardly believe he was doing this. But then the scene plays in your head again. You froze, your gaze enlarged and clueless while staring at the pale ground as it slowly begins to darken in the seeping movement of his menacing, haunting shadow. 

"Insolent woman, you wretch!" He spat in a disgusted tone, "How dare you speak to me in such demanding manner? Have I already told you, only talk when you have something important to say?"

You didn't respond, rather you merely let the strands fall in front of your vision as you gingerly pressed your hand against the place where he hit you. 

I…don't quite understand…

Dottore glowers down at your hunched form. He was never a man known for the virtue of patience. This man, the one who calls him your husband, you learned a long time ago to not meet his eyes as they would signal a hint of dominance amidst his authority, especially during moments like these. You came to feel his eyes instead, they were usually intense and full of wrath, sometimes crazed and curious while looking at his finest creations. He always loved experimenting in his labratory. After all, it was the only thing that could truly make the madman smile.

What is it that I'm missing? Where did I go wrong?

And you would do anything to obtain at least a fraction of the love he had left in his heart. 

He marches onward with heavy footsteps, paying no mind to your well-being, "Tch get out of my sight. I don't have the time to entertain with anymore these theatrics."

At the sound of him leaving you darted your attention towards him, "Wait, come back. Come back, " you plea softly, "Hector…" But he ignores your call. The back of your fiance disappears behind the door and slams it with a resounding thud. He was gone. You couldn't save him.

"No," As a result, you burried your face into your palms and cried.

“I'm sorry.”

…

What is love?

Being raised in one of the most prestigious bloodlines of Fontaine, a life filled with riches since your parents were well known scholars throughout Teyvat, they provided you and your family with everything you needed. From exquisite dishes to priceless jewelry, yet even among those riches you never did find an answer to your question. They were tangibles and short-lasting, eventually leaving you with nothing until the glass of your heart was filled empty. They seemed to have cared more about their fortune along with the brightest child of their family line, your brother, a male heir, someone who fulfilled their expectations where you couldn't do so. And because he was able to give them what they wanted, he was loved.

I see, love is conditional.

Realizing that you possessed no talent to achieve what your brother had accomplished, you came to accept that you were undeserving of their love. Love was for the smart. Love was for the gifted.  Love was for everything you are not. There was no place for your kind and thus you locked yourself up in your bedroom chambers along with your fragile heart where no one would try to find you, picking up the books upon the shelves and getting lost in their fantasies. 

They told you many beautiful things about the world and many reasons why it was so tragic. Because they weren't real. The story begins with a princess who was a kind-hearted soul, deprived from the care of her evil stepmother and dreams of marrying a prince from a land far far away. They often end on a happily ever after with the princes finding her one true love. You've never seen anything like it. Where two people, despite the struggles they went through, loved each other unconditionally.

Unconditional love only exists in dreams.

Or so you thought to believe.

One day a man marched right at the doorsteps of your mansion. He was a student coming all the way from Sumeru Academia and had high hopes of building a business partnership with your father. The man was declined of course, you watched from the garden bushes as he was sent off back into his carriage. He stops abruptly and turns his head ajar to catch your figure, his inquisitive eyes were both striking and sharp. Like thorns of a rose that was ready to prick anyone who dares to come close. Even so, they made a very lasting impression.

Red eyes.

It was the first time that someone had looked your way.

Couple of months later, the government had arranged a grand ball where all nobles would gather and commit to building their social circle. Useless events. There was no reason for you to engage. While your parents were occupied with the latest gossips and your brother surrounded by fathers who were eager to marry their daughters to him, you snuck outside to the balcony and hid away from the crowd. Quiet at last. And as things should be. The moon was your only friend because she was just like you; half empty. Maybe that was why you still had a glimmer of hope for the other half to be filled. 

Part white, you inquired, pristine and untainted. From far away it looked similar to snow. 

"My, how pleasantly surprising."

While the other part was stained with black cinders.

You glanced over your shoulder to see a man leaning against the pillar. His mint coloured bangs were slicked back in a trendy fashion, complimenting the white suit he adorned himself with. The golden chains hanging around his ebony boots dangled and clanged with each step he took forward until the light finally reveals his face.

"You seem familiar," you say while squinting your eyes, "Are you the person my father rejected back in February?"

He quirks one brow and you were afraid if you had offended him. But before you could utter an apology, the man splits his lips into a toothy grin and bursts out into a maniac-like laughter. He was completely insane, you thought to yourself. Though he paid no mind to your discomfort and continued to dwell in his amusement, "Hahaha straightforward, I like it! So what if I am? Is it a requirement to be a noble for me to simply have a chat?"

"And if I may ask why?"

"Hmmm, why?" The man reaches for the balcony and presses his back there. He threw his head backward before drilling his ruby gaze into yours, "I too am not fond of annoying crowds. Those snobbish fools thinking they're above everyone else just because they have a couple of mora when that is all they are worth. It's almost too hilarious for my own good."

You could tell there was disdain in his tone. Mainly towards your father who were one of the many unkind nobles of Fontaine and was only liked because of his success. Gripping your hands upon the stone railings, you looked down at the distant trees below while the wind rustled them apart, "I can't deny that," you say dissapointedly, "It's common for nobles not to associate with lower classes as it could potentially ruin their image. Though I may not have been there but I'm sure you had much to offer in terms of your brilliance, erm, Mister…?"

"Hector," Hector placed a palm on his chest with a polite bow following suit, "Hector Dufour-Lapointé. It is a pleasure to make you an acquaintance Lady (Y/n)."

"You know my name?"

"How could I not?" Hector smirks lazily as he danced around you, "I saw you before hiding behind the rose bushes back in your estate. Quite curious why you didn't attempt to say hello."

He even remembers that too. You fiddled with the fabric of your dress, "My apologies. I'm not use to socializing so much."

“Is that so? I think you're not giving yourself enough credit," he complimented while shrugging, "This is much more entertaining than hanging in that insufferably crowded room, it was an unexpected occurence to meet you here of all places. However, I must say time can fly if I'm able to enjoy myself."

You shifted away from his stare, "You flatter me. We've only been talking for a few minutes."

"I have yet to realize it then" Hector's cheerfulness remains at stance despite your gloomy response. He leans forward like a curious child and tosses you a question, "Then allow me to ask, what brings you out here Lady (Y/n)? I don't see any reason when your family are such highly respected people of Fontaine." 

"I'm not like them!" You retort instantly, causing the man to glance at you with skepticism, "I mean, I have nothing to do with them and they have nothing to do with me. That's just how it is. They already have Clement after all…"

Why am I telling him this?

"Ah your brother I assume. Yes so I've heard much about his genius mind. There were a few instances where he and I collaborated at Sumeru Academia," Hector speaks as if regarding to his unpleasant memories, "Although he never said anything about having a sister."

"We're not that close. And I'm not very fond of him," you confessed bluntly.

"Neither am I," Hector agreed with a scowl, "He claims his position using the knowledge derived from history books but never tries to think beyond the norm. That ignorant mindset of his will surely be his downfall one day."

"Ignorance can lead to anyone's downfall. If they turn a blind eye to the truth, so much can be taken from them," you paused shortly from rambling too much, "That's what I read in books at least."

"As expected of your lineage," he sighs whimsically, "Such avid readers."

"Well my family prefers documents and research. I've gone through them too but I will always love reading fiction."

"Ha! Seems you really are trying to be different from the rest of your family."

Seconds turn to minutes and minutes to hours, you had already forgotten about the cold breeze despite your dress being less than ideal for the outdoors. The man, although he can be a little to blathering at times, was more than what seemed to be on the surface. At first you thought of him as someone here to take advantage of your relations to your father but he seemed so sincere when listening to your stories, so eager while expressing his thoughts and even made you laugh a couple of times. You didn't realize that the clock had already struck twelve as the guests were preparing to leave but you just weren't ready to do the same.

"Until next time (Y/n)," he takes your fingers and pressed a kiss on top of them, though you were more struck by how he addressed you without honorifics, "I look forward to speaking with you again."

A warm smile graces your lips as you cursty, "Likewise Hector. Thank you for listening to me. I know I must have taken a long time."

Hector sneered but you already learned that it was simply his way of expressing amusement, "Hardly. I was thoroughly entertained."

When your parents found out about your meeting with him, they made it clear that you would never see him again. Hector Dufour-Lapointé is what he calls himself but the real name behind this man was Hector Valliere who came from a village hidden in the west of Fontaine. Rumours said that he was chased out of his hometown by an angry mob, claiming him to be a madman conducting unethical experiments on humans. Shortly after his arrival in Sumeru, he abandoned his past identity and replaced it with a new one in order to enter the academy under legal supervision. Associating with a man of a suspicious reputation would only cause harm to your family's name. Though you could barely care much about their reputation. There was nothing for you to benefit from it.

Few weeks have passed and you evetually gave up on the thought of hearing from Hector. They were only fleeting moments, nothing more. Your routine would stay the same as you kept on plucking more books off the shelves, killing whatever time you had. However the activities you used to enjoy somehow lost it's flair and there would be a slight pain in your chest whenever you turn to a page with the princess as she is surrounded by her friends. What exactly changed? Your family still treated you the same. Did you suddenly grow bored from doing the same thing everyday? Why is it that you feel much more lonelier despite being alone for so long? It was hard to tell in a singular perspective. If only there was someone here to give you some insights on things you couldn't see…

A silver bird lands by your front window and you nearly fell out of your chair as it flapped their wings violently. A machine?! They dropped what seems to be an envelope within the thick bushes before taking off and buzzing into the evening sky. You switched off the lock and lifted the glass within a single movement, snatching the piece of paper so that the wind wouldn't blow it away. Hastily you opened it. Both curious and cautious of why would anyone send you mail in such a discreet approach.

Chère Mademoiselle (Y/n),

I can only imagine the shock of your expression once reading this letter. I'm only writing to you since I assume that your father had already told you those nasty rumours about my past. No matter. I trust that you have a good head on your shoulders to not prejudge people using such miniscule details. I wish to speak with you again. Unless you have other plans staying in that stuffy room of yours, meet me behind the clock tower at 11:00 p.m. Don't be late.

Bien à vous,

H.

"It really is him!" The happiness spreads all across your features as you clutched the letter to your chest. For some reason, your heart wouldn't stop racing. It was a simple yet thoughful action on his part but despite how short his greeting was, every word held the weight of a thousand sparks, "I…I can't stop smiling."

And without hesitation, you prepared to leave. No one noticed your absence.

-------

It was only halfway where you realized that Hector didn't give many details redgarding why he planned this sudden event. You caught sight of him standing under the roofs with his hands hidden behind his back. He had on his signature lopsided grin, brows uneven as he glanced at you casually.

"How very punctual, were you so eager that you couldn't wait?" He teases.

"I was surprised when your bird knocked upon my window," you inform, "Is it something urgent?"

"Not at all. I merely wanted to catch up with old times," Hector tilts forward to emphasize his suggestion, "Care to indulge me for a bit?"

You crossed your arms, "Then what is it that you're hiding behind your back?"

"Hmm?" He hums, "You mean this?"

"Ah!"

Roses. A bouquet of bright red flowers were presented to you, nicely wrapped in fabric. In the language of Fontaine, recieving them could mean multiple of things and you couldn't help but feel hesitant despite his thoughtful gesture, "Why are you giving me this?"

"Is it so wrong for me to be a gentleman? I thought it would be best to prepare you a gift after you put all that effort to come out in such a late hour," Hector mused to himself, "Especially when you had to make sure no prying eyes would catch us."

You let out a small laugh before accepting the bouquet, "I wouldn't go as far to say that."

"Oh?" Although it was hard to see, Hector managed to catch a glimpse of your flushed cheeks hidden behind the flowers. A darken smirk climbs onto his face at the inviting thought of what it could mean, "Tell me more."

The whole night you both spent walking around the empty plaza with only the stars as your guide. They paved a silver path reflected in the horizon above, free flowing like one of the many watercolour paintings hung in your chambers, uncertain where they may lead but you followed them regardless. If it weren't for Hector's inivtation you might have never known about the parts of your city due to the restricted lifestyle you lived. He listened to every one of them. The stories you had to tell when there was no one for you to talk to and the complaints about your brother whenever he wanted to snitch on your actions just to get the praise out of your father. You expressed your frustrations when speaking about your incompetences, joy after reading a good fairytale book written by your favourite author, there was so much to say that you were worried if Hector soon grew tired from them.

"Go on. I'm listening."

And your heart flutters again. Suddenly everything felt so light with each step you took, it was as if you walked across the stars in the sky rather than the heavy pavement of the ground you called your home. But even if happiness was a bliss, it tormented you. Because companionship made you realize how poor your were all along. That you had everything yet you had nothing, slowly withering away like the roses you held in your hand. Convinced that your existence was worth nothing more than nothing itself. Doomed to be dismissed and forgotten. Rotting away...Hector stays by your side as you cried softly into the night.

From a distance the bell rings and echoes just like the time before during Fontaine's grand ball. Hector shows you a secret route so that no one could find you.

"Will you write to me again?"

The request was so innocent, purely from genuine intentions and devoided of anything he had in mind. Hector would always laugh in these situations when things have gone unexpectedly yet pleasingly his way but held back knowing that it would be foolish to waste such a priceless opportunity. And so he gave you his smile, one full of secrets where you had mistakened it as a promise, "Of course my dear."

Every night you could no longer fall asleep since he had occupied your thoughts completely. Sometimes you'd dream of him and their tales would unfold similarly to the ones you have read. It gone to the point where the maids would have to wake you up during late afternoons due to the dramatic change in your sleep schedule. Though, you didn't care what they did to you. As long as no one found out about your secret rendezvous.

You never thought that there'd be a day where you would voluntarily give up reading your beloved fairytales. They were now replaced by a stash of his letters that have been accumulated over the past few months. You read them each day, pacing back and forth within the walls of your room, whispering his sentences as if he were the one saying them to you. He made you feel special. You were addicted to this feeling. Eventually you managed to memorize his words by heart. 

The pages of your diary were filled with notes. Like your very own  fairytale carved into reality. From the rose petal, now dried, to the hairpin he snatched from a distracted merchant and a single strand of his hair you found within your cloak after a warm embrace, all of these items, a remnant of the man you loved were taped up in these pages. Sometimes you could even feel his prescence because it was all you needed. It didn't matter if Clement threw insults about how worthless your existence was, your parents could lock you in this prison if they wanted to but they shall never take away Hector from you. Never. You swear it. He was your whole world and the prince who saved you from a life made of aching emptiness. You would do anything to keep him by your side. Anything to gain his affection.

Anything.

"I had a feeling that you were the culprit dear sister."

Your arms stutters as they clutched tightly on the scrolls you took off from the shelves. The light crept into the room like arms reaching out to clutch around your ankles, warning you for trespassing. You turned around dreadfully to see Clement pressing his shoulder against the doorframe with his arms folded and a wicked expression aimed at your pitiful state.

"Why…Why are you still awake?" You say in disbelief, "I thought everyone was asleep."

"Please. Not only are you shameless but hypocritical as well. You truly are a dissapointment to our family."

"Wait," taking a step forward, you stopped him before he makes his exit, "I'll put them back. Just don't tell father about this."

But like your parents, your brother was unkind. Clement doubles over and hugs his torso, cackling through his teeth, "Is that how it is?" He swipes his arm up and you see a parchment paper held between his fingers. 

"No!"

"Ma chérie (Y/n). I must say all this tenacious effort of sneaking in my letters to your window is becoming more and more tiresome. But of course, you are an exception. I want the scrolls you've mentioned the other day at my lair tomorrow evening. Make sure no one discovers this. I'm counting on you. Cordialement! Hector."

"No…" you whispered, feeling the weight of the world fall upon your shoulders as it shattered apart. Hector. If possible, you hoped that the pieces could just crush you right then and there. Your knees felt weak and a fright takes over but despite your turmoil, Clement didn't show a shred of sympathy.

"So this is why you've been acting odd lately. Pathetic," he flaps the paper tauntingly in his grasp, "I can't decide if I should be impressed or baffled by your actions. A secret romance with a criminal and the bloodline of Fontaine's most respected government associates? Even though you've hit rock bottom, you still decided to dig deeper."

"Clement you don't understand!"  Stumbling upon your footsteps, you desperately tried to convey your predicament even if it meant feeding his ego, "Hector is not the man you think. He was shunned by the people of his hometown, treating him as if he were nothing. They…They ignored him! All this time he needed someone to recognize his brilliance, someone to understand." Shakily, you brought your tensed arms to your chest and screamed a silent whisper, "Someone to listen but no one did. He must have felt so alone…"

Clement flinches when you suddenly clutched onto his biceps. When he looked into your eyes, a shiver ran down his spine.

"Hector is counting on me. I'm the only one who can save him. No one else. He needs me Clement, he needs me!" 

"Tch."

An ear-splitting scream of his hand against your face echoes across the room. It knocked you out of your stance and you bumped into the table, grunting while the scrolls to tumbled to the floor.

"Crazy woman, I'm embarassed to be related to you!"

While you were still trying to regain your balance, your brother had already ran off. It wouldn't be long before he alerted your parents, the clock ticking away like sand until the final hour leaves you with nothing but an empty glass. 

"No," despair swallows the strength away from your legs and you crawled towards where he used to stand, "Don't take him away from me…I need him…"

I can't live without him.

I can't live without him.

I can't live without him.

Tears begin to form by the corners of your eyes as you clenched your teeth. This was no time to cry. Balling your fists, you sprinted out of the room, pushing whatever stood in your way as if you were running for your life. 

And if you considered everything else, it wasn't that far from the truth.

-------

"Hector! Hector are you there?" After arriving upon his house, you began knocking on his door aggressively. The lock clicks and you were greeted by an evidently annoyed man gnawing his teeth together.

"Tsk. There better be a good reason-"

"They're coming for us! We have to go. Now. Before it's too late. My father is probably already waking and making arrangements for you to-"

"Enough, I can't even catch what you're saying," He pinches the bridge of his nose while you were still stuck in a frenzy state. He takes a step back and opens the door wider, gesturing for you to come inside, "Get in already. I have a feeling that this will be a long night."

Hector observes intently at the words you tell him.

Not out of concern but akin to the way he watches the insects react when he exposes them to a different environment.

He was a scientist after all. A madman in which you deliberately fell in love with, so much to the point that he was able to feel pity for once. How you trusted him wholeheartedly with all of your vulnerabilities, emotions and secrets like handing him your parts just so he could put you back together again. Tinkering was always one of his favourite hobbies and he couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of pride at the thought of you being completely wrapped around his finger. 

Perhaps that was the reason why he loved you. Because he didn't love you. He loved you in parts.

"It was only a matter of time," Hector sighs. He sneaks his grasp into yours, knowing how much it affects you and puts on an invisible mask of deciet, "I already knew this day would happen long before anyone could have predicted it."

"You did?" With worried eyes you gazed at him, "What shall we do then?"

Knowing he hit the target, his lips begin to curl up towards his ears, showing his sharp white teeth that shone against the dim-litted room. Hector asks, "Do you love me?"

A silly question. You didn't hesitate to answer, "Of course I do. I've said it many times."

"Prove it to me," Forcing his forehead against yours, Hector commands in a dangerously low tone, "Kill your brother and only then you can truly be mine."

Your brain sutters, trying to absorb what he had just said. Kill? As in to take a life? It sounded wrong. But...was it wrong if the life belonged to someone who ruined yours?

Dumbfoundedly, you glanced into the bloody orbs of your lover, his black pupils thinning into knives while burning in the hellfire of his true colours. Hector runs a hand from the scalp of your hair, down to your cheek before gingerly sliding his fingers at your jawline. He pulled you close and whispered into your ear.

"Are you scared?"

Ah, this wasn't about your feelings. This was about him and your future and there could be no future you without him by your side.

You let your eyelids drop and leaned into his touch, "I could never be scared of you Hector. Whether it is within my power or not, I will make sure no one gets in our way. I swear it."

"Good," he continues to have you feed on his affection, "I knew I could count on you."

-----------

The news of your brother's death filled every headline Fontain had to offer. He was driven off a cliff while making a trip towards Sumeru. No one survived. The remains were so crushed to the point that authorities had trouble identifying their bodies. The only explanation they could come up with by observing the leftover tracks was that the horse must have gone out of control and ended up dragging the carriage along with it.

Ha. Serves him right.

Food poisoning. The vial Hector made was very effective. You made sure to bury it away from your mansion.

With no other choice, you became your family's next heir. Hector notifies you that he would be away for several months to solidify a unique connection with a man hailing from Snezhnaya. You didn't think he would arrive at your doorsteps with so much authority. Fatui soldiers followed from behind as the staff paved a way for them to enter. Your father was clearly displeased by his outrageous approach but he knew he was in no place to deny.

"Upon the agreement between Fontaine and Snezhnaya, Lady (Y/n) will become Harbinger Il Dottore's wife," the Duke announces, "This news will be publicly announced at the end of October."

Dottore? Is that what he calls himself?

As if claiming his victory, Dottore shoots your father a devilish smile. You could feel the dining table shake when he kept pressing his fist against the smooth surface, begrudingly congratulating you both for the new engagement. Your mother bursted into tears.

Was it worth it?

You watched both of your parents mourn silently in their own manner. Perfectly knowing that you were the main cause. But you weren't able to feel any sadness because in the end, you now had everything you've ever wanted. 

The inheritance.

Their attention.

But most of all, him.

And when you were convinced that this was your happily ever after, that fairytales were not just beautiful lies for the sake of comfort, you didn't realize  you were already living a life made of beautiful lies conjured by your own mind for the sake of your own comfort. 

"You're nothing without me."

Dried and calloused hands squeezed around your throat as you flailed your legs against the soft fabric of the carpet floor. He encases you in a straddling position, enjoying the sight of your tortured and clenched face. Hector…no, Dottore hated it when you disobeyed him. He despised it when his creations don't work the way he wanted them to and he had no use for things that are broken.

"G-hka--k..-"

"How many times do I have to remind you to not use my birthname. Do those ears of you even function properly? Or must I fix them myself?"

You gasped for air when he relaxed his grip. Vision a blur, you coughed a few times before he pulls your arm so that you lay flushed against his chest.

"Don't forget who saved you dear (Y/n). Because of me you were able to escape that miserable life you've despised for years. I expect the utmost gratitude on your part at all times, it is only fair that I punish you for not meeting my requirements, don't you agree?" Dottore lifts his hand up to pinch your cheeks, pulling your head to stare at your eyes, "After all, there is no one else in this world who can put up with you…but me."

His words were poison in which you drank like a woman starved. It made you feel numb to the pain the more you drowned in their alluring scent, the taste was sweet, a remedy for the bitterness of reality where the man of your dreams was nothing but a cruel monster. You came to believe that the reason why he treated you so harshly was because he was scared of losing you. You were caught in the trap of what seemed to be love and devotion when truly, you were just a toy to be used at a means end. He breaks you and he puts you back together, over and over again, filling in between the cracks formed in your glass heart with the phrases you loved to hear. Just like how he filled the other holes of your life where no one else did. You called it kindness. He saw it as entertainment.

Most people pay attention to the flower's beauty but they never acknowledge the thorns hidden beneath it's blossom.  That is why they bleed. They get hurt. Though, you didn't mind shedding blood if it was for his sake.

Because you would do anything for him.

You would do anything to bring back the memories of Hector Dufour-Lapointé and save him from the Harbinger that ruined his life. Your life. It wasn't his fault. You knew you could change him to what he was before because you were in love with him, that he might still in there. Somewhere.

Right?

…

Please come back.

Time continues to flow like the tears of your dying heart despite yearning for it to turn at the past. Dottore already left the room a long time ago but you didn't. Raising your head away from your hands, you peered at the door in front of you, begging desperately through a chanting record of despondence. 

Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back.

Images, they slipped through your fingers, slowly becoming more distant until your mind began to see them as illusions. Dreams. Things that were not real. Telling you that your life was a lie. 

"Come back to me…Hector."

Because the man you loved was withering in your memories and you couldn't do anything to save him.

A dry croak robbed you of your breath as you turned to look in the mirror.

Worthless. You were always worthless, it was what your parents told you since birth. It was what you became when he wasn't at your side because without him, your existence was worthless. You lied for him, you stole for him you, took a life for him. You destroyed yourself for him to point that it was hard to believe you were even looking at yourself.

Worthless. It's who I am.

And despite it all, you couldn't obtain his love.

(Crack).

Worthless things don’t deserved to be loved.

(Crack. Crack).

But what if it’s because I’m worthless, that he won’t love me back?

(Crack).

Your eyes jolted open, causing you to gasp sharply. When the sweet lies dispersed in your head and cleansed you of deceit, everything started to make sene. You came to realize why your wish was impossible all along.

Dottore...no, Hector, the reason wasn't because he didn't return your feelings. Neither was it due to the fact that he hurt you through his actions. Nor when he made you cry or scream for help before feeding you with more lies, thinking he would never hurt you again. It was none of those things.

It was because the man you loved this whole time was someone who could love no one but himself.

"Ha...haha," sucking in your breath, a sinister laugh escapes your mouth, "Hahahahahahaha.....!"

Everything was worthless.

You grabbed a nearby hairbrush and threw it at the mirror, watching yourself shatter into a million pieces.

There was only one thing left to do. 

------

"Ugh, where is it?!"

It was late into the night where every staff had gone to sleep. The Harbinger fumbles with his keys while standing at the door of his basement as he was too busy proceeding with his research rather than considering the thought of rest. Usually he acted upon them on his own will, performing various experiments for enjoyment. However, ever since the Snezhnayan court had requested him to look into the ancient arts of alchemy, Dottore was forced to carry it out before the deadline approached. Otherwise his position as Harbinger would be revoked.

"What a bunch of self-centered blockheads. Can't they understand that it take quality time to get quality results?"

Most of his important documents were stored on the otherside. Half of it came from his father-in-law's library. He had you to thank for that.

"Ah finally," he mutters, though still dissatisfied, "I should have a word with my butler for misplacing them."

Dottore shoves the key into the lock but instead of twisting the knob he noticed something strange. It was old and had yet to be fixed but somehow he didn't have any trouble adjusting his wrist. Then he saw there were a set of freshly made fingerprints upon the smooth metallic surface. However, the only person awake at this time would be him-

An intruder!

Dottore drops everything to the ground and yanks the door open. He skittered down the stone stairs while cursing under his breath. Using the delusion gifted by the Tsaritsa, the Harbinger activated his lazer-like pillars as he took advantage of their glow to light up the unlit room.

"What in the abyss...?!"

Except it wasn't dark.

"All of these scrolls, I recognize them," without sparing a single glance, you spoke nostalgically towards the bookshelves, "It brings me so much memories..."

Dottore clenches his teeth together as his eyes shone an angry red, you were holding a torch dangerously close to his hard-earned collection, "What do you think you're doing?!" He fumed, "Put that out, AT ONCE! Don't make me repeat myself!

"They're precious to you aren't they?" You finally shifted to face him, "More than me."

"What has gotten into you?" He was about to hurl at you until he saw your torch lowering, causing him to retreat. You were strangely noncholant and he couldn't help the feeling of disturbance. Accepting that he didn't have the upperhand, Dottore decided to use a different approach, "(Y/n)."

The sound of your name falls from his lips. You faltered.

"I'm sorry for what I have done. I know I was dishonourable to you, as your husband and lover, and that you didn't deserve to see me so aggressive. You have every right to express your anger, my dear. I was in the wrong."

It was only a mask. You knew it well. But seeing him with softened eyes and a tone so comforting, made you desperately wanting to run into his arms so he could wipe away your sorrows just like once upon a time. To live happily ever after.

Hector.

Dottore runs his fingers through his hairstrands in frustration and sighs, "However the Tsarista needed me to do something very important and I can't seem to fulfill her request no matter how hard I try. It angers me. If I don't finish this, there would be no place for us to stay."

"Hector..." you sniffled quietly. He looks so much like him right now.

"Can't you see I'm doing this for you?" He consoles, yet his weapons still remain, "I only intended to make you happy and there's nothing I won't do to achieve that. How about I show-"

"Enough."

Dottore froze upon your sudden command. He didn't sense a hint of subjugation and it seemed that you had perfect control of your emotions. How very inquisitive. Did you grow immune to the style of his voice? In such a short period of time? The facade he had on was now replaced with a growling animal-like expression. You looked at him dissapointedly. His Harbinger self returned. Hector was no more.

"Ha, you're the same as always. Even before the time you became a Harbinger. The same man that I fell in love with but it is me who will never be the same again," For a moment you averted your gaze as if trying hard to swallow your own words, "Remember when we first met at the balcony? That I told you my favourite books to read are fiction? I knew they weren't real but deep down, I wanted to believe in them anyways. And you know what? They did come true, to some degree..."

As the memories come flashing back, he defenselessly watches your expression contort from sadness to a calm contemplation and finally, enraged disgust, "But you only ever brought me pain and I'm sick of it!"

Swaying the torch to the side, Dottore flinches forward but he didn't dare to come close when your current state was unpredictable to him, "I JUST WANTED YOU TO LOVE ME," you wail, I just wanted to be loved, bringing a clawed hand against your forehead and trembling upon contact, "It's all that I ask for..."

Dottore narrowed his brows. Perhaps he may have gotten too far.

"But I know it's impossible. The world is a cruel place and there's no point in trying anymore. That is why I'm going to set us free."

"...What do you mean?"

You shut your eyes closed and tossed the flaming torch to the ground. A horrified expression takes over his features. It didn't take long for the fire to begin spreading amongst the room.

"NO!" Dottore yelled powerfully, he frantically darts his gaze at all directions as they continued to flicker and blend into his precious documents. You stood still and watched him grab the ones that were intact, savouring the most he could but they slip out of his arms every time he moved. Dottore glances behind him to see a rising cage of hellfire. Then he turns to you.

" 'Til death do us part!" you laughed maniacally.

The madman looked back with angry dismay, "You're out of your mind!"

Abandoning whatever he held in his hand, Dottore spins around towards the staircase. He covers his face with his sleeve and did whatever he could to prevent the fire from touching him. However, he accidentally stumbled on his footsteps and something fell off the heights, knocking him in the face. He grunts painfully.

"That will leave a scar," you smile while he clutches at his injury, "I can break you too.”

Just like how you broke me.

Knowing that you've managed to leave a mark of your existence on him in someway, you peacefully watched your lover wobble between the hell you created. But the hell you knew was not made of scorching heat and thundering flames. Hell was empty. Hell was a void. This feeling was far too gentle to be considered hell. If he can't return your love, then at least let these caging arms bask you in the warmth you’ve always desired.

Lifting your head, you looked towards the ceiling and closed your eyes.

Ah, this cannot be death.

[thunder-at-dawn]

June 3rd

i really liked writing this one!! it ended up being way longer than i thought it would though lol

word count: 2,563 (jesus christ)

prompt: gang tickles

character: eret

warning: this is a sfw tickle fic! don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable :]

Attachments.

No matter if it was toward a person, place, or a noun, people always developed attachments to certain things.

Eret had always found themselves getting attached to things in life. They became attached to the pet sheep they had found roaming around the museum. They had been attached to L’Manburg at one point, it was their first real home. They were attached to Puffy, Foolish, and other friends they had met.

But right now, at this very moment? Eret was growing an attachment to...a couch.

There was a sectional couch in the library of the castle. It was red, made of velvet material, and in Eret’s words, “a really fucking nice couch.” It could easily fit six people, maybe seven or eight if people squeezed together. There was also an ottoman where, if rolled into the right spot, could make a larger space on the sectional that resembled a mattress. Eret had been laying across this couch for a while, reading a fantasy novel that they had found while browsing through the shelves of the library. Their crown was placed on a table nearby, as they didn’t feel the need to wear it at the moment. They looked up when they heard the sound of the door opening, wondering who was currently visiting.

“Foolish!” Eret sat up, happy to see their old friend. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Eret.” Foolish waved, and the king was quick to notice that he wasn’t filled with his normal, bubbly charm. The god walked over to his friend, leaning over and resting his arms on the sectional’s armrest. “So, uh...I have something to say. And you might not like it.”

Eret blinked in surprise, placing a bookmark in their book and gently closing it. “Okay? What is it?” They asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, um...You know how you told me that you didn’t want to tell anyone details about your past until we figured out more stuff about it?”

“...Yes?”

“I...” Foolish hid his face with his hands. “I accidentally let some stuff slip in conversation. When I was talking to...um, Puffy.”

Eret could feel their heart skip a beat in their chest, but they kept their composure. “...Okay...did you tell anyone other than Puffy?” They asked.

The god let out a groan of frustration, sitting down next to Eret on the couch. “No, I didn’t, but I accidentally brought up how we were reading together a while ago, and she was like “oh, what book were you guys reading?” and I didn’t want to lie, and I got put on the spot, so I told her about the wither cult, and I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean for it to happen, and-“

“Oh, thank god.”

“Wait, what?”

“When you said that you told someone, with how nervous you looked, I thought you were talking about like, Dream, or someone else untrustworthy like that.” Eret let out a sigh of relief, placing a hand on their chest.

“Wait, so you aren’t mad?” Foolish asked.

“No, of course not! Accidents happen.” They shrugged. “And honestly, Puffy was the first person I planned to tell after we figured this all out. So, if anything, you actually did me a favor.”

“Really?! Whew, that’s a relief!” Foolish could feel his muscles untense as he also let out a heavy sigh, leaning back into the couch. “I thought you were gonna be so pissed off at me!”

Eret laughed softly. “Foolish, when have I ever been known to be upset in front of you?” They asked. They weren’t an easy person to provoke, it was pretty rare for them to lose their cool.

“You’re right, you’re right.” He nodded, aware of how Eret had never really gotten angry in front of him in all of the months he had been in this land. “You’re not easy to anger. However, back in the day, you would get a little bit intense when you were angry.”

“Really?” Eret looked over to their friend with curious eyes. “How so?”

Before Foolish could begin to explain, they were both distracted by the door of the library swinging open. A familiar face approached, closing the door behind themselves.

“So, someone told me that you used to be quite the warrior. And you don’t remember, so I’d like to see if I can help out with that.” The sheep hybrid greeted, pulling down her sunglasses and sending the two a wink.

“Apparently, I was a warrior!” Eret chuckled, waving to Puffy.

“Puffy, hey! Come sit down with us!” Foolish said excitedly, tapping on the free couch seat next to him.

“In a second!” Puffy made a beeline to the bookshelves, skimming through the words on the spine of each book. “What was the name of the book you guys were reading again?”

“The history of withers, I’m pretty sure!” Foolish nodded.

“Right...author name?”

“Umm...last name started with an H, I think?”

“...Hodgman?”

“Yep, I think so!”

“Careful, it’s quite heavy.” Eret warned her, but was surprised to see that Puffy was easily able to hold onto it, with seemingly no struggle. She walked over to the other two, sitting to the side of Eret so that they were in the middle.

She looked at her son and grinned softly. “This is his first time on the couch, isn’t it?”

“This is such a nice couch!” Foolish said as he sunk deeper into his seat, much to Eret and Puffy’s amusement. “How come I’ve never sat on this before?!”

“It’s your fault for not exploring the wonders of my castle enough.” Eret joked as Puffy placed the book in their lap so that all three of them could easily access it.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Foolish rolled his eyes, sitting up to get a closer look at the reading.

The three of them sat together on the couch for a very long time, investigating more of the book that Foolish and Eret had read previously. Foolish would often have to help transcribe words in ancient languages that the other two didn’t understand, and Puffy would often need context and explanation for quite a few things, but still tried to help as best as she could. They would laugh at Foolish’s stupid jokes and share exchanges in between their research, still finding fun. However, after a while, they found it to be draining.

“Okay, how much have we accomplished in the past two hours?”

“What? Foolish, there’s no way we’ve been at this for two hours.”

“Actually, we have.” Puffy nodded, checking the watch on her wrist. “We should probably take a break.”

“I’m down for that.” Foolish was quick to go limp and sink back into the couch.

“Mhm...” Eret nodded, looking out of the castle windows. It was golden hour, and the sun was setting over the horizon, leaving a beautiful, golden gleam to leak through the windows and into the library.

“You tired?” Puffy asked them.

“Not really tired, just drained.” Eret nodded as they turned towards the sheep hybrid.

“I can tell, you look tense.” She said before gently grabbing them by the shoulders and moving them so their back faced her. “Here, let me help.” After observing no signs of discomfort, Puffy started to gently massage Eret’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Puffy.” Eret smiled, leaning back into Puffy a bit as she massaged them.

“It’s no problem.” Puffy smiled back, continuing to lightly rub at Eret’s shoulders. The three of them sat in a peaceful silence, all of them illuminated by the golden glow of the sunset. Man, this was nice. Eret found themselves relaxing quite a bit...but not for long. Puffy lightly pressed her fingers against Eret’s shoulderblades, and they let out a squeak of surprise before quickly covering their mouth.

“Woah- are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Puffy asked, quickly letting go when Foolish sat up, curious to see what was happening.

“What? No, you didn’t do anything. I’m fine, Puffy.” Eret said, trying to throw what had just occurred under the rug. They noticed Foolish staring out of the corner of their eye, knowing damn well that he had noticed.

Foolish blinked, continuing to stare, before a smile appeared on his face. “Ooooh, right. Puffy. I have known Eret far longer than you have, and there’s something about them you might not know yet.”

“Hm?” Puffy looked up curiously.

Eret immediately knew what Foolish was referring too. “J-Just ignore him, Puffy.” They said to her.

Foolish smirked, now fully sitting up and moving closer to them both. “See, even if Eret doesn’t remember the past, what I do know is that they have stayed pretty similar to their old ways, including their strengths...and their weaknesses.”

“Like what?” Puffy asked, now intrigued with what Foolish had been saying.

“The truth...is that Eret...”

“Foolish, don’t tell her.”

“Is very...”

“Foolish.”

“Very...”

“Don’t you dare.”

Foolish paused, a wide grin on his face, amused by the situation. Eret leaned back, but couldn’t do much with Puffy sitting near him. He didn’t necessarily mind this, but it was a bit embarrassing.

“...Ticklish!” He finally commenced, leaning over and digging into Eret’s underarms. The monarch let out a surprised yell, quick to erupt into laughter.

“Yohohou AHAHASSHOHOLE!” They yelled, squirming around as they were laid across Puffy’s lap.

“Aww!” Puffy laughed a bit herself as she watched the scene unfolding in front of her, ruffling their hair.

“DohOHOn’t lahahaugh! Ihihit’s nohoHOt fuhuhunny, Puhuhuffy!”

“Then how come you’re laughing so much, Eret?” Foolish asked, grinning happily.

“Shuhuhut uhuhup!” Eret snapped back through their laughter.

“Wait, wait, stop, I want to try something.” Puffy said suddenly. Foolish drew his hands away, letting Eret catch their breath. After a few moments, Puffy scooped her arms underneath Eret, and after a bit of struggle, managed to pick them up.

“Woah, wahait!” Eret yelped in surprise, clinging onto Puffy as them was lifted off of the couch. The captain smirked, lightly tossing Eret onto the other side of the couch. The ottoman was pulled in currently, so there was more space for them to move around if needed. Puffy was quick to sit down next to him, lying him down.

“So, Foolish. Overall, how ticklish do you think Eret is on a scale of one to ten?” Puffy asked her son.

“From one to ten? Hmm...” Foolish paused to think. “It can vary, depending on the spot but...I’d say an eight! Maybe even a nine!”

“A nine?!” Eret repeated, the now mischievous look on Puffy’s face filling them with a bit of nervousness. “Absolutely not, I am a seven at the most.”

“Well, with conflicting answers, I guess I’ll have to find out for myself!” Puffy said, slowly closing in on her friend before digging right into the hallows of their underarms, just as Foolish had done before.

“NohOHOHO- waHAhaihit!” Eret yelped, squirming around on the couch and holding onto Puffy’s wrists.

“Man, I remember when we were at a party this one time, and you were a bit tipsy, and you nearly fell over and I grabbed your waist to catch you. And you started laughing and, I dunno, I just had this strange feeling that it wasn’t from the alcohol! So I squeezed at your sides again, and you started laughing more, and I put two and two together.” Foolish laughed a bit himself, thinking about the memory.

“Their sides, you say?” Puffy’s eyebrow raised up curiously.

“Yeah, just like this!” Foolish quickly leaned down and grabbed onto Eret’s sides, a shriek emitting from their mouth. He squeezed and pinched at the area, sending the monarchy into a squirming, giggling mess.

“SHIHIHIT- GUHUYS!” They laughed, attempting to bat both pairs of hands away.

“I also remember you being quite a sneaky gal, but you can’t try and sneak your way out of this one!” Foolish said, finding as much enjoyment out of this as Puffy was.

“Yeah, you’re definitely past a seven.” Puffy declared. “Just like Foolish said, you’re an eight, possibly a nine.”

Foolish quickly stopped with one hand, using it to cover his mouth as he quickly whispered something to Puffy. The two of them nodded before Foolish went back in with his free hand, and Eret continued to laugh. They were squirming around a lot less now, probably getting a bit tired out. The other two slowed down, giving Eret time to breathe.

“Alright...” Foolish said quietly, looking at Puffy, then looking back down at Eret. “Three... two... one... NOW!” At the god’s signal, they both dug their hands into Eret’s ribcage, Foolish tackling the upper ribs while Puffy got the lower ones. Another shriek tore out from the monarch’s mouth.

“FUHUHUCK- HAHAHAHA!! WAHAHAIT-“ Eret threw their head back, attempting to squirm and defend themselves with their hands, but they were simply too tired to do so.

“Oh, forget what I said earlier, you are absolutely a ten.” Puffy said with a smirk.

“I agree! Ten all the way!” Foolish nodded in agreement.

“I’M NOHOHOT A TEHEHEHEN-” Eret cackled, a small hiccup escaping from their mouth.

The two of them continued the attack, before Foolish drew away, and signaled for Puffy to do the same. “Alright, I don’t wanna actually kill them.” He chuckled a bit.

Eret was still a giggling mess, even after the two of them had stopped. The golden light from the sunset reflected on their glasses as they reached a hand up behind them to wipe a tear from their eye. Readjusting the glasses, they let out a sigh. “You guys are both jerks.” They said lightheartedly before giggling again.

“Aww, but we’re your favorite jerks, aren’t we?” Foolish asked, moving and sitting down next to Eret’s head.

“Yeah, sure.” They rolled their eyes.

“The king of the SMP called me a jerk. That’s something to cross off of my bucket list.” Puffy said out loud, making the other two laugh, and she too, laughed along with them. Eret finally sat up, and their two friends readjusted to sit next to them.

“We’re not sorry for wrecking you into another millennium...but, we hope you can forgive us anyway.” Foolish said as he ruffled Eret’s hair.

Eret couldn’t help but smile at their old friend’s antics. “I forgive you both, but don’t think I’m not going to get you both back soon.” They said, fixing up the mess Foolish had made.

“That’s fair.” Puffy leaned into Eret. The king laughed softly, putting an arm around each of their friends.

Eret suddenly remembered that they had something that they wanted to say. “Oh, and Foolish?”

“Yeah?” Foolish turned his head.

“...Thanks for fucking up earlier and accidentally telling Puffy about the Wither Cult.” They smiled. Puffy laughed at the statement, grinning wildly as well. Foolish snickered lightly, and now all three of them were happily smiling.

“It’s no problem, old pal.” Foolish said with a sincere smile.

Eret looked out of the window. Golden hour was starting to come to an end, and the golden gleam from the windows was starting to fade.

They had made a new memory today.

It was moments like these that they had to cherish. Fun times to be had with friends. Between the stress of all of the wars, rivalries, and new nations rising up, it was definitely important. And as Eret sat with their friends in a peaceful silence, they knew that this something they needed.

[stranger-who-writes-fiction]

Okay I was gonna do another SG:WoT post anyway because we’ve got a new King interview but THEN, he released the cover to issue four so you KNOW I gotta geek out about this.

(Sorry that this blog is all SG:WoT, all the time now, but I am just. Insanely excited that Evely is drawing Supergirl. Feel free to block/mute these posts as needed. XD)

Okay, so!

First! The interview!

It’s on (ugh) screenrant so I’m not gonna link, I’m just gonna nab the interesting bits:

On the different direction of the book, and if he wanted to go back to the original Adventure Comics vibes: “So, the idea of this thing was to strip her story down, because Supergirl has a majorly weird history in terms of continuity. At least 13 writers have rewritten her origin over the years. Her dad has 13 origin stories; sometimes he's evil, sometimes he's a robot, sometimes alive, sometimes he's dead. She's changed dramatically in the last 10 years, between coming back to life to the New 52 to Rebirth. She's gone through so much that it's hard to get a hold of her. Not to mention in the '90s, when I was coming up, she was like an ectoplasmic space angel. There's so much there, and I just wanted to take all that stuff off and get to the core of the character; get her out of her normal environments and her normal conflicts. It seems like all our stories are about her dad or her relationship to Superman. Instead, let's see the purity of that character.”

On starting the book the way he did: “...I wanted to start out with a very human moment of a person turning 21 and getting drunk. And a person who is getting drunk because they want to be alone, and they just want to forget about the shit that's happened in their past. That's such a human moment. And the fact that she's Supergirl, so she waits till it's legal - because these super people, they follow the rules. She waited, and now it's legal and she can have this moment. She goes off by herself, with her dog that always follows her, and she has a moment where she can be free. For a lot of people in the US, whether you've been drinking since you were 14 or started that day, your 21st birthday and the day after are days you remember for the rest of your life. It's a day of freedom and consequence, and I wanted to show Supergirl going through that.”

On rising to the challenge of helping Supergirl perform better, sales/popularity-wise: “ When I first got on this book, I called Steve Orlando, who had just written a Supergirl run. And he was the one who opened my eyes to how good the character is. He had such insight into her. He was like, ‘There is a difference between Clark and her, and what she's gone through.’ He just laid it for me.”

On starting the book off with Ruthye’s journey, and gradually building to Kara’s: “ I was like, "Okay, this is going to be from the point of view of someone under Supergirl." And so I switched the point of view to this new brand new character, whose name is Ruthye. And we went from there: we start with Ruthye's story, we see her discover Supergirl, and she's our audience. She's our way in, the way Robin has always been the way into Batman.”

On whether or not other characters will show up, outside of Supergirl and Ruthye: “It's like my Superman: Up in the Sky, where it's a distillation of the character. You'll see other characters, but the focus of every issue will be on Supergirl. And it's something where at the very end, you can be like, "Why is Supergirl great? Why is she important to the DC Universe? What is her future in the DC Universe? Here, read this one trade that can answer all three of those questions at once."So, there will be other characters in the Super universe. But the focus will always be on her; on Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow. It's her finding out about herself and her own strength.”

On Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow vs. his other titles: “Supergirl is my first 2021 book, or my first book of the 20s. That wrapped up my books of the teens, and now we're in a new generation. God willing, from the moment I started this book, I was like, ‘I'm gonna take a risk, and I'm gonna write books that are a little brighter.’ I know that's coming from me, and it's not to say we're going to avoid conflict or we're not going to explore the depths of the human soul. All that stuff will be in there. But these books are made from a place of joy, not from a place of anger; from a place of hope, not from a place of despair. It very much contrasts to those other books, in my mind.”

On how he thinks folks will react to the Krypto cliffhanger: “I mean, they're gonna think it's a good cliffhanger. That's how I think they're going to react. They're going to say, ‘I want the next issue.’ That's literally my job as written in my contract. Something where at the end of an issue, someone says, ‘I want more.’ So, that's how I hope they react.”

As mentioned, this is not the full interview; the whole thing can be found on screenrant, and I think Tom King shared a link on his twitter. 

And now, as always, SOME THOUGHTS:

I love that he brings up the fact that so many Supergirl stories focus on Zor-El and Clark, and how he was like, ‘let’s not do that.’

That’s my big gripe with modern Supergirl comics; they are trying so hard to make a statement on why we need both a Supergirl AND a Superman, that they end up spending ALL THEIR TIME talking about Clark, instead of, you know. Telling a fun Supergirl story.

Same thing with Zor-El! I know folks love Rebirth--I like it quite a bit myself--but I think the nostalgia goggles prevent folks from remembering that the whole first arc of that book was re-doing the ‘Cyborg Superman’ garbage from the Nu52. 

Speaking of Rebirth, really like that of all the recent SG writers he coulda talked to, he talked to Steve Orlando.

Like, if ya can’t get Gates on the phone, get Orlando.

(I get the sense that Gates doesn’t like this book, actually, based on a vague tweet. But don’t quote me on that.) 

Looks like Ruthye is gonna be our POV/audience insert character for the whole run. I’m...mmmm. I don’t love it, but I understand the logic here. Especially since he compared it to Batman and Robin--how you use Robin as your entry point for a bat book. 

And you know what? Kara’s supporting cast needs some help, so. Welcome to the Superfam, Ruthye.

I also love the explanation behind the drinking thing, as well as the fact that Kara waited until it was 100% legal for her to drink because OF COURSE SHE WOULD.

I am so worried that Krypto is gonna die b/c of what we saw in Future State. I’m over here with my Pepe Silva board like, ‘Well, what if Kara agrees to help Ruthye because Krem MURDERED HER DOG?!?! WHAT IF THIS IS JOHN WICK IN SPACE?!?!?!’

So I am DISMAYED that King does not reassure us AT ALL.

Thus I am forced to cling to this tidbit here: “ But these books are made from a place of joy, not from a place of anger; from a place of hope, not from a place of despair. It very much contrasts to those other books, in my mind.”

Killing the dog would not be joyful. XD So, like. I’m REALLY HOPIN’ HE’LL BE OKAY.

AND LASTLY, (Except not really)

I have some additional, miscellaneous thoughts unrelated to the interview b/c I’m me and I’m loving having a Supergirl comic back on the shelves, however polarizing it may be.

Something I realized, when details started to come out regarding the book, and that other folks have now noted as well: Kara was 16 when Rebirth launched in 2016; she’s just turned 21 in 2021, making her one of the extremely few comic characters to age in real time.

I don’t think that was planned, but it is cool.

It occurred to me on a re-read that Ruthye never calls Kara Kara in her narration, only Supergirl. And I was a little sad! But then I remembered that Kara wouldn’t necessarily reveal her identity to people she’s helping, she would just be ‘Supergirl’ to them. 

I really do love how, so far, there has been NARY A MENTION of Kara angst-ing over being in Clark’s shadow, or being Superman’s cousin.

It appears that her drinking alone on a remote planet is more related to trying to forget her trauma/grief related to Krypton. MAYBE. We don’t know yet.

The Clark thing could still come up. I hope it doesn’t. 

(Interesting to note! Kara recently appeared in Action Comics, helping Clark and Jon investigate some Kryptonian refugees; IDK how closely these books will necessarily ‘work together’ in terms of continuity, but! It’s possible that the discovery of those mysterious refugees was triggering, thus sending her on her way to her own solo title.)

(Well. That’s gonna be my headcanon, anyway. XD)

AND LASTLY, (for real this time)

ISSUE FOUR COVER!!!!

Okay, some immediate thoughts:

GOOD LORD IT’S STUNNING.

I loooooove the fire motif, reminds me of a part from the Rebirth run, where Kara met the Super-Man of China, and they visually referenced All-Star Superman, having the Kryptonians kind of...become the sun.

Also STAR CHART?!?! PIRATE MAP!?!?!?! 

The VIBES I tell you, the VIIIIIIIBES.

Also I love that it’s just Kara.

Don’t get me wrong! I like Ruthye just fine so far! But yeah, yeah, give me some more solo-Kara focus, even if it’s just in the art.

Just realized that once this thing gets collected as a TBP, we might get some Evely art backmatter. OhHhhHHhhH YESSSS. 

Anyways, the long wait for issue 2 begins! 

[jeannereames]

Writing Historical Fiction (Well)

From an anonymous ask:

"What advice would you give to someone who wants to write about Alexander?" Sorry I didn't clarify, I was thinking of writing a fictional novel (but do not plan to publish it, lol)

If you’re just writing for yourself with no plans to publish, you don’t have to worry about constraints like wordcount and publishability. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to sell mainstream historicals. Selling a genre historical is easier (historical fantasy, historical mystery, historical romance). But there’s a reason it took me 30 years to get Dancing with the Lion into print. Yes, some of that time I was actually writing it, but much more was devoted to finding a market for it, and notice that I did, finally, have to sell it as genre even though it isn’t really. (It was that or shelve it forever.)

Yet if you’re asking for my recommendations, I assume you want to write something that’s marginally readable. Ergo, what follows is general advice I’d give anybody writing historical fiction.

For historicals, one must keep track of two things simultaneously: telling a good story, and portraying history accurately enough. It’s possible to do one well, but the other quite badly.

First, let’s look at how to write a good story.

There are two very basic sorts of stories: the romance, and the novel. Notice it’s romance small /r/. A romance is an adventure story; in romances, the plot dominates and characters serve the plot. A novel is character-driven, so plot events serve character development. Dancing with the Lion is a novel.

Once you’ve decided which of those you’re writing, you have a better handle on how to write it. You also need to know where you’re going: what’s the end of the story? What are the major plot points? Writers who dive in with no road map tend to produce bloated books that require massive edits. That said, romances will almost always be faster paced, in part because “what’s happening” drives it. Whereas in novels, the impact of events on characters drives it. Exclusive readers of romances are rarely pleased by the pacing of novels. They’re too slow: “Nothing is happening!” Things are happening, but internally, not externally.

Yet pacing does matter. Never let a scene do one thing when it can do three.

You will want to pay attention to something called “scene and sequel.” A “scene” is an event and a “sequel” are the consequences. So let’s say (as in my current MIP [monster in progress]) you open with a fugitive from the city jail racing through the streets with guards following: he leaps the wall of a rich man’s house and ends up in the bedroom of a visiting prince. That’s the scene. The sequel is the fall-out. (House searched, prince hides fugitive, prince gets fugitive to tell him why he’s running.) Usually near the end of the sequel(s) to the first scene, you embed the hook to the next (a slave of the rich man has been found murdered outside the city walls). The next scene concerns recovering the body and what they discover (then fall-out from that). Etc., etc., etc.

That’s how stories progress. Or don’t progress, if the author can’t master scene-sequel patterns.

It also means—again—you need to know where you’re going. Outlines Are Your Friends. But yes, your plot can still take a sharp left-hand turn that surprises you…they almost always do.

When I sat down to write Dancing with the Lion, I knew three things:

1)     I wanted to write about Alexander before he became king.

2)     I wanted to explore his relationship with Hephaistion.

3)     I especially wanted to consider how both became the men they’d did.

With those goals in mind, I could frame the story. Because I always intended Hephaistion to be as important as Alexander, the novel opens in his point-of-view to establish that. And because I didn’t want to deal with Alexander as king, the novel had to end before he became one. History itself gives a HUGE and obvious gift in the abrupt murder of Philip. Where to open was harder to decide, but as I wanted to explore the boys’ friendship and its impact on their maturation into men, I should logically begin with their meeting, and decided not to have them meet too young. From there, I spun out Hephaistion’s background, and his decision to run away from home to join the circus, er, I mean Pages. 😉

IMO, Alexander’s story is Too Big to do in a single novel, or you get an 800+ page monstrosity like Chris Cameron’s God of War. The author must decide on what piece of the story she wants to tell. (Or, like me, view it as a series.)

So that’s (in a nutshell) how you construct a story.

As for the historical side, there are three levels here:

1)     What the world looks like (details).

2)     The events that take place.

3)     How people living in that world understand life, the universe, and everything.

Number two is probably the easiest. Numbers one and three require deeper research on all sorts of things. Sometimes historical novels spend all their time on number one and completely forget number three exists.

The past is a foreign country. Just as you wouldn’t (or at least shouldn’t) write a novel set in Japan (if you’re American) without learning something not only about the physical country but also the customs…same with stories set in the past.

This is why the Oliver Stone movie failed. He put modern people in a costume drama. He didn’t understand how ancient Macedonians (or Greeks or Persians) thought. So he committed crazy anachronisms like the oedipal complex between Alexander and Olympias. Freud may have named his theory after a Greek hero, but it’s largely a foreign idea to the Greek mind. (Whether it’s valid at all is a topic for another day).

The author has to let ancient people be properly ancient.

Problem: what do you do when they’re SO foreign they’re impossible to understand for modern readers—or their attitudes are outright offensive?

Well, if you don’t plan to get your story published, you don’t have to worry about that. Or not as much. But if you want to share it with others, you might still want to consider it.

There are two basic approaches:

1)     Introduce your world through a “stranger” who enters it.

2)     Spread out more “modern” views among various characters in the story, to give modern readers something familiar to hang onto.

The first of those is by far the most common. So in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, Claire Randall—quite literally a modern woman—introduces the modern reader to Jacobite Scotland. As she learns about her new world, so does the reader, and in Claire, the reader has a voice to express both their fascination and their horror of that world. In Judith Tarr’s Lord of the Two Lands, she uses Meriamon, an Egyptian priestess, to enter the Macedonian world of Alexander. Judy can then contrast Egyptian and Macedonian cultural values in order to explain them. Meriamon asks questions the reader wants answers to—or Niko (or Alexander) ask questions of her about Egypt.

The second choice (which is what I did in Dancing) is to identify cultural mores likely to offend modern readers: indifference to slavery, glorification of war and conquest, Greco-Macedonian attitudes towards women, and Greco-Macedonian attitudes towards sexuality. Then to assign one of the characters to voice a more modern view. Alexander gets to be a proto-feminist, and I gave points of view to two women. One of those women, I made a slave. Hephaistion gets to express a more modern view regarding the horrors of war. Sexuality was a bit tougher, but I used the boys’ atypical relationship—that the younger is the one of higher status—to illustrate Greco-Macedonian assumptions about what a male-male relationship should look like.

That approach presents more hurdles, but for my purposes, I preferred it.

I harp on this because it’s the biggest problem for historical fiction: not having historical characters! It wrecks what might otherwise be decent research into the details. No matter how much you look up what they ate, how they dressed, the way their houses were laid out…if you have them behaving anachronistically, it’s a bad historical. Or if you have circumstances that just wouldn’t occur.

Let me give an example. I’ve said before that, when I started writing the novel in December of 1988, Dancing always began with a run-away boy (Hephaistion). But in my initial version, he showed up in Pella incognito. The more I read about Macedonia, however, the more I realized that was virtually impossible. There just weren’t that many Hetairoi. He’d have been recognized, and probably sooner rather than later. So I went back to the drawing board and, instead of having him try to hide, he comes right out and says who he is, and that he wants to join the Pages. It might take away the “mystery,” but set up more interesting dynamics: would Philip let him stay? What would his father do? Etc.

That requires the author know enough about the culture to know what’s possible, probable, and impossible. It also requires the author to be willing to change original plans in order to reflect reality, not insist on doing ___ anyway.

A good example of jettisoning history in favor of “what I want to do!” can be found in David Gemmell’s Lion of Macedon. So many, many things wrong with that book, starting with his choice to make Parmenion a Spartan for no historical reason whatsoever—but (I assume?) because Spartans Are Sexy. Parmenion likely belonged to the royal house of Upper Macedonian Pelagonia. Although even if he didn’t, absolutely nothing suggests he wasn’t Macedonian, and quite a lot says he was. The whole duology (with included The Dark Prince) was essentially Blue Boltz ™ Epic Fantasy Does Greece. The fact he actually included a bibliography in back, and got weird, isolated details right only added insult to injury.

Yet Gemmell was a best-selling British fantasy novelist who knew pacing and how to spin a good yarn. For a reader with zero knowledge of Alexander, it would stack up as a predictable but tolerable fantasy set.

Remember that as an historical fiction author, your job is to practice the art of getting it right. If that isn’t important to you, please God, write something completely made up.

At the spectrum’s other end is Showing Notecards on Every Page. You’ve done ALL that hard research, and you’ll be damn sure the reader knows it!

Um, the reader doesn’t care. The reader wants to be transported to another world. How locals in that world shoed horses (or if they shoed horses at all) is irrelevant. It matters only if your main character’s a farrier. And even then, it matters only if said-farrier is having a conversation with someone else while shoeing a horse.

If people want all the little details of history, they’ll read a history book.

Now, how much detail is “too much” can vary from reader to reader, and often has something to do with the genre.

Regular readers of historical fiction are fans because they enjoy history. So they’ll expect proper world-building. But they don’t want the Dreaded Information Dump. Weave in details. The Dreaded Information Dump is a common beginning-author error across the board, but especially bad in certain genres, such as historicals, fantasy, and SF.

What’s an “information dump”? It’s where the author provides details the reader doesn’t need at that point in the story. What the character looks like, is wearing, their family background, what they had for breakfast….

As mentioned, details should be woven into the story organically. What your character had for breakfast matters only if, later, it’s giving him/her gas: “Damn those beans in my breakfast burrito!” Some details may be useful to set a scene and prevent characters from walking around, having conversations in a void, but again, a light touch.

Similarly, One scene, One head. We do NOT need to see everything from each character’s point of view. No, really. We don’t. And dear God, please don’t “head-hop” inside of scenes (unless you’re writing omniscient, but be sure you know what omniscient IS). Drives me BUGGY.

Anyway, back to the Notecard Showing Problem. As noted above, genre expectations and reader preferences often dictate what IS “too much detail.” Generally, historical Romance (the genre) and historical mysteries go lighter on detail than historical fantasy or plain historicals. That’s because the former two have genre conventions that work against it. Romances preference the love story front-and-center at all times, and mysteries have a mystery to unravel. E.g, they’re plot driven. By contrast, historical fantasies tolerate more world building because world building itself is a feature of fantasy (and science fiction too). And the appeal of mainstream or literary historicals IS the world building, so you get massive novels like Ken Follet’s Pillars of the Earth.

I’m blathering now, but hopefully this gives pointers not just about writing Alexander, but writing fiction period, and historical fiction in particular.

[scrapironflotilla]

Anzac is so much more than Gallipoli

Another Anzac day has come around and with the lock-downs and global pandemic it seemed like it would be different. But having a listen to the news or a quick scroll through the other blue hellsite, F*c*b**k, it looks like this Anzac Day is more similar than different. The reverence, the mystique and the myths are all still there, with a massive dose of social media self indulgence. So I’ll probably stay away from that today and instead talk about some history.

I don’t have a favourite aspect of the Anzac legend. I don’t think I even can. The very concept of the Anzac Legend bothers me. This is our recent history. Its members, who have all died, are still within living memory of many millions of people. The events are so well documented that we can follow some of them minute by minute in the diaries, letters and reports created by the participants. I understand the desire to turn these stories into legend and myth, especially in a country like Australia after the war and certainly in the last decades of the 20th century.

I understand how the virtues and values of the AIF made for such fertile imaginative ground in an inter-war world. The romance of war, lost on the battlefields of Europe and the Middle East, was much harder to destroy far away in the colonies, where people experienced little hardship compared to those on the continent.

I understand how and why the AIF became a legend. But I don’t think I can believe in it.

But what does it matter if I believe in it or not? It’s important to tens of millions of Australians and the government tightly controls public commemoration and the Anzac brand. The military indoctrinates its members with to strive for an unattainable Anzac perfection. A newly minted army officer once told me that during his training his instructors had screamed at these cadets, ranting at them about how unworthy they were, how they could never live up to the Anzac reputation and how they could never lead a digger.

It draws hundreds of thousands every 25 April to dawn memorial services across the world, in events whose gravitas and sombre communion even I can’t deny. It’s this secular religion that makes the legend a reality that we have to contend with. The history may vary widely from the myth, but the myth is potent enough and popular enough to be able to divorce itself from the past. “The AIF”, historian Peter Stanley points out, “has become revered as [our] romantic nationalist mystique”.

The last two or three decades has seen a steady dismantling of the Anzac legend, at least in academic circles. All its basic tenets of natural fighting prowess, mate-ship, equality and the rest have been questioned, criticised and reassessed. But this new understanding hasn’t moved far beyond academia. The short spike in Anzac TV series during the centenary showed the same romantic tragedy and nationalist triumphalism. Popular histories from the 50s and 60s were reprinted and a new slew of books turn up on shelves, from children’s books to all kinds of history and dozens of romance novels. The legend remains deeply entrenched in the Australian imagination. Little in the popular realm even attempts to challenge it in light of new understanding. Even for those in academia the revision of that history has produced harsh reaction from the right, I’m exactly one of those “cadre of academics” associated with those elite, Canberra institutions, that noted crank Bendle talks about there. But that’s the strength of this legend. Its followers take any attempt to examine it and broaden it as denigration. Lest anyone think I’m exaggerating here, just have a look at what happened to ABC presenter Yassmin Abdel-Magied after she tweeted the words “LEST.WE.FORGET. (Manus, Nauru, Syria, Palestine...)” on Anzac Day 2017. She was attacked by the press and government ministers and bombarded with rape and death threats. There’s no doubt much of the faux outrage was inspired by racism and misogyny, but you don’t even need to attack Anzac, but merely recognise that Australia’s history is less than perfect, to be met with a violent, histrionic reaction.

To imagine that the Anzacs were perfect, individually and as a whole, is wilful delusion. They were men and as such fallible. It is no dishonour or disrespect to recognise their humanity in all its complexities. We must know and understand their failures, their embarrassments and their crimes (for they are many and varied) to better place their successes, victories and virtues. To deify them and to force them to represent only what was best, without recognising the fullness of their character, good and bad, robs them of the complexity of their own stories. It robs them of their humanity and us of our history. But while I struggle with the Anzac Legend, I also think there are some little stories that deserve better recognition.

The Anzac mythology upholds a very particular character as representative of the AIF, but little about this legend is uniquely Australian. The language used to express the values, that of the larrikin, the digger and above all else mateship, may be particularly Australian but the values are not. Irreverence and camaraderie are close to universal.

These aren’t values to be denigrated in any way. But they’re representative of most militaries in war. But the AIF did have a character unique to the Australian experience. Much is made of the fact that the AIF was an entirely volunteer organisation. From a population of fewer than five million more than 330,000 men and women served in its ranks between 1914 and 1918. Conscription was put to the people in referenda twice and twice it was defeated. People joined the AIF for the duration of the war. Few pursued careers in the military and although many had prior service it was in the militia, the part time army.

The ranks were filled from the cities, the suburbs and the bush by civilians. Even the officer corps was fleshed out by the professional and middle classes of lawyers, bankers, teachers and the like. These men saw themselves not as regular soldiers, but as civilians in uniform. They saw their role as merely a job, not a calling. They were there to fight the war, to defeat Germany, or the Ottomans, and to go home and back to the farm or the factory.

Australia had one of the strongest trade union and labour movement in the world in the early 20th century. It was the first country to vote a labour government into office and ideas of unionism, collective bargaining and fair work practices were strong in the minds of many working Australians. The language they used and the tactics they employed to deal with the discipline and hierarchy of the military demonstrates just how powerful these beliefs were. Soldiers routinely referred to their officers as their boss, refused orders they thought were unfair and protested their ill treatment by military authorities. They released soldiers imprisoned under field punishment, refused to salute officers and rejected the distinction between officers and other ranks imposed by the British army. They went into clubs, restaurants and hotels set aside of officers, believing strongly that they had the right to drink or eat where they chose.

They took strike action when they felt too much was asked of them, when they were refused rest or when they felt hard done by. When battalions were to be broken up due to lack of replacements in 1918, they mutinied. Refusing orders to disband, they ‘counted out’ senior officers sent to negotiate with them. Counting out consisted of soldiers on parade counting down from ten to one, before shouting a final obscenity at the officer concerned. It was a powerful form of insubordination that humiliated officers when it occurred.

In autumn 1918, after months without leave, Australian battalions took to strike action when they were ordered back into battle. After being promised a fortnight’s rest they were ordered back to the front for an offensive after just a few days. Unhappy troops - veterans, mostly - refused to move. The battalions were well understrength after months of fighting and the men felt they had been lied to, that they had sacrificed enough and that they were being overused. The soldiers took action in the way they knew how. They shot no officers and destroyed no property. For men used to fighting for their rights in the workplace it was natural that they would turn to collective action in trade union style.

(Ex-union organiser and Labor prime minister Billy Hughes, seen here with some of his beloved men. Hughes was a favourite of the Australian troops who dubbed him ‘the Little Digger’)

And so it was in the 15th Brigade, under the command of Harold Elliot. Called Pompey by him men he was a courageous and fatherly figure, both liked and respected by the men under his command. It was his unique character that allowed Pompey to negotiate with his men, although rant and then plead were the words used by diarists, and convince them to follow his orders. Other officers, less well known and less admired by their men failed in similar efforts.

The civilian attitudes made them difficult soldiers to discipline. The standard punishment of the army, called ‘field punishment’ was particularly odious to Australians. Field punishment consisted of being bound to an object, a post or a wagon or gun carriage in the open for a number of hours. Due to the danger of artillery this punishment was not just humiliating but also potentially fatal. Diaries and letters from soldiers are full of stories about field punishment. They usually tell of Australian troops coming across British soldiers undergoing field punishment and freeing them, fighting with guards and military police.

There was a powerful resistance to the dehumanising and anti-individualising aspect of military discipline and authority. The AIF by and large saw themselves as civilians first and soldiers second. They understood the need for discipline and obedience and as more than one Australian noted “we have discipline where it matters”, on the battlefield. But the trappings of military culture and authority were repellent to the Australian working man. Strict obedience to hierarchy and the seemingly pointless requirements of military discipline were not only alien to Australians but went against their own values. Mutual respect was the key to the AIF as most of its officers discovered.

This side of the AIF, the strength of its civilian values is one that ought be remembered and celebrated in Anzac. The ideas from the labour and union movements, the fair go and mutual respect deserve a place alongside mateship and the larrikin as part of Anzac. The men who fought for the eight-hour work day and living wages were the same men who filled the ranks of the AIF and who fill Australian cemeteries in Europe and Turkey.

This is a part of the Anzac story that deserves a better place in our telling of it.

[modernagesomniari]

Fic - ‘That Ocean Carries Everyone’

So the absolutely lovely @siberianspring gave me a prompt for this title, based on the quote from Solas highlighted in the conversation below with Cole.  Babe, I have no idea whether this is what you had in mind, but it gripped me by the metaphorical balls and wouldn’t let me go until it happened.  Thank you, thank you for the prompt!

If you prefer AO3, you can read it here.

~3000 words

(background) Solavellan, Solaveli (My Eli x Solas - Yes, I’m giving them a name of their own I have no shame)

Includes elements of the future, so I guess kind of AU cos we have no idea.  More a ‘what if?’.

R (no particular warnings, but this is a bleak war)

That Ocean Carries Everyone

Cole: You are quiet, Solas.

Solas: Unless I have something to say, yes.

Cole: No, inside. I don't hear your hurt as much. Your song is softer, subtler, not silent but still.

Solas: How small the pain of one man seems when weighed against the endless depths of memory, of feeling, of existence. That ocean carries everyone. And those of us who learn to see its currents move through life with their fewer ripples.

Cole: There is pain though, still within you.

Solas: And I never said that there was not.

*******************************

He walked the Vir Dirthara.

The ancient library was as it ever had been since he had destroyed it; fragmented and heart breaking.  The Archivists that hung in the air taunted him with their ruin, their pitiful attempts to please, to be what they had always meant to be.

He deserved every twist of white-hot guilt that churned in his gut.  He walked this place to feel these things, to remind himself of what he had done, to remind himself of what he had to do.  How could he leave this place the way it was - broken pieces of masonry slavishly responding to whoever was lucky or foolish enough to come across how they were stitched together?  How could he not do everything in his power to heal it, no matter the cost?  Surely it was no greater than what had already had been paid.

As he walked a broken path between packed shelves of books that no longer held pages, he took a breath to steady himself.  He could not lie to himself, not now.  If he was to do what he had set out to do, he must do it with his mind and eyes open.  Do not shirk from the pain he will cause, do not close his eyes against the suffering of thousands for what he believed to be the right cause.  To do so would be to become what he had fought against for Ages.  He would not be so.

So he admitted to himself, as a shadow of a child laughed and scampered around a stack of historical tomes, that he came here for solace.  For reassurance.  If one tempered and honed the mind, one could experience the memories here like they were one’s own (and if he avoided those memories that the Archivists seemed to assume he wanted to see lately, in those places where he had spent the time to paint, to wallow and to agonise, he could not be to blame, not when he had now chosen his path, reaffirmed his purpose).  So, as he walked, he opened his heart, freed his soul from where he kept it tightly hidden from the people that followed him outside of the Crossroads.  He listened.  He needed it today, of all days.  The Anchor sat new and restless somewhere just below his breastbone.  Her screams still echoed in his ears.  At least they drowned out her words.

In front of this array of religious texts sat a scholar, feverishly writing.  Opening himself to the echo, Solas himself felt the kindling of the fire of curiosity at what he was discovering.  Digging further, he felt the barren ache in his own heart as he left his Bonded bed, his wife cold to his own touch even though he could all but feel the heat of another.  His own identity blurred now, he smiled slightly at the gentle warmth of this man’s child in his arms, the boy surprised by his father’s embrace.  Could feel, too, the steely core of determination behind this father’s delicate affection - he would not be to his son what his own father had been to him.  One life, among many.  Who could dare to judge it unimportant?

Around this corner, now sheer into the abyss with the destruction, a young woman.  Afraid and alone, but this determination tasted like sulphur and  lemons in his mouth - a bitter victory over a mistress who denied her everything.  He could reach in and sample from the first moment this girl felt her mother’s wet kiss on her brow, to the pain on her bottom from the last time her mistress had her brother beat her.  Another life to add to the weight pressed upon him.  Was he being dramatic, putting too much on himself?  Another memory, the same girl.  Fear, blistering and all-encompassing - the sky was falling in, she had only snuck out for a moment, no one would have noticed only the sky was falling in, this didn’t usually happen did it? Mistress would know what to do, where was she, where was anyone?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Please?

He stayed with this girl (Alleria, was her name) until he could feel the area settle, the Archivist beside him like a maternal parasite, soaking up the girl’s history until she became part of this mutated garden of knowledge.  Only when there was nothing left, when the last remaining life of this person was faded into his memory and the memory of the Vir Dirthara, did he move on.

He descended what had used to be a sweeping staircase and moved through an Eluvian to a Nexus.  The Librarian here was newly dead, and he had just enough time to marvel at who might have done it before another memory presented itself, one he hadn’t come across before.

It was a shemlen child, dark skinned with lush, black hair.  He was weeping, a broken apparatus of some sort in front of him and the dim echoes of quiet, disappointed words ringing around his ears.  Solas couldn’t quite tell what the words were saying, but he felt the sharp edge of them like a scalpel at his heart.  Another, later, this boy now a man joltingly familiar, raging at the owner of this voice like a tempest, another young man behind him, half-naked and shamefaced.  Solas felt his own cheeks heat with sympathetic embarrassment and the feeling was almost enough to replace the shock he felt to his bones at what, at who, he was seeing.  Another shift to overwhelming gratitude, as his new friend spoke a elvhen word for a relationship he hadn’t known existed before, another shift that stole his breath and tightened his balls in a rush as he felt silken rope against his wrists and a hot mouth on his chest.  Another memory, newer, his gut hardened into rage and fierce protection, fighting against a shapeless horror within this very library and shamelessly putting a face on it just so he could get it out of his system.  She needed him to be supportive, not vengeful.

The vision left him with chills spreading over his body from the base of his spine.

Dorian.

Of course he had been here.  She had known Solas for who he had been when she arrived, he knew she had been here.  So of course they would have been here, too.  It explained the dead Librarian - they were one of the few groups of people who would have had the power to defeat one.  But he had received the vision like he had received every other vision here.  He had seen punctuations in the life of a mere shadow in the same way that he had seen the life of a man who had lived the way this world had always intended to be.

As was his wont of late, a thought occurred just behind his consciousness.  A place where thoughts could come and stay without interfering with his own self.  A place where they were, if not safe, then contained.  He did not think.  But he did move.

As he walked to the bookshelves opposite where Dorian had forced an imprint of Solas’ own face on the now dead Librarian, the shelves in front of him melted away to reveal another Eluvian.  Finding these secret things was so easy now, the Archivists didn’t even try to stop him.  They hadn’t retained enough of themselves to.  As he walked, he turned his mind to all the memories he had seen just this one day - how many more were within this library, caught in the moment the Veil fell, beyond where the Veil fell?  This was the Vir Dirthara, he could find anyone here, if only their record had survived.  For whatever reason he was putting one foot in front of the other in this particular direction, regardless of the knot of ice in his gut and the blazing, barely contained roar of inferno in his heart, nothing could compare with all of these.  For whatever he felt now, they had felt.  And they were legion.

The place he came to broke his heart, just a little more.  It was humble; there were only the splintered remnants of plain wooden boards, the dust settling amongst the cracks. The musty thickness of air filled with too many books filled his lungs.  This was the most protected of all the Archives.  It was also why the Archivists were so revered and so venerated.

Every book on these shelves hummed.  He could hardly bear to see them, ruined as they were.  No one entered the library without giving of themselves to knowledge.  And Knowledge kept records.  If there were memories left in the library it was because they were caught in the liminal space between occurrence and classification.  Or they had bled out of the books cracked open like wounds, bleeding the life of whomever they belonged to onto the parched wood and through the fissures into the swirling air of the Vir Dirthara until they landed, to be scooped up by anyone who passed.  Row after row, column after column - even if they were damaged beyond repair, there were thousands.  He stood for a moment, breathed in dust and paper and life, let his nostrils fill with the stench of ruin, his gut broiling like he had breathed in the raw decay of a long dead corpse.

That place that had germinated the thought that brought him here stirred and no matter how desperately he tried, not even he could control his own senses.  Far down along the seemingly endless wall of books was a harsh end, a cut off from where he had severed all ties between this place and anything truly living.  Only, where there should be nothing but a tattered, frayed edge of reality, were four new books.  They pulsed with life, garish in their colouring, warped and different in shape and size from any of the others.  But they were there.

He was paralysed with indecision, caught with his mind pinned between what he must be and this place where the shadows of the last three years dwelt.  And howled.

If he turned his head he would see them fully.  If he saw them fully then he would have to see them within their context - as part of this library, broken as it was.  Their lives, their memories, their reality sitting nestled in amongst those that came before like they belonged there.  

But if they belonged there, if they were part of this ocean of life and love and pain, then that would mean things that he could not admit.  At least, not that he could admit and do what needed to be done.

On the other hand, if he didn’t turn his head, then he would not see them.  And if he decided he did not see them, then he was deciding to ignore reality in order to make his own selfish choices easier.  He had fought for so long, so very, very long…

He closed his eyes.  He breathed.  He squared his shoulders.

He turned away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Bull the next time.  A hard woman with a heart of wool, that picked up the blocks he had just knocked down, laughing in her joy and pride morphed into larger man, soft around his belly, but his words were like knives in his own mind, rummaging around and slicing at any soft tissue he found until there was nothing but purpose.  How ironic that the only man sitting alone at this bar was a Vint.  How soft his hands, hard like diamonds his words.  How fragile his heart.  Fuck but why did she have to be so damn tiny - hard as a rock in his britches as the dragon above him roared and he heard her yell right back, this could almost be better than sex.  Certainty, obvious enough to make him weep when the bitch offered him a choice, because time was relative here and Solas felt the bone-numbing realisation of parallel Bull had made between the two of them before the Vidassala had ever dared offer him the deal.  He shied away then and pretended he hadn’t.  Fled from the floating feeling of unwanted freedom as Bull and he watched the ship blow, heard the triumphant cries of the men that were only supposed to be his in name.  

The thought chased him through the library until he had stepped out of the Eluvian to the unsettlingly reverent gaze of his people.

Until those men had become more real than the ship.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Varric took him in the middle of watching a pair of scholars make their slow, tantalising way to a tryst between the stacks, fuelled by mutual academic passion.  One moment he was watching them dance shyly around each other and the next it was the woman from Kirkwall and the mage he didn’t like to think about too much for all that he had accidentally come too close to truths this world couldn’t uncover unless…unless…

Only then it was Fenris and Varric was helpless, watching this doomed triad stumble their way towards an inevitable messy end and hoping against hope that the lack of contact he’d had from them all recently meant they were somehow all right.  The weight of feeling in the man was almost too much to bear and yet, perhaps because the last few weeks had not been easy and he had not slept for days, he stood there and took it.  Perhaps, if he accepted enough pain from these shadows of shadows (the four new books lurked restlessly in the back of his mind) he wouldn’t see the fourth.  Let him not see the fourth.  Desperate as he was, he watched Varric bid farewell to his beloved again.  And again.  And again.  It became almost atavistic, he revelled in the echoed heartbreak until he felt dirty and petty.  Then he left.

He didn’t come back for a very, very long time.  He told himself it was because the war kept him too busy.  He certainly didn’t listen to the part of him that told him, brutal in its honesty, that his reluctance to come to this place now was the same reluctance that stopped him from wanting to sleep, to risk that brief couple of moments before oblivion where every ghost you had would come to haunt you.  As if she didn’t do that every turn he made, every manoeuvre he thought he’d used to outplay her.  Every dream he tried to pretend wasn’t real, until he had fallen asleep beside his lieutenant and woken to find her flattered and happy, rubbing up against him because she thought it was for her.

No, he had no intention of coming here again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The bare wood is harsh against his knees as he lets himself fall.  He is hollow, please let him be hollow.  The shadows have grown in their place beside his conscious thoughts, pressing against his mind like rabid dogs.

Children.  She had used children against him.  Seen that there was no chance of evacuation and used the time she’d had to go around every house and bring out the children to play on the green.  She’d stood, eyes frightened, fierce and unmoving as she looked straight at where she knew he and his men were preparing for the Fade-Pillar.  The Pillar that needed the weakening of the Veil under this village and which needed the bodies of the villagers to take what would come through.  He had tried to find another site for it, he had really truly tried.  She had raised her head as if she was looking straight at him.  And she had dared him to cut the children down as they played.

He doesn’t realize his face is in his hands until his fingers press hard enough into the softness of his eyelids he sees nauseating bursts of colour.  The books above him quiver, whatever life is in them shivering in the face of the torment he is confronting them with.  He is numb.  He must be numb.  Something tugs at his consciousness, almost inaudible through the chaos.  Even though it has been months, even though within those months has been enough story to fill a stack of its own, the place in his mind where the shadows dwell remembers.  He knows, without taking his palms from his face, that this place will have moved in response to his need.  Whatever he is trying to desperately to forget is no longer far away at the edge of the bookcase.  There are four of them and he knows if he looks up they will be in front of him on the shelf.  Within his grasp. It cannot not be his need to have them here.  It cannot.  

The fourth book had been the colour of moss in the deep of trees marked by time only in their greatness.  If the embossed gold intricacies of pattern looked like anything he’d recognised from Elvhenan, they had morphed in front of his eyes (that had not looked, had definitely, desperately not looked) into something quite unique.  Her very own.  He sees it in his mind now and he is too tired to make himself decide he hasn’t seen it.  His own voice is loud and unrecognisable in his ears.  Surely only animals make such a sound.

On the patchy grass of the village green, one of the smaller boys had tried to leap frog another and fallen.  An older girl, with dull hair and a gap in her teeth, had come over and taunted him into trying again, carrying him over and then pretending to the other children that he’d done it himself.  Solas had seen it so clearly, like an imprint of them on the world that could never be unseen by anyone who had witnessed it.  No one would write this moment, but it was etched into his gut deeper and more permanent than any ink.

The time for the Fade-Pillar to be brought down had come.  And then it had passed.

He knows he will see moss-green and gold before he looks up.  The four books are still acid-bright in their colour.  So very, very different from what he knows.

He reaches for them.

[packsbeforesnacks]

Harmony Hall || Mercy & Winn

TIMING: Thursday, July 9th, 2020, Evening LOCATION: The Western Archives (Mercy’s Loft) PARTIES: @cryxmercy & @packsbeforesnacks SUMMARY: Mercy offers an explanation. Winn faces the truth about his lost years. WARNINGS: None

The lighthouse was intimidating, Winn thought, but no more intimidating than meeting someone for the first time… again, apparently. ‘Cause apparently this ‘Mercy’ woman knew him, said he’d lived in White Crest before he remembered livin’ in White Crest. The possibility had never crossed his mind, that there would be — could be — someone with the answers to the riddle of the years that had been taken from him. Winn would need to buy Rio something nice, if this panned out. Boy deserved, like, a fruit basket, bare minimum. Winn made his way up the staircase, twisted up in the lighthouse like a coiled spring, ready to pop out at any time and remind him why he was actually here.

An explanation. Mercy had promised one and Winn wasn’t about to let his only real chance at fixing all of this slip through his fingers. No one — Rio, Darwin, his dad — had been able to turn up any real leads, and there wasn’t a magic Facebook, where Winn could just post until someone said they’d fix his memories. He’d gotten lucky. He knew it. The chance of him findin’ another person with access to mental magic was too big of an ask. Luckily for him, White Crest kept an eye on wishes.

One of the many problems that came with living as long as Mercy had was that inevitably the past would circle back around at some point, either to bite you in the ass, or simply make life more complicated. She wasn’t quite sure which category the current bit of her past fell into. Winn was a good guy — it was why she’d helped him in the first place all those years back -— so perhaps it fell into neither. Perhaps it was simply the right thing to do. Because Mercy had seen first hand what missing memories could do to a person. How confused and lost they could become. Wondering what had happened to them in a span of time they couldn’t remember. It could drive a person mad.

So Mercy didn’t blame Rio for sending Winn her way. Even if she wasn’t sure what she could tell him, other than what the young wolf had asked of her all those years back, and the events that had followed. Perhaps that would be enough. Even if it didn’t bring the memories back. Because Mercy didn’t know how to do that. So she’d made sure the tower would let Winn pass through, that the roses that grew in the field outside wouldn’t harass him. And when she heard footsteps on the spiral stairs, Mercy looked towards the open door of the small flat at the top of the tower. Her tone was warm and easy as she spoke. “You can come in. I don’t bite.”

Winn passed through the open door with more confidence than he felt. He racked his memory, trying to figure out if he’d known her, some time ago, but there wasn’t even the faintest pulse of recollection. He took a seat, movements a bit stiff, as he considered the woman. There wasn’t much he could tell from just her posture and voice; if he had to pick an age— Well, ‘sides bein’ rude, he couldn’t really do that anymore. Living in a lighthouse wasn’t the most unusual thing about this situation, but it was as good a place as any to break the ice. “Sooooo,” he drawled, “you lived in White Crest long?” He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of her knowin’ him. “This lighthouse looks old. Beautiful, though, the roses are lovely.”

A compliment, a well-placed smile. She knew Winn. But that didn’t mean she had liked him, in whatever history they shared together. He scanned the room, looking for another point of conversational topic, but his eyes drifted back to the woman’s. It occurred to him that, well, she might know him by his old name. He should clear up any confusion, introduce himself again. “Um, sorry, right. I’m Winn. Winn Woods. Winner Lycus Woods. Said that on the phone.” He gave a small wave, feeling incredibly awkward. What was it about this woman that put him on-edge? Or was it just that she knew more about him, perhaps, than he did? There were no easy answers, and so, he admitted what she’d probably already guessed: “Do I… know you?”

“About six years,” Mercy said, watching Winn as he took a seat. “Going on seven.” He was wondering about her, she knew. Who she was. Probably even what she was. Mercy hadn’t told him much over the phone. But that was deliberate. This was a conversation that needed to happen face to face. “Thank you. I… acquired it some years back.” She smiled at him, small and knowing. “The roses are just a bonus.” And a damn fine security measure. In case anyone who was unwelcome thought they could just waltz up to her tower.

Mercy’s eyes didn’t leave his face as he looked around. The room was small, but cozy. Full of shelves and books and benign things of interest that she’d brought up from down in the archives. There was evidence of Arthur here and there as well. A chess set she’d dug out of one of the rooms for him. New journals and fountain pens stacked neatly on a nearby table, along with a stack of scrolls and manuscripts still covered in dust. There was also a small bed in one corner, a tiny kitchenette, a small bathroom behind a closed door, and a woodburning stove. It was very liveable, even if Mercy usually stayed elsewhere. Winn’s gaze came back to her eventually, and Mercy waited a moment as he introduced himself.

“You did. Once. My name’s Mercy.” She watched him for a short but weighted moment. “I’m the one that took your memories.”  

Well, huh.

Winn wouldn’t pretend there wasn’t a part of him that had been… hoping for this. When Darwin had told him that they weren’t buried, but missing, he had been ready to abandon this entire ‘quest.’ Rio’s message, askin’ to give Winn’s information to one of his allies, had been a Hail Mary, as far as Winn had been concerned. But then, Rio had messaged him back, gave him a number to call. Winn had leapt at the chance.

Once. Maybe… Maybe, even if Winn couldn’t get back his memories, she could tell him about himself. It was another confirmation. When something went missing, there had to be a force behind it. Darwin had given him the information, Mercy had revealed herself as the thief herself. He took a deep breath, in, out, almost like he was preparin’ for Darwin to take another look around his mind. But, really, Winn knew that, if he let himself make assumptions, Winn would be transformed in the middle of this flat. That wouldn’t help anyone, least of all him. So, before he’d climbed the tower, he’d ran through scenarios in his head.

And… Well, this hadn’t been the worst. Could be bleedin’ out. Winn locked eyes with Mercy, and said, strong and far more confident than he felt: “Why?”

Mercy often wondered if her long life — or perhaps her nature — had made her some sort of… beacon… for lost and wayward souls. She seemed to cross paths with them more often than not. If that was the case, it was ironic really, since she had no power whatsoever over the souls of mankind. Unlike the Valkyries of her homelands legends.

What she did have was knowledge. Centuries upon centuries of it. But with great knowledge came great power, as they say. And what good was knowledge if it wasn’t shared? At least when it was for the better. So while Mercy had also prepared for the worst, she didn’t pull any punches in answering Winn’s questions. She wasn’t afraid of the young wolf. Never had been. That said, she was very aware of the damage one could do. To her, and to their surroundings. And Mercy was in no mood to deal with an angry shifter tonight. Or at any point in the near future.

Mercy waited on Winn to process what she’d said. She watched for any signs he was going to lash out or react badly. Any tells that his emotions were going to get the better of him, and the wolf would take over to protect him. Or to get revenge for a perceived wrong. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. And Mercy let out her own internal sigh of relief.

Her tone was soft and even as she didn’t hesitate to answer his follow up question. “Because you asked me to.” There was more, obviously, but Mercy wanted to give him time to process the main parts before overloading him with the rest of the details. Of which there were many.

Winn felt like he’d been smacked with a sledgehammer, like the ‘brain freeze’ he’d felt at Darwin’s probing had been only an appetizer for this main course. The memories weren’t stolen. The memories were given. And his mind scrolled and scrolled through scenarios, trying to figure out what could have happened — what he could have done — that would make him do this.

He put his head in his hands, trying to stave off yet another anxiety attack. Winn had been preparing for an answer, even this one, for nearly a month — two, if he counted that first inkling that there was something inside of him. Finally, scrubbing the fresh tears away from his eyes, he met Mercy’s gaze with tired determination. He had to know.

“Tell me more. Please. I can… I can handle it.” Winn tried to give a weak smile, ended up somewhere in grimace, and settled back down into a flat line.

Mercy watched as Winn started to absorb what she was saying. It wasn’t easy to be told things about your past that you couldn’t remember. This wasn’t the first time Mercy had been in such a situation. She had learned, however, that giving too much all at once could send some people over the edge. Others did better receiving things in one big lump. Mercy wasn’t sure which category Winn fell into just yet. He’d survived the giving away of the memories. But that didn’t mean the opposite would be true. When he got himself together and looked up, tears staining his face, Mercy felt her heart ache for him. He was a good kid. It’s why she’d helped him in the first place.

“We met a few years back when you signed up for my self-defense classes. Didn’t take me long to realize you weren’t human. Took you a bit longer to realize the same was true for me.” Mercy explained how they’d come to be friends, and later, how Mercy had come to be a confidant of sorts for Winn. And how eventually Winn came to confide his personal traumas to Mercy. Who had already encouraged him to stand up to what frightened him. To take back control of his life, by not letting the past control his present, or his future. That effort — thanks to Mercy’s Fury nature — doubled when she found out what the hunters had done to him.

“One day you came to me and asked if I knew how to get rid of unwanted memories.” Mercy sat a book — bound in worn leather wrappings — and an ornately carved wooden box on the table between them. She opened the lid of the box, revealing a pair of ravens — carved from obsidian — nestled inside. Each was small enough to hold in one’s hand, and covered in delicately crafted patterns and runes. “This is the how.” She indicated the book and the stone ravens before looking at him evenly. “Are you absolutely certain you wish to know what memories you wanted gone? And why?”

There was a part of Winn that wanted to laugh at Mercy, to tell her that there was no way that she was right. It was a stubborn, temperamental part of himself that he hardly recognized. But, as she spoke, he realized that… well, that what she was sayin’ made sense. Winn had been in a bad way, after he left the pack. That… That was where the memories got fuzzy, where the train stopped because the track had been cut off. He’d always thought the wolf had finally gotten fed up with him, ran on a Full Moon and stayed transformed that way until Winn could get his shit together.

But none of that was true.

“I… kind of hate that you know more about me than I do,” Winn admitted, honestly. “So, I came to you to erase two whole years? That seems,” Winn grabbed one of the stone ravens to inspect it, “excessive.” His head pulsed, his vision blurred. Shit got weird. And painful.

“I’m used to it,” Mercy said of being hated, her voice holding a hint of something that might’ve been weariness. Or perhaps regret. Maybe both. But her expression turned to a true frown as he told her that— “Wait—” Mercy held up a hand, her tone one of shock. “You’re missing two years? Two entire years?” But Winn never got the chance to answer.

He reached for the raven… and collapsed to the floor.

Mercy was instantly on her feet, both out of concern for Winn, and to be ready in case she ended up with a fully shifted, angry werewolf in her flat.  

“Please…” Winn heard himself begging Mercy and a robed figure behind her. The room was barely lit, but Winn could make out himself, younger, and speaking in broken sobs. It looked like the loft, but… different, in the pieces he could see. “Mercy, I did something I can’t take back. Ever. I want… I want a second chance. I’m not… I don’t want to be this person. I— I wanted my life back, but not like this. I didn’t— He didn’t—” There was a crackle in the air as he looked up, meeting the eyes of the fury. “I want this. No going back.”

The scene cut out, Winn heard three words in a language he didn’t recognize. Then, there was darkness.

In Winn’s memory, Mercy looked on in sympathy at the young wolf’s pain. The air hummed with static. “If this is your wish, if you believe with all your heart, that this is what’s right for you… that your life can only be better for forgetting, then so be it.”

When the spell had been cast, Mercy had merely been an observer, until the caster had come to the final seals. How fortuitous it was that she was there, and capable of speaking the three runes that activated the spell and set it in motion.

When Winn came back to himself, in the present, he was on the floor of the loft, holding his head in pain, tears streaming down his face, claws and fangs extended and digging tiny cuts into his skull and lip. Fuck. Fuck. His ears rang, his heart was racing.

“... What did I do?” Winn asked, finally, when he had just enough energy to pull himself off the floor. He couldn’t look at Mercy, not now. Not until he knew.

In the present, Mercy had moved to place herself between Winn and the door to the stairs, just in case. She knew he was in pain. She could see the partial shift his body had gone through in response to such huge amounts of stress. Mercy waited, relaxing slightly as moving towards him as he came back to himself. And asked the million dollar question.

Mercy sighed, wondering where the hell to start. Perhaps the cut and dry version would be best.

“You started this… one-man ‘protect the wolves’ mission… tracking down and killing the hunters, and others, that were hurting them… You were ruthless. Vicious even. You grew numb to it. Or so you said. Until one day… you killed a hunter in front of his children.” Mercy squatted down so she could be level with the wolf. “That was when you realized all those people, those hunters, were people too. With families. Children. People who loved them.” Mercy knew all hunters weren’t created the same. But that didn’t mean she thought Winn had been in the wrong for what he’d done. How many lives had he saved by taking the ones he had? Though it wasn’t what Mercy thought that mattered, was it? This was about Winn. “It set something off inside you… and you couldn’t live with what you’d done. You wanted it gone.”

She watched him for a long moment. “You’re not a bad person, Winn. I know bad people. You’re a good person that bad things have happened to.”

“Okay,” Winn said finally, curling in on himself on the floor, taking it all in. Numb, Mercy had said. Well, Winn didn’t feel very numb right now. He felt… he felt awful. And part of it was recovering from the stress of touching the raven, but… It was true. There was no denying it. Mercy had no reason to lie to him, and, fuck, was that what Winn had seen at the carnival? Killing a hunter, apparently the last in a string of killings. Winn had found his answer. Or, part of it. And that answer was awful, ripping into him and carving at his heart. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest. Winn sat there, just… thinking.

Until: “Wait, then… Why? Why two years?” Winn said, finally looking up and into Mercy’s eyes. “It doesn’t— Tell me I wasn’t… killing people for two years.” Not that it mattered, he supposed, in the grand scheme of things. Just more bodies to the count. Fuck. Fuck.

Mercy waited patiently while Winn processed everything. She was used to this too, after all. It was the story of her life. Waiting and watching… sometimes for months, even years at a time. But when he asked his next question, the only answer Mercy had was, “I don’t know why the spell took two years away. But no. You weren’t. It was… a few months. Maybe.”

“I’m a coward.” Winn sighed, looking up at the ceiling and away from Mercy’s gaze. He’d run away again. He couldn’t stop running away. “And I’m… I don’t know if I’m a bad person, Mercy, but I… I don’t think I can be a good person, if I did that, if I hurt all of those people — and you said, you said others? So, not all of them were hunters? I mean, that… that makes it worse, right?” Would it be better, if it had only been hunters? No. No, Winn didn’t think so. Even without his memories, without his apparent realization, he knew so many hunters now and he knew they were just… people. Fallible and too, too human.

Mercy’s jaw clenched as he called himself a coward. She remembered a moment very like this one, where she’d told him he should take control of his fears, his doubts, his demons… face them and conquer them. She couldn’t help it as the air in the flat started to hum with static. “A coward wouldn’t be sitting here in my tower, asking to remember things he once thought so terrible that he begged to have them removed from his mind forever.”

“The fact that you feel remorse for any of it…” Mercy shook her head, her expression softening slightly. “Bad people don’t feel remorse, Winn.” What did that say about Mercy, and all the people she’d killed over the centuries that she hadn’t thought twice about? The thought was fleeting, and thankfully didn’t settle in Mercy’s head. So she pressed on. “We can’t judge ourselves for the way we deal with trauma. That’s why it’s called trauma. Because it’s a deeply disturbing experience. Something we can rarely control. The only thing we can do… is learn from it. And try to be better in the end.”

Mercy’s words were as much for herself as for Winn, even if she didn’t realize it. But even then, there was nothing more she could say that hadn’t already been said. So again, she waited. Where they went from here was up to Winn.

And try to be better in the end.

Winn pulled himself off of the floor of the flat, scrubbed at his eyes, and looked at Mercy. She was right, even if he couldn’t believe it right now. Had Winn learned from it? When Winn got the memories back, would time have helped? Or would he just be back to that broken man, cryin’ at his friend to take it all away?

No. No, he refused.

Winn had barely finished saying, “I want them back,” though, when he collapsed, again, to the floor, unconscious and still.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “The Cuddling Room”

“The Cuddling Room” is a unique idea Y/N came up with when her relationship with The Joker started to fall apart. The awesome plan worked for a while…until it didn’t. Maybe the sanctuary’s purpose wasn’t to mend the present, but to heal old wounds that will never fade unless given a chance.

 The Joker walks the hallway leading to the kitchen, dreading the imminent reality: after another horrible fight last night, Y/N is probably gone. Terrible things were said in the hit of the moment and The King of Gotham abandoned the Penthouse, leaving a heartbroken girlfriend behind.

No texts and no phone calls; you are always the first one to reach out and J sort of got used to it. Since you didn’t bother to contact him at all, he assumed you had enough and left.  

Nobody lasts in a relationship with The Joker anyway.

Why?

Because he “doesn’t do” relationships: The Clown Prince of Crime is truly clueless on how to handle them, especially when he actually likes someone. It’s a paradox he can’t escape: the more J tries to hold on, the more his urge to mess up exponentially increases.

He passes by the studio and can’t help but notice the flashy hand written sign hanging on the door: “The Cuddling Room.”

Lots of thumping sounds and the door is cracked opened: The Joker peeks inside only to see Y/N running around in order to finish the project she worked on for hours in his absence.

The small room is entirely remodeled: there are decorative lights dangling from the ceiling, candles and books scattered on the shelves, flowerpots plus a twin-size bed moved from storage courtesy of Frost and Shark.

“What are you doing?!” J crabbily mumbles, not that he would admit how relieved he feels you’re still on the premises.

“I’m not talking to you,” you pout and fluff the pillows.

“You just did,” he brings it to your attention, very intrigued while analyzing the surroundings. “What’s this supposed to be?!”

“Sanctuary,” the clarification briefs the puzzled Joker. “If we have an argument and things go downhill…” you take a deep, strenuous breath, “…and want to work it out, we can use this place. We can be mad and resentful, yet here we can be together without being together.”

“Huh?” J has a difficult time processing the peace offer because nobody else went through so much trouble for him before.

He’s just not worth it.

“The mattress is tiny; two people have to cuddle if they want to fit…That’s why it’s called the cuddling room,” you grouchily finish your speech.  

You hear him huff and slam the door, meaning he’s dismissing your idea.

We’ll see how it goes, you sigh and grab a book, deciding to dwell into the newly transformed oasis.

About half an hour later, The Joker sneaks in and you completely ignore him. He took a shower, changed into a pair of sweatpants and decided to pop in for additional criticism that will promptly be addressed towards Y/N and her silly experiment.

The blinds are closed; the string lights and candles glowing in the darkness make the room very cozy: The Queen of Gotham reigns her minuscule kingdom quite relaxed after she lost hope The King will join.

He slowly drags his feet on the rug, adamant in not giving into the tempting thought of compromising for once; nevertheless he winds up in bed by a sulking girlfriend.

“Scoot,” J hisses and the reply clarifies your denial:

“I’m at the edge on my side.”

He groans, squirming to get comfortable and you snatch the cell phone out of his hand, hiding it under the cushions.

“No electronics!”

He puckers his lips, irritated.

“Excuse me?!”

“Read a book!” you cut him off.

The Joker is outraged at your behavior; he mutters several complaints that you disregard. You’re getting ready to turn the page and he protests:

“I’m not done!”

Apparently J is reading your book now.

“That’s crazy!” he scoffs at the story and elbows you.

You lastly turn the page and he continues to scan the novel until there are no more words: he passed out nuzzling to your shoulder; the lack of space gave him no other option, which is literally the point of Y/N’s attempt to save their affair.

You cover him with the blanket, annoyed he’s purring in his sleep; The Joker often does it when he’s totally carefree and you’re definitely jealous at his detachment from stuff that keeps you up at night.

He senses wiggling and wraps his left arm around your waist, a natural reaction to what he would usually do. Even if you’re aware he’s unconsciously responding to the closeness, you can’t resist the impulse: you slide on the pillows, touching his nose with yours.

“Mmm…” he moans, opening one eye. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” you yawn and hesitantly kiss him, immediately smiling when he kisses you back.

“Then stop fidgeting and let me rest,” The Joker scolds without any trace of bitterness in his voice.

“I’m almost falling off the mattress,” you lie and don’t wait for an invitation to snuggle to his chest.

“Then got to the master bedroom,” the fussy Clown reprimands while holding you tighter.

“Maybe later…” you sniffle and stroke his hair, grateful your skills aiming at reconciliation are paying off.

*************

Your awesome plan worked for a while…then it didn’t.

Later in the year, succeeding another dreadful confrontation, J was a no show in The Cuddling Room for eight days in a row; he barely spoke to you and was gone most of the time. I guess that was his method of telling his woman it was over; she expected a bit more after 23 months of being part of The Joker’s life and his indifference hurt more than it should have.

One morning he came home and the view of suitcases piled up by the elevator made him frown.

“Y/N?...” he shouted and there was no reply.

J searched the Penthouse and found a teary Y/N boxing items she purchased to adorn the special haven that meant so much to her; might as well take them away since The Clown Prince of Crime had no need for such trivialities.

He watched you in silence, bothered to see the consequences of his actions: after struggling on a decision, The Joker was at last coming to use The Cuddling Room. Instead of disclosing his intentions, the opposite came out of his mouth:

“You finally got the hint?”

You grabbed the crate in a hurry and rushed outside the studio, not looking at him. He had no clue how deep of a wound he inflicted that day; The Joker should have put his wretched temper on hold and confess why he was there for.

But he couldn’t… To him, it was easier to end it.

So he let you go.

**************

It wasn’t easy to endure J’s presence at certain meetings you had to attend due to your involvement with the same entourage as his. God knows you had issues to get out of your chest, yet pretending to be fine suited you better. You mostly kept your distance, avoiding dialogue at all cost.

In a way, one could say he respected that: your ex didn’t attempt to chitchat either, especially when he realized you seemed happy when Tony Bianchi, everyone’s favorite smuggler developed an interest in you.

For several months you two would show up everywhere and soon after the engagement ring on your finger got rumors circulating, The Joker and the rest of the world noticed the baby bump too. Although it wasn’t a secret you were dating Tony and accepted his marriage proposal, you maintained your private life off radar.

The reason was plain and simple: besides your tumultuous relationship with J, the new found love appeared to be a walk in the park; you didn’t have to resort to extreme lengths in order to keep things afloat. You and your fiancée worked together in fixing problems that would seldom arise because that’s what couples do: if they want to thrive, they will find the middle ground. Y/N didn’t feel she was alone against the odds; having a suitable partner was her special paradise and she fully enjoyed the opportunity of being cherished like she deserved.

How life works it’s a real mystery: some facts can’t be explained, others happen for a reason and just a handful are the universe’s manner of rebalancing events that should have occurred differently due to stupid human errors, even if changing the final result meant to destroy and rebuild from scratch.

To this day, The Joker perfectly remembers his heart stopped at 6:37am on September 23rd ; he was cruising in the back of his favorite SUV, still sleepy and discontent for the emergency meeting requested by a few business partners at such an early hour. J didn’t know the reason why but agreed to go; Frost was on the phone trying to find out more details and Panda was driving as smooth as possible, not wishing to aggravate his boss more than necessary.

The King of Gotham was kind of dozing off when Jonny finished his phone conversation and got his attention:

“Sir…”

“Mmm?...” he lifted his nonexistent eyebrows and made an effort to gather his thoughts.

“Tony Bianchi was murdered last night, the victim of a home invasion, possibly a score settling with the deceased. The allies want to meet and assess the damage since everyone constantly invests huge amounts of money with the smuggler. Now that he’s history, they’re not sure who’ll replace him.”

The Joker’s heart stopped.

“And Y/N?” he flatly asked, allegedly composed for the shocking blow; after all, inquiring about his former girlfriend might have been perceived as weakness and he had none.

“I guess she wasn’t home.”

The Clown hummed incomprehensible sentences, calculating how much venue he might have lost in the messy situation. He didn’t allow himself to admit to the obvious truth: once he heard Y/N wasn’t dead, his heart started beating again.

***************

Three months following Tony’s death, J had the chance of an encounter with you and to classify it as awkward wouldn’t do that evening any justice.

Richard aka Panda was finishing his cigarette behind “Neon Devil” club, when the bouncers engaged into an escalating confrontation got his attention; he was preparing to take over Nixon’s shift as main security for the back entrance and had to check in anyway.

“The club is closed; are you deaf?” one of the guys pushed the lady on the sidewalk and she almost fell.

“Is Tony here?” the seven month pregnant Y/N insisted, getting ready to stroll into the place.

“Let me repeat myself!” another guard shouted. “We have no Tony working here, capisci?! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you on drugs?!”

“I have to see if he’s in there,” you passed your fingers through your hair, visibly distressed.

“Are you kidding me?!” Mike grumbled, fed up with the crazy babbling. “You have five seconds to scram, understand?! Five, four …”

“What’s going on?” Richard approached and recognized you instantly.

“She keeps on asking about a Tony; we told her we have nobody with that name employed here but this wacko doesn’t get it!” Nixon reported.

“I know her so back the fuck out!” Panda threatened the newbies that had no idea who you were. He took your arm and guided you inside, making you sit in the lobby while he called his boss.

“Mister Joker, Y/N’s here,” Richard announced before taking you to the VIP room.

“Huh?”

“Ummm… she’s here looking for…e-hem…Tony. Can I bring her up or should I take her home?”

Long moments of silence and J made his decision:

“Bring her up.”

You were accompanied upstairs and Panda helped you settle on the couch opposite The Clown’s while he quietly analyzed you: he could tell that something was off.  Your cheeks were flushed and you nervously played with your t-shirt, the dark circles under your eyes bearing witness to the numerous sleepless nights tolerated in the past weeks.

The rumor was you suffered a nervous breakdown and had this recurring “episodes” consisting of wandering off to familiar places in search of your departed fiancée. The pregnancy made it impossible for you to use any medications that could have aided with your frail mental state; counselling and therapy could only accomplished that much and The Joker could entirely observe the transformation in the woman he once dated.  

“Is…is Tony here?” you whispered, investigating the room.

“Nope. Didn’t see him in a while.”

“I don’t know where he is...” the tears rolled down your face. “I can’t find him…”

“Jesus…” The King of Gotham mumbled under his breath. “How’d you get here?” he crossed his legs and caught you ogling the food: J craved Thai and immediately changed his mind as soon as the courier arrived.

“I…I took a cab and then… then… walked,” you seemed confused and he slid the foam container on the coffee table, making it easy for the future mother.

“Are you hungry?”

Y/N nodded a yes and The Joker examined her scarfing down the freshly cooked dish, still warm since the restaurant wasn’t far from the club. You kept sobbing and chewing, wiping your tears from time to time.

“Here’s some water,” he opened a small bottle and offered it to his grieving ex: she was definitely famished.

J sighed and reached for his cell phone, dialing Soraya’s number: she was appointed to take over for Tony because you were in no shape to do so.

“Are you missing a valuable member of your crew?” he barked when she answered.

“Oh my God Mister J, please tell me Y/N’s with you!”

“She is.”

“Thank heavens! We’ve been seeking for her: she had an ultrasound this morning and vanished from the doctor’s office afterwards,” the agitated 50 years old brings to The King’s knowledge. “I’ll send a car to pick her up.”

“No need to,” he interrupted her tirade. “I got it.”

J hung up and patiently waited for you to finish eating: since you were wearing your maternity jeans plus a basic t-shirt, he clearly noticed the baby moving under the thin fabric. It was slightly fascinating and weirdly enough not a dull spectacle.

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride home,” he uttered and you stood up, eager to comply:

“Is Tony there?”

The Joker said nothing; he escorted you to one of the vehicles stationed in the underground parking lot and dodged your questions regarding the assassinated smuggler.

He kept navigating the streets until he realized why you quit talking: Y/N loved car rides and completely crashed after scarcely napping in the last months.

The green haired man has always been a reckless driver, yet he didn’t speed nor take sharp turns with you in the passenger’s seat.

The traffic was harrowing and he just calmly went with the flow instead of having a tantrum; such a rare occurrence that he managed to stay cool. J was practically at your house when he switched the plan: he turned the signal on and took a right, skeptical about his own judgement.

************

You slowly blink, adjusting your eyes to the decorative lights hanging from the ceiling.

“Where am I?...” you toss in the small bed, disoriented and groggy after snoozing for 10 hours straight.

The electronic clock on the wall near the windows show 5 am; which windows though?... They don’t resemble the ones at your house, but somehow summon past memories: a few candles, scattered books on the shelves, flowerpots… and the handwritten sign you scribbled almost three years ago pinned on the wide opened door: “The Cuddling Room.”

You touch your tummy and get on your elbow; the little unborn girl keeps kicking and you moan in pain at the splitting headache menacing to burst full throttle in the next minutes.

“It’s fine sweet pea,” you caress your bump and contemplate the peaceful environment, frowning when you discover The Joker gazing at you from the recliner.

“Hi,” he sucks on his teeth for the lack of a better tactic.

“Why am I here?!” you grow exponentially alarmed at the baffling reality: shit, it’s The Penthouse.  Not that you recall how you got here; last evening is an absolute blur.

The Joker lifts his shoulders up, not possessing a logic rationalization himself.

“I don’t like this place,” you struggle to stand up, more and more upset at the idea you were brought up to a spot you hate without your consent.

“I do,” J serenely admits. “It’s calming.”

“Why is this stuff still here?!” your bottom lip quivers at the sight of everything you left behind when you vacated the premises in a hurry.

“I didn’t have time to clean.”

“Really?!” you start crying and accomplish to roll off the bed.

“I’m a busy individual,” he watches you stumble on the carpet and rushed to help. You reject his assistance, bothered he dares taking such liberties: 

“Please don’t touch me!!”

J halts his movement, receptive to your demand; he’s aware of your precarious relation and it makes him grasp the basic notion: bringing you to The Penthouse was a huge mistake.

“I have to go home,” you sniffle and stomp around him. “I need to find Tony.”

“You won’t find him…” The Joker bites his lip.

Y/N ends up in front of her former boyfriend and the hurt look on her face accentuates the sorrowful plea:

“Why would you say something like that?...”

“You know why… He’s gone,” J growls and surprisingly regrets his words when you collapse on your knees, bawling your eyes out at the cruel statement. Unfortunately it’s true also.

On the good days you remember and the person to remind you shouldn’t be the man that shattered your heart to pieces with his indifference; he shouldn’t have the privilege of harming you again.

Yet The Joker doesn’t appear to be overjoyed at his accomplishment; he frankly wasn’t aiming for a meltdown.

He lowers his body next to yours, attempting to hug you; you keep on pushing him away until he finally mutters:

“I didn’t mean it… alright? I didn’t mean it,” he forcefully holds you as you squirm to escape the unwelcomed intimacy. “I’m trying to apologize, ok?!” he raises his voice and reaffirms: “I didn’t mean to say it!”

You dig your nails in his shirt, not used to hear such compromising sentences from his part.

How you longed for him to give you a small token of his affection when you were together; why doing it now when it’s pointless?

J takes advance of Y/N lowered resistance and squeezes her closer, pleased that she gradually lets him embrace her without fighting his grip. It’s strange for this to happen in the tiny sanctuary that meant hope for them many years ago.

Maybe because The Cuddling Room’s purpose is not to mend the past, but to heal old wounds that will never fade unless given a chance.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Wattpad and AO3 under the same blog name: Diyunho.

[airquietworks]

Expecting! (IzuOcha)(Part 4)

Summary: The world may never be the same. Izuku and Ochako have to answer for their choice to have a child. Navigating pregnancy and heroics is no small task, but together, they are determined to succeed. 

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

"Wow! What do you think Dad used this for?"

Hiroaki watched, bored, as his sister hauled up an oversized gauntlet. It was sleek and stylish, emblazoned in a familiar shade of green. It also appeared rather weighty; he noticed she was huffing as she held it.

"Punching stuff, I guess," he muttered in reply from his place sitting against the wall. He let out a yawn and adjusted himself. He chased a sense of comfort, and perhaps a nap, though he knew it would be a struggle in this dusty space.

"But why would he need this to punch stuff?" The green-haired girl clumsily deposited the gauntlet on the ground, staring intently at it with a wide-eyed look. "He already punches stuff hard without it!"

The girl gleefully mimicked her father, flailing her fists out in the air toward some unseen opponent.

"I dunno, Reiko. You'd have to ask him."

———————————————————————————————————–

Epilogue: Memories, storms and wonder

———————————————————————————————————–

The nine-year-old did not heed him at all, excitedly wandering into another corner of the room in search of new treasures. He had to admit she looked rather cute, her freckled face wide with excitement as she trotted around in a play-friendly set of blue overalls over a red shirt. Hiroaki smiled at her carefree exuberance. He could remember a time when he too could look at this room and feel that unbridled sense of wonder.

He could remember a time where he dreamed of being a hero.

Hiroaki kept a careful watch over her as she explored her parents' trove of all things heroic. Boxes full of memorabilia littered the floor, stacked into disorderly piles that were difficult to navigate. Greens and pinks dotted the space; their parents' old memorabilia hung on the walls and sprawled across the floor.

One wall stood out from the chaos of the rest. While much of the room was in disarray – a product of their parents' busy lives and an overwhelming amount of stuff – the far wall was more meticulously maintained. The wide grin of the visage of All Might bombarded the eyes. Figures, posters, books, clippings, and a few special family photos. His dad had quietly worked to maintain that wall, at least.

Hiroaki suddenly felt a compelling force tugging at him. He rose from his position, stretching out his muscles. The boy carefully walked forward, keeping his eyes locked on the same image which always transfixed him. Sitting on one of the shelves was a photo in a faded frame. His parents were there, beaming brightly. His eyes instead focused on the thin, frail man between them. His face was weathered and absolutely covered in tears, but he wore a massive grin.

The old man held up a small bundle. The baby's face within was hard to make out, but he could see a little tuft of brown hair peeking from the folds.

Hiroaki's namesake holding him.

"Look, Toshi, it's that cool red cape Dad stopped using!"

"Hang on," Hiroaki Toshinori Midoriya muttered, turning to try and find his sister amidst the room's debris. "And would you stop calling me that? Stick to 'Aki.'"

"But why? You go by 'Toshi' all the time!" Her disembodied voice came from the far end of the room. She had disappeared amidst the space's overwhelming amount of objects. He tried to peek past piles of boxes, searching for her between the cracks he could find.

He breathed out a tired sigh. It could be a pain trying to explain things to her. "Yeah, well, I don't want to go by that now."

"But it's so cool! You're named after All Might! I wish I was!"

"You're named after All Might? But you're so…lame!"

"Betchya Deku hoped it would help a scrawny kid like you. Didn't work, Half-Quirk."

He winced as the echoes of his bullies' taunts rang through his mind. He looked down at the enlarged pads of his left fingertips, which housed the same gravity-defying Quirk of his mother. But it was a pale mimicry, hardly as powerful as she was. His right hand, meanwhile, bore no such power. He shook his head, trying to banish the memories that so often plagued him.

He had to focus on the now. He needed to banish the name from the past, which no longer felt right.

"I just don't think it really suits me. And would you peek out? I can't see-"

His fervent search caused him to miss a small box at his feet. He tripped over the dense object, yelping as he landed on his side with a soft thud.

"Toshi! I mean…Aki? You okay?"

Hiroaki gave an answering groan, his shoulder sore from the point of impact as he rubbed it gingerly. He winced at the small throb of pain, but he could tell it was not too bad. He had to be tougher.

"Yeah, I'm alright. Just tripped on something." He eyed the box which had caused him to fall, shifting over to it. It looked pretty small; just what was inside it to make it so solid?

Without much thought, he put his fingers atop the dusty cardboard, opening up the loose flaps to see what mysteries lay inside.

His eyes were bombarded with naked flesh, glossy text, and a familiar pair of serene faces. A nude, bulging stomach stood out prominently in the centre of the page.

"AAAAAAAAH!"

"Toshi! What's wrong? Are you okay?" Reiko's voice sounded a lot closer. But he dared not turn around as he hurriedly stashed the magazine deeper into the box and out of sight, gross as it felt to even touch the thing.

But despite his best efforts, the flash of the image firmly imprinted itself in his mind. His parents, cuddling, eyes closed and absolutely, completely, disgustingly naked. Naked on a magazine cover.

It would haunt him to the end of his days.

He had to save his sister from that fate.

"Toshi! What's wrong?" Reiko's joyous energy was completely gone. She was battle-ready, or at least a child's imitation of it, with her fists out in front of her and her eyes frantically scanning the room for the assailant. She pursed her lips, ready to spit out bursts of flame. She sported what was once their father's red cape. It was bigger than she was, wrapping around her like a cloak and leaving a train of cloth behind.

Hiroaki frantically flipped himself around to try and hide the box from Reiko's gaze. He scrambled in place awkwardly, nearly stumbling over himself. "I'm fine, I'm fine! I just got startled by a…by a spider! Yeah, and it ran off somewhere."

The awkward pause was terrifying.

"A spider?" Reiko quirked an eyebrow up at him. "Do you need me to smash it?"

"No, no, no, it's already gone off somewhere. No need to worry!" He laughed nervously while adjusting himself to try and better hide the box. It occurred to him how lame it must sound to have screamed about a spider. "It was, uh, really close, like right next to my face when I fell!"

Hiroaki knew his attempt at bravado was poor, and there are few people it would fool. Indeed, Reiko squinted at him. He did his best to remain even-keeled under her scrutiny.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

He nodded and gave her the best reassuring smile he could manage. "Yeah, I'll be fine. You can go keep digging around."

Content that her brother no longer needed saving, Reiko returned to her merriment, searching for the next cool treasure she could gawk at and try on.

Hiroaki breathed a sigh of relief.

With his sister out of the way, he turned to examine the cursed box behind him. He did not get a good look at it in his earlier shock. Careful to avoid the side he had stuffed the mind-scarring magazine, he rummaged through the rest of the material.

The box was piled with a lot of magazines and newspaper covers. He carefully flipped through them. Each one was emblazoned with a recognizable hero on the cover. Most of them were of either Dad or Mom, but there were a few of their classmates too: Kacchan, Aunt Tsu, even the Todoroki family on one.

It was a treasure trove of information about the heroes from his parents' class. It was a little bit fascinating, seeing the history of it all compressed into one space. His father must have hoarded them as mementos. Many of the magazines dated back at least 10 years.

Hiroaki gasped when he saw himself.

The entire Midoriya family was there. Him, smiling gingerly up at the camera, with Dad's mighty arm firmly around him. Mom holding up a baby Reiko, beaming forward, her pink cheeks lifted in a wild smile. He could not remember this photo – he must have been three or four at the time – but it was a pleasant picture nonetheless.

"Deku-Uravity – Double Trouble!" The lifestyle magazine declared boldly. The smaller font made the pointed statement: 'Heroes spill secrets on second child.'

He stroked his fingers across the page. It was a strange window to the past. He looked so young there, with hardly a care in the world.

Curiosity piqued, he flipped through to the central article promised in the front. He suddenly wanted to know exactly what his parents had to say about their growing family.

The article was engaging – quick, punchy, and interspersed with colorful commentary. He hung on to every word his parents said, the echoes of their voices ringing whenever he read a quote.

"It's hard to balance being a hero and being a parent." Dad's words stood out on the page, pulled out with a larger font.

The article warmed his heart, but it made more than a few suggestions about the difficulty of balancing hero life and parenting. He furrowed his brows as his eyes lost focus on the page.

His parents never talked much about the challenge, but he knew it was there. It was a natural part of life that they were very busy. It was incredible growing up watching their feats, but he spent many nights without them around.

They were there when he needed them. He had to remind himself of that constantly. But these days, that need seemed all too great.

He was the only person in his grade with heroes for parents. It made him stand out. Once, he thought it was great. Now, it seemed like a curse.

Hiroaki had not put much thought into how his parents decided to have children, despite their jobs. It was a weird thing to think about your parents' choice to conceive you.

"We live to protect the world. But we also live for our children." The great hero Deku's words stood out in the page, shaded with his signature green colour. Hiroaki frowned at them as he finished the article.

He placed the magazine down onto the pile. He carefully checked his blind spots, making sure Reiko was nowhere near. With the coast clear, he reached into the side of the box and pulled out the forbidden nude cover he wished he could cast aside.

But as he checked it carefully – trying his best not to focus on the whole image of his naked parents – his curiosity was confirmed. He had only glanced at the image previously, but a closer inspection yielded more intrigue. They weren't just nude; they were expecting. Expecting him. The bulge of his mother's belly was unmistakable as the text tugged the reader to explore the pregnancy of one of the world's most famous couples.

"It's a frightening concept, being parents, especially in this field of work where we risk and put our lives on the line every day."

His father's words stood out on the cover, teasing the rest of the story. He frowned again at those words, struggling to understand. His parents were unbeatable. There was no doubt in his heart that they would overcome anything thrown at them.

But why would they be so frightened about having a child? Having him?

He furrowed his brows and flipped through the pages, desperately tearing past every ad and article to get to his parents' story. He finally found the page and wasted no time digging in.

"Deku and Uravity are conquering the world of heroism. They are two of the youngest pros to make Japan's Top 20. They have saved countless lives and are now one of the most famous power couples on the planet.

But the two are about to face a whole new challenge, one that no amount of villains beaten will prepare them for: parenting.

"It wasn't an easy decision to make," admitted the expectant mother, Ochako "Uravity" Midoriya. One look at her belly revealed why she had been out of the field for weeks. She regularly touched her abdomen as she spoke, swollen in her pregnancy.

"Neither of us had really imagined being parents growing up." Izuku "Deku" Midoriya spoke with his right hand intertwined with his partner. He had always said being a hero was everything he ever dreamed of. But having a child was a new dream, one which only emerged more recently. "We were both set on being heroes from when we were young."

Hiroaki tried to comprehend the words flowing on the page. He had never really thought about what it was like for his parents to decide to have kids. They had always been his parents; surely it was something they had always wanted?

Apparently not.

His eyes focused on the page again, his heart plunging into the sinking feeling in his gut.

"Once again, the heroic couple is doing something unprecedented. They are the highest-ranked pro hero couple in Japan's history. Now, they are one of the first pro couples to ever have a child. Although they said they will take time once their child is born, both are planning to stay pro afterward.

So what drove them to have a child?

Deku's eyes lit up as he answered.

"Kids can be a lot of work. But they have this incredible spark in them. Every child I've met has given me hope for the future. I-"

"Whatchya reading?"

"Woah!" Hiroaki jumped slightly in place from his sitting position, the magazine hanging loosely in his hand. He looked over to his sister, who eyed the dangling pages.

"Nothing! Nothing…" Hiroaki stopped himself as Reiko crossed her arms and pouted at the obvious lie. "It's, uh…an old magazine with an article about Mom and Dad."

"Really? Can I see?" Her demeanour changed on a dime, the fangirl instantly coming to the fore.

Hiroaki bit his lip in thought. The article was…not a pleasant read. But she might have a hard time reading it, anyway.

She definitely should not bear witness to the cover. But if he hovered over her shoulder, he should be able to prevent her from seeing it.

"Suuure," he spoke with a nervous drawl as he extended the pages out toward her. He kept his hands firmly on it as she scooched over to sit next to him. He pulled her in close and hesitated before letting the magazine go so she could hold it. He pushed the fabric of her cape away, not daring to try and separate her from her impromptu costume.

Reiko cackled at the artful layout, eyes going wide at the photos. "They look so cool!"

Hiroaki watched carefully as she started on the text of the article. He helped on occasion, reading to her whenever she stumbled on the letters. The slow pace let his mind hover more carefully over the words.

His parents had defied history when they had him. He had not really understood that before, but he could see it now. They had not originally imagined having him. They had different dreams before him. Had been afraid to even give birth to him.

He squinted at his father's words when he got the chance. Every child had given him hope for the future? He read on.

"I just…I wanted the chance to raise my own."

Was it just that simple? They just liked kids? Enough to take all the risks this article talked about?

He frowned, glancing down at his left hand again. At the sad half-Quirk his mother had passed on to him, his mastery of which did not hold a candle to hers. At his bony arms, so far removed from his father's godlike strength.

Their sad faces swam in his mind.

"It's getting worse, Deku."

"What did they do to you?"

"Cheer up, honey. Let's go do something fun, okay?"

"I'm going to have a talk with your teacher."

"You'll get through this. I promise it will get better."

He could see their disappointment whenever he walked home with an ugly bruise or a split lip, whenever he gave away he had been bullied again, something he had forced himself to get better at disguising. When they saw he was not strong enough to fend for himself.

Those eyes were full of pity. He could not stand them. He could not stand how beneath them he was.

"Every child I've ever met has given me hope for the future."

What hope could his dad see in him?

"Aki?" His sister once again burst his thoughts apart. He shook his head, trying to stay focused on the moment and help his sister read.

"Sorry. Where were we?"

But the words of his own article and his own doubts kept tugging away at his mind. Fear kept clouding over him, twisting and turning into an all-consuming storm. It was enough to choke his thinking. Flashes of lightning penetrated the rest of thoughts, making the bundle of nerves within him all but impossible to ignore.

When Reiko finally got bored and left, he pored over the rest of the piece. But he found no solace in his parents raving about the idea of having him. The words seemed empty, hollow, a lifetime away from the reality they now faced.

Still, the article was bizarre enough to pique his curiosity more. He wanted to hear from his parents about it. If he could summon up the courage, he wanted to confront them about his own conception.

He looked over to his sister ogling the various figures of All Might, eyes still starry at the thrill of it all. Although he could not share her enthusiasm, he could grin at her, at least. She could still spark that in him.

"You about done? I want to go talk to Dad and Mom about something."

Reiko's face fell and she turned to regard him with a pout and crossed arms. Her attempt to look indignant came off as more cute than anything. It was a far cry from the firecracker she could be on the playground. "You don't have to look after me here. I'll be fine."

The last time she had said that, she ended up with a busted finger and he had gotten a stern scolding from Mom and Dad. The room was fairly safe, but in enough disarray to be a little risky to leave a child unattended.

But getting into an argument with Reiko would do little good. Fortunately, he knew well how to nudge her in other directions. He pushed down his stormy feelings and regarded her with a grin.

"Don'tchya want to show off something you found in here?" He suggested it with an enthused flourish, walking over to grab her hand through the massive cape she was still sporting. "I'm sure they'd love to see you decked out in this."

With those simple words, her face was alight again as she swung the fabric back and forth with her arms. She beamed while looking down at it, striking a pose completely lost within the folds. "I do look cool in this."

"The coolest," Hiroaki quickly confirmed.

"Alright, let's go! Here comes Spitfire!" She zoomed forward with a flourish, shouting out one of her ideas for a future hero name. It was certainly one of her better ones, compared to when she tried to mash up her name with "Deku" or "Uravity."

He followed along behind her, clenching his hand around the folds of the magazine.

Their living room was spacious but fairly ordinary. It was a contradiction to the modest wealth his parents had accumulated. The wooden floors, white walls, floor table, and a large television tucked away in the corner made the room inviting, but far from extravagant. Their house was definitely not large; he could recall his mother talking about keeping a home "cozy" when Uncle Todoroki confronted her about it.

There was a wall with an open window into a small kitchen area, allowing for ease of conversation between the family and whoever was making dinner.

It was there he saw his father: tall, muscular, and imposing, rapidly cutting up vegetables for the evening meal. He was dressed up, wearing a bright white dress shirt with a loosened collar and nice slacks. His wild green hair was slicker than usual, although no force on Earth that Hiroaki knew could completely tame those locks.

Reiko surged ahead of him. "Daddy! Daddy! How do I look?"

She twirled and struck a dramatic pose, her hands on her hips and her chin jutting upward. Dad peered around the doorway, eyeing her over with a smile.

"Oh, is that the amazing Spitfire saving the day?" He chuckled, flashing her a thumbs-up. "Looking sharp! You fish that out of the storage room?"

"Yup! We found so much stuff!" Reiko hopped in place, beaming up at their father.

"I can remember wearing that as part of my first pro costume." He looked upwards wistfully towards a memory Hiroaki could not hope to see. "Good times. Didn't end up keeping it, though."

"Aww, you shoulda!" Reiko pouted, swinging the cape around some more. "Capes are the best!"

"Not when they get caught. Or destroyed," Dad chuckled softly to himself before returning to meal preparation. "Your dinner will be ready in a half-hour."

The pleasant banter seemed a world away from Hiroaki at the moment. The home they had built was one filled with laughter and love. But these days, he often felt like it was at the periphery of it all.

He shook his head, trying to chase away the ridiculous thoughts. He stepped forward to speak but was cut off again.

"…And then we'll be off for the night." Hiroaki blinked when his Mom walked into the room, done up in a form-fitting black dress. Her face was artfully crafted in a layer of makeup, making her look substantially younger. The brown locks were done up in an elegant knot, a few stray strands loose to frame her face.

"Wow, Mom," Hiroaki couldn't help but pipe up. "You look really pretty."

She beamed at him, walking over to ruffle his head affectionately. Her hand was warm against his scalp and instantly made him more at ease. "Thanks, sweetie."

Tonight was date night, a rather rare occasion in the Midoriya household. Mom and Dad would make dinner for them and head out alone, leaving a babysitter behind. He always felt a little sad when they spent one of their few free nights away from him, but it was somehow comforting to see his parents together, doing something safe. Even if they could get…icky.

Besides, it usually meant a visit from the world's greatest babysitter.

"Is Eri coming soon, Mom?" Reiko uttered the question on his own mind, leaping forward to capture the room's attention.

Ochako smiled and leaned down slightly to answer. "She should be here by dinner time."

"Yay!" Reiko cheered, cocking a fist. "I can show her all my new Quirk tricks!"

The girl pursed her lips, preparing to breathe fire. Ochako got a slightly panicked look before pressing a finger to the girl's lips to halt her.

"Now, Reiko, what did we say about your Quirk?"

Reiko's shoulders sagged. "Not inside," she said underneath her mother's finger.

"That's right," Ochako said brightly, withdrawing the appendage. She breathed a sigh of relief at preventing another Quirk-induced accident. Reiko had damaged a lot of furniture before she got a better handle on her powers. Hiroaki eyed a fire extinguisher hung up next to the television – one of many spread throughout the house.

"I'm going to go practice out back, then!" Reiko proclaimed, running off in excitement. She paused, directing her attention to her brother. "Can you come and practice with me, Aki? Pretty please?"

She put on her best adorable pout, one that rarely failed to win her father over. But Hiroaki was made of harder stuff, and Quirk practice was not something that interested him these days.

Besides, he had more pressing matters to address. It would be best if Reiko was not in the room for that.

"Not this time, sorry," Hiroaki replied coldly, eyes intent on his parents.

The response was much to Reiko's chagrin. "Hmph," she breathed out, nostrils flaring, before she ran outside to let out some steam.

Hiroaki took a deep breath before he took the plunge. He had to act quickly. His parents would be leaving soon. The storm raging inside him thrummed angrily, thunder crackling loudly.

"Hey, Mom?"

"Hmm? What is it, sweetie?" She turned to regard him with a gentle smile.

Hiroaki thrust the cursed magazine forward, pointedly aiming the cover away from himself. "Could you-"

"AAAH! WHAT?!"

The loud exclamation was enough to make Hiroaki jump. The magazine was out of his hands before he knew what was happening. His mother's eyes bulged comically at the page, her hand shaking as she held it.

"What is it?!" Izuku sprung into action, leaping forward from the kitchen doorway and scanning the room. He paused and gasped as he saw the magazine cover.

"Oh." He blinked a few times at the sight, Ochako pointedly inclining the image more towards him. "OH!"

Ochako smacked her palm against her face. "Where did you find this, Aki?"

"In the storage room," he answered quickly, eyes moving rapidly between his parents. He didn't imagine they'd be this alarmed, even if the photo was awful. "Umm…are you two alright?"

His mother took a bracing breath. She removed her hand from her eyes to regard the image again, holding it out in front of her. "We're fine. Just a…a little surprised, is all. Gosh, I had forgotten about this. I kinda wanted to forget about it."

Hiroaki's mind spun at the words. She wanted to forget about it? Why? Was it a bad memory?

"I don't know." His father stepped closer to properly appraise the cover, grasping it in his right hand. His lips tilted upward into a small smile, which confused Hiroaki all the more. "I'm still fond of it."

"Easy for you to say. You got to hide behind me," Ochako grumbled with crossed arms. "I'm surprised you kept it around…but I guess I shoulda figured you would."

"It was a pretty big moment in our careers." Izuku fluttered through the pages toward the article within. "I still remember what happened when the photo was taken. And it's a moment I'll treasure forever."

His mother's face softened at his father's words. She leaned slightly to glance at the cover, a grin ghosting on our lips. She idly traced a hand down to her stomach.

"I suppose so…" she murmured. "Still mad about all that happened afterward. Ryuko was about ready to stomp on me after all the press calls she had to deal with."

"It could have been so cool to take on a dragon though," Izuku replied with a toothy grin. His mother laughed at him.

Hiroaki watched the conversation play out, his eyes flinging between them as if viewing a tennis match. Without realizing it, he had quickly become a third wheel. He did not like it.

It was all so confusing. He had to know more. He had to understand.

His patience wore thin. He approached his mother, reaching up to grasp the ends of two fingers. She turned to look down on him with a calming smile.

"What happened when the picture was taken? Why would you even take a picture like this?"

The two glanced at one another, searching faces for answers.

"It's a…bit of a weird story," his father began after a moment, scratching the back of his head. "We knew we needed to get the word out about…well, you. And we wanted to try to control the message."

"We were worried about what might happen if people found out I was pregnant." Ochako shifted herself to lean against the wall, her hand idly stroking her belly again. "When you're a hero, the press can be a scary thing."

Hiroaki frowned, eyes scanning between them again. Once more, their choice to have a kid seemed to be such a bother for them. If there was so much to worry about, why did they go through with it? Was it really worth it?

Was he really worth it?

"We got in touch with the magazine to try and get ahead of things," Izuku continued, passing the magazine back to Ochako and moving to the kitchen to continue making their meal. Hiroaki shifted himself closer, leaning hard on every word. He needed answers.

His mother idly thumbed at the pages. "We did the interview. One thing led to another. We got a really…bombastic photographer." She looked skyward and leaned on her finger.

"She kind of convinced us," Deku replied with enthusiasm, as the light sizzle of meat cooking started to permeate the room. Hiroaki sniffed, the pleasant aroma of chicken and spices filling his nostrils. "I know, it's shocking. It shocked us. But it's tasteful. It's artful."

At those words, Hiroaki carefully inclined his head to glance at the cover again. It was hard to look at; there were some things which would always look unpleasant with parents involved. But at a second glance, he could see what they meant. No private bits were showing. His mother was covered, her modesty preserved. No, the most prominent part of the photo was…him.

"I…I guess so," Hiroaki replied, averting his eyes as soon as he could. "It's…it's still weird to me."

"A lot of people thought so," Ochako muttered, pouting behind the magazine. "We got so much flak for even daring to have a child in our circumstance, too…"

Hiroaki's ears perked up. His heart sank at the thought of it. "You did?"

Ochako's mouth quirked up. "We got plenty of support and well-wishers. But you should have seen the columns. 'Deku throws his career away.' 'Uravity letting her child down.' 'Pro heroes should not become parents.' Gosh, it was ridiculous."

Ridiculous. Yes, it certainly seemed that way.

But they beat the odds. Dad somehow balanced family life and became the number one hero, albeit with close contenders. Mom yo-yoed inside the Top 10.

Even if they were busy, Hiroaki did not often want for his parents' love. He knew what kids looked like when they did.

"We managed pretty well in the end," his father said softly as he moved about the kitchen. "Wouldn't you say so, Aki?"

He wanted to say yes. Of course they did. He was forever respectful of just how much time and dedication his parents put into managing a stable home and work life.

They had built this home. This home of love and laughter and heroes.

But his anxieties started to storm through his mind again. His tongue froze in place as he tried to spit out the easy answer he knew he should. Could he really count himself as part of such a home?

Should he have been?

They sacrificed so much, going against the grain, to have him. They boldly announced him to the slings and arrows of the world at large. They gave up so much time to care for him, back then and even now, with their struggles to even get a regular night out for themselves.

"Something wrong, sweetie?" His mother leaned down toward him, her warm chocolate eyes drawing him in. He blinked, realizing his own were starting to water. He quickly wiped a hand across them and took a breath, trying to control his own emotions.

He had to ask the question. He needed to, more than anything.

"Do you ever-"

A familiar pair of loud blares pierced through the room. The noise rang hard against the ears, but was mercifully brief. Once. Twice. Three times, all in perfect unison.

His parents both pulled out their phones, typing into them with practiced ease. A video projection sprung to life in front of each of them, but the footage was too grainy to make out clearly.

"Uravity!"

"Deku!"

Any trace of humour drained instantly from their faces. It was a transformation Hiroaki had sadly grown accustomed to. They tensed, their eyes sparking to a new kind of life, focus intently on their communicators. His parents were gone; only heroes remained.

"What's the situation?" They said it in perfect harmony. Hiroaki knew it was not a rehearsed thing; he did not even think they realized when they did it. But as heroes, they were in sync, maintaining the same cadence.

Already, they both moved quickly out of the room, walking perfectly side-by-side. They hurried forward toward their bedroom, where they would get suited up in a flash. The blares were only for emergencies, and they treated it as such.

"There's been a villain attack."

"We have a collapsing building."

"We need your strength-"

"The rubble is bad. People are trapped-"

The communications were not nearly as in-sync. The disembodied voices dissipated as the heroes moved out of earshot. He could gather it was a really bad situation from those scarce details. They were needed and might be gone for quite a while.

Which meant his question would have to wait.

Hiroaki clenched his fists. He let out a tired sigh and tried to rein himself in. His eyes suddenly felt heavier, a weight pressing down hard on him. He loved his family and he was proud of his parents. But their jobs could get in the way far too often.

It was hard for them to balance. But it was hard for him, too.

The scent of burning meat awoke him from his light stupor. His father had left the meal unattended. Without another thought, Hiroaki leaped into action, plunging himself into the kitchen to try and rescue dinner.

He yanked the chicken pot off the stovetop and quickly went to work carrying on preparation. With oft-absentee parents, he had gotten plenty used to cooking. It was not much, but it was the help his parents needed right now. He would do it.

"Toshi, Toshi, Toshi!" Reiko burst back into the room, face alight with pure joy. "I heard! Have they got a mission?"

His sister had become much more enthusiastic about their heroics than he was. What was a sobering moment for the rest of the family was cause for pure excitement in the child. In its own way, it was heartening to see someone could smile in the situation. But Reiko could get a little testy when emergencies happened.

"Sounds like it," he confirmed as he busied himself with plating. "They're getting ready now. Make sure you stay out of their way."

Reiko pouted at him. "But I want to see if they'll finally take me to watch!"

Hiroaki froze at the proclamation. Reiko was always eager to see their parents in action in person, after they had calmly knocked a villain out when the family was out shopping one day. Since then, she had tried to convince them to take her out on patrol, or to a scene, or to the office. Anywhere she could witness her parents kicking butt again.

The answer, of course, was always no. Reiko was far too young, their work too dangerous and demanding. But the denials did little to curb her enthusiasm.

Their parents had taught him even a few minutes delay could make the difference between someone living and dying.

Which meant he had to act to control his sister.

He carefully placed a plate he was holding onto the table and stepped quickly to intercept Reiko. She was eyeing to make a beeline toward the front of the house. He kneeled down to meet her at eye level.

Reiko stopped in place, eyes going wide in surprise at the sudden face-to-face appearance of her brother. She instinctively tried to move around him, but he extended an arm, making it clear he was not budging.

"Toshiiiiii," Reiko whined, cheeks puffing up in rage. "Move!"

He remained steadfast. "I'm not budging. You can't bug them right now."

"You're the one bugging!" She glared at him, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

"I promise, we can watch it on TV. It's big. There'll be a live broadcast." When it came to fighting Reiko's fire, negotiation tended to work best. "And I'm sure Eri will let us stay up late…if we ask nicely."

Far from a guarantee. But he was willing to fib if he had to.

"It's not the same as being there," she grumbled, crossing her arms. "Dad said he used to chase heroes around all the time."

"When he was older than you. Plus, Dad said he nearly got killed doing it, remember?"

Her face fell at that. "I wouldn't."

Hiroaki scratched his head. He made progress, but she still looked intent on bursting through him.

He groaned aloud. He would have to bring out the big guns in this negotiation.

"I'll Quirk train with you all day tomorrow."

"Really?!" She jumped up slightly at that, her face exploding into unadulterated joy. "But you never want to practice Quirks anymore!"

That was still accurate.

"I'll make an exception." He winced as his head conjured up images of the burns he would be subjected to tomorrow.

"Okay, I'll be good!" She beamed up at him, before casually lifting up his arm to proceed forward. "I'm still saying bye, though!"

"Deal's off if you bug 'em!" Aki called out as she walked away. She turned quick, sticking out her tongue, before continuing on toward the front of their house.

He groaned, shaking his head at the promise he had just delivered. He no longer got any enjoyment out of Quirk practice, and the lifts Reiko demanded of him were absurdly draining. If Eri stuck around, it would help, but it was still not something he looked forward to.

Especially when he was bound to watch his mother perform incredible feats with her Quirk on the news tonight. Feats he could only ever dream of.

He stared down at his frail right hand again. It shook slightly, anxiety setting his muscles alight for a moment. He balled the Quirkless appendage into a fist, regaining control.

Hiroaki made his way to the kitchen to continue dinner preparations. His hands were good for that much, at least. The question attaching itself to his head would assuredly haunt him amidst the quiet work, but he would just have to deal with it. It was the least he could do for his heroes.

He glanced down the hallway to see his parents dash quickly through it toward the exit of their house, donned in full uniform. Their speed was impressive, but their costumes helped them stand out, the green and pink blurs unmistakable.

Hiroaki bit his lip. In spite of himself, he pursued, wanting to see them off as they ran to save the day. He burst through to the main entrance of the building to the outside world, hoping to catch them before they jumped off.

He saw the two heroes pausing in the large open yard in front of their home, doing one last check-up on equipment. He saw his mother typing rapidly into her phone. The two were faster on foot than they were in a car, but jumping from place to place usually required some advanced navigational help from custom technology.

Reiko eagerly moved around the pair, sizing them up and jumping up a storm. But she was keeping her end of the bargain, staying far enough away so as to not interfere with them.

The two heroes nodded to one another, seeming ready to take off. But to his surprise, his mother instead crouched down to embrace Reiko in a tight hug, an unusual gesture in an emergency situation.

Before Hiroaki could blink, Deku was before him, standing tall and imposing. The boy let out a small breath, his head fogging up at the sight.

Deku wore an aura that was hard to describe; it was awe-inspiring, as if staring up at the face of a god. But there was a safety and surety that came with Deku's smile, which had its way of worming into you. It made one feel as if everything would be alright, no matter what challenges lay ahead. Deku had an everlasting flame, and he was more than generous in sharing it with others.

Deku crouched down quickly, meeting him at eye level. "You seemed a little troubled earlier. What's the matter?"

With the simple question, his dad was in front of him again. The smile he regarded him with was…gentler, somehow. It was more familiar, burning less hot than Deku's, but no less intensely. It was the blanket after the worst was over and you needed comfort. Deku's smile was for the whole world. But his dad's smile was meant for the world he had built inside his home.

The storm within Hiroaki crackled. He tried to keep his composure, but he could already feel the tears starting to well up at the bold confrontation.

He did not have much time to think. Time was of the essence. If he wanted to do the selfish thing and ask the question rolling atop his tongue, he could not dawdle.

He could not rein in the impulse. The words burst out from him like lightning.

"Do you ever regret having kids? Having…having me?"

The words were ugly, terrible things when said aloud. His father's face broke apart in shock, the pleasant smile disappearing. It made Hiroaki's heart tremble, his chest constricting painfully at his father's face.

The boy's head spun. His muscles tensed. It was a stupid thing to ask. He had made a grave mistake. He wanted to run away, but his legs were frozen to the ground under his father's astonished stare.

He had to control the situation.

"Sorry, never mind, you have to get going. Don't worry, we can – we can talk later, or something, you should just-"

A hand on his shoulder cut off his mumble-storm. He looked up again. Dad was there, smiling at him gently.

But those green eyes – passionate, confident – those were the eyes of Deku.

"Not once. Not ever. You mean the world to me. And I never would have learned to be the world's greatest hero without you."

Izuku wrapped him up in a tight embrace, radiating the warmth and comfort Hiroaki did not know he needed.

All of his fears and anxieties dissipated, for just a moment. These arms could make the worst of the world seem small. Was there anything to fear from a 12-year-old magazine article? Did he imagine it all? Was it all in his head?

Rays of light broke through the storm clouds which shrouded his mind. He breathed in the fresh air and found himself powerless as the rain began to fall.

Hiroaki hugged his father tightly, indulging himself for a moment. He wiped his wet cheeks into his father's shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to keep hold, to grab on to him forever. It was the fleeting wish which could never be granted, but he could not stop the aching of his heart. A long-buried part of him wished he did not have to share his father with the rest of the world.

But that was impossible. He could agonize over it, or he could make peace with it. He chose the latter.

"Love you, dad. Stay safe."

"Love you too." The words soothed Hiroaki to his very core. "We'll talk more after this is over, I promise. I'll always come back to you."

Deku disengaged for him. The moment did not last long, barely more than a minute, but it was enough. With no more time to lose, the two heroes leaped into the skies. In the distance, he could see their first hops off of the roofs of faraway buildings. They disappeared from view, and already his heart longed for them again.

"They're so cool!" Reiko shouted as she lifted her tiny fists into the air. She sighed dreamily, twisting her oversized cape around her. "We have the world's best parents."

Hiroaki cracked a small smile at that. He gently touched his chest, the warmth his father imparted on him still lingering.

The world shifted slightly. He felt his feet leave the ground, but for once, it did not bother him at all.

"We do."

———————————————————————————————————–

AN: With that, we bring this to a close.

Special thank you to Mika for allowing me to use her designs and backstory for the IzuOcha children. I thought it fitting, giving her artwork inspired this piece. Plus, I adore their design inside and out. You can read more about them, and see some excellent art, here: green-tea-is-love.tumblr.com/post/167860545778/izuocha-week-day-3-quirks.

Thank you to Neon Pixel for commissioning the original artwork which inspired this fic.

Thank you to Deadliest Sin Bin for all the work editing this fic and making it a much better, and cleaner piece of writing.

And thank you, dear readers, for all your support on this one and the rest of my work.

As for what's next for me, I am unsure. I am in the midst of a fallow period and although I have some stray ideas, many of them seem too grandiose. Writing IzuOcha for two years (I can't believe it's been that long) and burning so intensely for My Hero Academia, my interest has admittedly waned. But I'll always be a fan and perhaps the next anime season will help spark more.

So for now, so long, but not goodbye.

Please, leave a like and a reblog. I'd love to hear what you thought of this story. ^_^

[caseybanning]

on love

((some slight spoilers for Ambition: Nemesis 100))

"It's not your usual fare," Casey's editor remarks, flipping through the article. It's several pages in length, word-dense, and cites everything from the Bible to the latest gossip in the honey dens of Veilgarden. His cigarette trails a line of smoke in the air, burning away almost untouched in the ashtray on his desk as he reads. He gives pause, Casey watching him as he reads, and finally his eyebrows go upwards on his face. He glances over the papers to Casey, his expression one of slight shock.

"Pointing out precisely what love is not is going to make a few people unhappy," He says. "And especially on such a personal level."

"I couldn't not write on the subject of romance without drawing from past experience," Casey explains. "Love is simultaneously the greatest pleasure and also the most harrowing pain. If I'm unable to explore both sides, this isn't going to work."

The editor exhales and sets the article aside. He taps the cigarette against the tray, loosening the ash and takes a drag. He contemplates quietly, and finally...

"It's not ready yet," He says. "You can do more with it, and you will have to publish this elsewhere."

"Carlisle--"

"You'll be unable to attract the audience you want with this publication," He explains. "I have some potentials that this could be sent to, but it's competitive. Work on it more, wait until the Feast is over. It'll stand out more."

--

On love

On the subject of love, my thoughts are numerous and scattered; it is my only hope that I may compile them here for you in one document and contribute my own into the conversation.

The subject of love is often introduced at a young age in your usual Christian household with popular verses. "Let all you do be done in love" is what we are told from 1 Corinthians 16:14, to the classic John 3:16 chiming in that God's act of love was to give his only Son for us to be forgiven of our sins. On this matter of love I've contemplated at great length in contrast of this being described as an act of love when it was instead such an act of violence and grief--Surely for Christ, who had been tortured and speared, and for his loving Mother to lose the son that she had brought into the world for this very purpose...

--

"Love?" Amos asks with a smile. "In what sense?"

Casey shrugs. "What's the first thing that comes to your mind?"

"Christ, of course." He says. "I don't think there would have been any greater act of love than his."

Casey leans forward in their chair. Surrounding the two of them in Amos's office were shelves and shelves of books--Bibles, different types, books on general theology, some novels. The candlelight here was warm and inviting, and gave a much better sense of ease than being in the church proper. "If a regular everyday man were to sacrifice himself for the love of his life, would that not be the same as what Christ did?" They ask.

Amos regards this question with a soft laugh. "You have to remember, Jesus was also as much of an everyday man as any of us. He was a carpenter. Also, his was for all of humanity and not just the love of a single individual."

"A single person's act of love for another single person could single-handedly change the course of history," Casey says with a smile. "Why else is London hidden away here?"

"I have little to say on the matters of the Empress," Amos says carefully, reaching for the tea on his desk.

"Here's a different question for you then," Casey sits up straighter now as Amos takes a sip of his tea. "Since London was taken underground and so much emphasis has started on the cultivation and actual sale of love stories, the matter of love is one that is expressed more openly. Theology and the church certainly had to make some changes once it was discovered that Hell is just a train ride away." Casey splays their hands out, motioning to all the books around them. "Why is it that, at best, the Church is still so silent on people like me and at worst an enabler for the likes of Jeremiah Lakewood?"

Amos blanches at the question, setting aside his tea with an abrupt clink into it's saucer. "I can't speak on behalf of the entire Church," He says. "At least as far as this parish goes, the attendees here do tend to hold similar opinions to you. I will tell you something though." He sits up, and his gaze is sharply fixed on Casey's as he starts to speak. "When the Veilgarden arsons were occurring, I was giving a sermon one morning when an attendee stood up express how they had been feeling. They'd said much of the same things that you did, just now, and back then I didn't have the answers. I still don't."

He folds his hands together atop his desk and continues. "What I believe, and additionally what I know to be true is this: People like Jeremiah Lakewood are not representative of the message of Christ. There are always disagreements between churches and congregations, but..." He stops to contemplate his words, almost long enough for Casey to press him to continue. "After the attacks in Veilgarden, what I was able to witness was an outpouring of love. It was the love of community. People opening their homes to the displaced, a few crossing class and belief lines to make sure the injured were cared for and safe, a single person interrupting a sermon to question everything right in the house of God. These are not insignificant moments. This is more what Christ meant to represent: the gathering of few to benefit the most, and working using love as a tool."

--

What types of love can we explore? We always hear so much on romantic love, and of course I can spend our time in this article together poetically exploring this subject, but I implore you also to consider beyond: the love between friends, the love between siblings, the love between yourself and your mother and father, the love you may feel during your favorite meal. Gestures, little gifts, sheltering someone from the rain, are all pieces that make up the puzzle of love. Love is a connection, and love is often a choice; a playing card that comes up in our hand that we can play or discard.

--

At the townhouse, Casey occupies a moment of time alone to go prepare a fresh pot of tea. Out in the parlor, they can hear Rashida's laughter as their aunt Mary regales another tale from her latest night out on the town. Behind her laughter were the intermingling voices of Blanche and Astrid, comparing notes on the latest play they were working on. The clinking of the china in the tray provides a gentle rhythm to the thrum of the chatter, and as they return Mary reaches out to touch Casey's arm.

"Oh, my dear--" She starts, gesturing them to sit. "Earlier you mentioned that my sister was in town."

"Yes," Casey clasps their hands together. Rashida's jovial expression softens, her gaze only breaking as she reaches for her teacup.

"About as well as one could expect?" She asks. Casey lifts up the teapot and pours into her cup, shrugging.

"It was worse before it got marginally better," They replied. "I don't quite think any supper with my family is complete without at least one person being called a disgrace, so in that regard my father did not disappoint. Roland was about to throw him out onto the street."

Mary sips her own tea quietly, and Rashida reaches out to hold Casey's hand. "That's terrible." She says. Cynthia, who had been quietly sketching in her journal his whole time next to Rashida, looks up.

"It's..." Casey pauses, staring down into their cup. "at least better than me thinking they would never speak to me again. We have written letters since then--more often than in the past. Mother has tried at least in calling me by my name, but father had a more difficult time coming around to that. The subject of my life here and who I am now is tread not at all."

"Which isn't better," Mary says darkly.

Rashida looks between the two of them, and Mary sighs. "When we reconnected here in London years ago, I felt... not really shocked by how Casey appeared to me, but there is always a surprise when someone you remember as one way presents differently daily." Mary says. Casey leans back and takes a sip of tea. "As a child, they used to try to get into their brother's old wardrobe and play dress-up. That's what we all thought, anyway. Children and their imaginations... Casey was not satisfied expecting to be a princess in stories, or to play mother with their dolls, not at first."

"Oh, I liked dolls plenty as a kid," They say. "I wouldn't pretend they were my children, but I did enjoy trying to make clothes for them."

"Sure," Mary says. "And then you got older. The young men in our church and community took notice."

Rashida nods, gently picking up a jar of honey to spoon in her tea. Casey's expression darkened. "It only took one of them though... just the one," They say, their voice quiet. "That was enough for me to learn what love isn't."

"You have Roland now," Cynthia says quietly, her eyes bright. "Not that it erases what has already happened, but it's a far stretch better than what you had."

--

To save the absolute best for last, my closing statements cannot go unsaid without mentioning my beloved husband. Without him, this would not have been possible and I would appear to you all a very different and much less pleasant individual...

--

Casey, though on the outside appearing to be relaxing into their chair, feels a stab of nervousness as Roland reads the article quietly to himself. As he reaches the last page, he glance up to Casey with a warm expression. "It's a complete work." He finally says.

"You think so?"

"Risky enough to where there will some inevitable push-back of course... not so much that you'll be exiled immediately. It's a good balance." He straightens out the pages and sets them aside on the table, standing up from his seat. He offers his hand to Casey and they stand up, retrieving their periodical from the table. "My editor is going to go over it with me tomorrow," They say, flipping through it as if to look for any last minute changes that could be made. "It's not going to be published in our usual periodical, but he's got a list of names lined up that I could try instead. Now that the Feast of the Rose has died down, it's not going to get lost in a sea of poetry or other works..."

Casey's voice trails off as they stare down at the papers. They crinkle lightly in their fingers, and Roland tries to catch their gaze. "What's wrong?" He asks.

"It's possible this isn't going to work," They reply. "The only time anyone ever really sees her or talks about her is during the Feast and that's all passed now. Who knows what other activities she's up to the rest of the year?"

"If this doesn't work, then this will still be considered your published work and it adds to your career as a writer," Roland says and smiles. "And if it does work, well... you're a step closer."

"Either option would be great," Casey says with a tired sigh and rubs their eye. "Nothing more happening tonight though--it's as completed as it can be until Carlise gets his hands on it."

Roland hums, pursing his lips in an exaggerated expression of thought. "Nothing more tonight?" He asks. Casey gives him a wry smile.

"Is there an idea you think maybe I can add?"

"Oh, always," He says, reaching to brush a bit of Casey's hair away from their face. "Nothing you could publish without getting exiled though."

"Do tell me more." Casey smiles, leaning up toward him for a kiss.

--

Actors are seen reading it between practices, giggling amongst themselves as they thumb through the periodical and swap their favorite quotes. The subject of love comes up in Amos's sermon the first Sunday after it's published. The Ministry of Public Decency doesn't waste much time in snatching up as many copies as they could over some of the more choice passages, citing security concerns and non-taxed stories. The few remaining copies are hidden away in reading rooms and personal libraries.

Casey lies in wait the whole time, keeping their eyes peeled as they traverse London--not a hint of that distinct, irrigo-soaked silhouette to be seen yet.

The night came in quietly, almost unseen just as the clock was chiming nine. Casey, distantly thinking of a steaming cup of tea and a book to close out their evening, pulls out a small ring of keys to the front of their residence and inserts one. The small pattering of footsteps coming closer could be heard just over their shoulder and they pause, their key still stuck in the lock, and they turn to face the source of the noise.

A cloaked figure is approaching them, a copy of Casey's periodical clutched in her hands. As she walks closer, the scent of her perfume sweeps over the porch and Casey staggers back, trying to reach blindly behind them to push the door open. They blink once, twice, rapidly--irrigo starts swirling in their vision--

[lewiscarrollsocietynorthamerica]

CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversations?’

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.

There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!’ (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well.

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE’, but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it.

‘Well!’ thought Alice to herself, ‘after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they’ll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn’t say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!’ (Which was very likely true.)

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! ‘I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?’ she said aloud. ‘I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think—’ (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) ‘—yes, that’s about the right distance—but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I’ve got to?’ (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.)

Presently she began again. ‘I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it’ll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think—’ (she was rather glad there was no one listening, this time, as it didn’t sound at all the right word) ‘—but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma’am, is this New Zealand or Australia?’ (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke—fancy curtseying as you’re falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) ‘And what an ignorant little girl she’ll think me for asking! No, it’ll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.’

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. ‘Dinah’ll miss me very much to-night, I should think!’ (Dinah was the cat.) ‘I hope they’ll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I’m afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that’s very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?’ And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, ‘Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?’ and sometimes, ‘Do bats eat cats?’ for, you see, as she couldn’t answer either question, it didn’t much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, ‘Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?’ when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, ‘Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting!’ She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof.

There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again.

Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice’s first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!

Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway; ‘and even if my head would go through,’ thought poor Alice, ‘it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin.’ For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible.

There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it, (‘which certainly was not here before,’ said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words ‘DRINK ME’ beautifully printed on it in large letters.

It was all very well to say ‘Drink me,’ but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. ‘No, I’ll look first,’ she said, ‘and see whether it’s marked “poison” or not’; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked ‘poison,’ it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.

However, this bottle was not marked ‘poison,’ so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off.

 *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

‘What a curious feeling!’ said Alice; ‘I must be shutting up like a telescope.’

And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; ‘for it might end, you know,’ said Alice to herself, ‘in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?’ And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing.

After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried.

‘Come, there’s no use in crying like that!’ said Alice to herself, rather sharply; ‘I advise you to leave off this minute!’ She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. ‘But it’s no use now,’ thought poor Alice, ‘to pretend to be two people! Why, there’s hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!’

Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words ‘EAT ME’ were beautifully marked in currants. ‘Well, I’ll eat it,’ said Alice, ‘and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I’ll get into the garden, and I don’t care which happens!’

She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, ‘Which way? Which way?’, holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way.

So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.

 *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: Emma (Chapter 4)

Notes: Thank you as always for your comments and feedback, though I confess I've been a bit taken aback by the vehement reaction to Emma and Walsh's cursed marriage. It seems that people hate Walsh in a much more visceral way than I anticipated.  

I do truly appreciate all of you who are reading this, and especially those who have made supportive and encouraging comments. I’m really putting a lot into this one in terms of style, plot, and detail, and it’s hard not to get discouraged when I pour blood and sweat into something only to have everyone focus on one tiny thing. So to ease your minds, here is our first chapter from Emma’s POV. I think it will go a long way towards assuaging your fears about her circumstances under the curse. If you are considering bailing on this fic because of the Emma/Walsh situation, I would ask you please to read this chapter before you make a final decision.  

As before, there are allusions to cursed relationships, and a potentially distressing scene of aggression within a cursed marriage. 

Summary: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time the Saviour is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from her son and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Hook are soulmates, working together within their shared dreams to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from the clutches of evil yet again. (Alternate 3B, set in the What Dreams May Come universe)

Rating: A hard M

Tagging: @teamhook @wellhellotragic @rouhn @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615@tiganasummertree @let-it-raines @bonbonpirate @thejollyroger-writer @lfh1962

Anyone wishing to be added to or dropped from this tag list, please let me know!

Read it on AO3

Emma: 

Emma hesitated outside the door of the old cannery. She wasn’t quite certain of why she was there, or the reason behind the irresistible compulsion she felt to see its disconcertingly attractive new owner again. He had invited her to come by, though of course he’d meant later— the bookstore wasn’t even open yet. But Emma hadn’t been able to wait. Two days had passed since they’d met, since that brief but oddly intense conversation in Granny’s, and she had been unable to get Killian Jones and his son out of her head. Something about them, about him, pulled at her, and it wasn’t just his striking looks, not even the beautiful blue eyes with their expression of profound, compelling sadness. It was something deeper. She felt somehow as though she knew him, and more astoundingly that he knew her, better than anyone, better even than her own husband. Although, she thought with a small start, as though the idea had only just occurred to her, Walsh barely even took the trouble to speak to her these days, much less keep up with what was going on in her life. She’d been meaning to talk to him about that, she remembered suddenly. Yes. She’d been meaning to talk to him about a lot of things, but when the time came to do so she always seemed to forget. Tonight, she promised herself, making a mental note. Tonight they would finally talk. She wouldn’t forget this time.

Gathering her courage, Emma reached for the doorknob with her right hand, the palm of which still tingled from her brief handshake with Killian two days ago, and as she opened the door she remembered how the night before last her sleep had been troubled by disturbing dreams. She could recall only wisps of them, but she was certain he had been in them, he and his eyes, doing things to her that she couldn’t bear to think about in the light of day. Things she couldn’t bear to admit she had loved. 

She really should stay far away from him. And yet here she was, in his shop. 

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, gasping at the sight before her. The room was simply lovely, bright and airy, with sunlight pouring in through the wide windows, dancing across the exposed brick walls and the antique looking dark-wood shelves that stood tall in four distinct sections around the room.  A heavy mahogany desk sat opposite the door, elegantly carved with nautical designs: ships and storms, mermaids and other sea creatures she couldn’t put a name to, all rendered in exquisite detail. Atop it was an antique metal cash register, as elegantly decorated as the desk, sitting alongside, Emma was amused to note, a decidedly modern portable card reader attached to an iPad. Someone had a taste for the ancient but enough sense to appreciate the modern, she thought.

She was so caught up in admiration of her surroundings that she didn’t notice Killian’s arrival until he spoke. 

“Swan?” The sound of his voice seemed to wrap around her, as deep and sonorous as she remembered, almost caressing her name. She turned to see him standing at the foot of the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“Um,” she said, feeling abruptly hot and itchy. How was it possible that he could be even better looking than she remembered? Admittedly she hadn’t really had a good look at Granny’s, though she had definitely noticed his face, but now as he stood by the black wrought-iron staircase that wound in a perfect helix up to a hole in the ceiling, his expression briefly unguarded and searingly intense, she had an opportunity to ogle. 

He wore dark grey trousers in a soft woolen twill and an equally soft looking v-neck sweater in a shade of blue that made his eyes stand out even more. A tuft of dark hair peeked out just above the vee, and the itch in Emma’s palm flared to life again with the desire to touch it, to touch him. Everything about him seemed so eminently touchable. The sweater clung to his lean frame just tightly enough to show how fit he was, and his hair was tousled in a way that looked both deliberate and as though it could have been caused by fingers being run through it in the heat of passion. 

What? Emma shook herself. Where the hell did that come from? Remember you’re married. And it’s not like you know anything about the heat of passion, anyway. At least, that’s what Walsh always told her, what he always gave as an excuse for why he didn’t want to touch her. She was cold, he said. Too hard. Not enough. She forced back those thoughts, promising herself once again that she would sit down with Walsh that evening and discuss the problems in their marriage. She dreaded it, but she had to try. They couldn’t go on much longer like this. 

“Uh,” she tried again to respond to Killian’s question. “You said I should come by.” 

“So I did, though I didn’t expect you quite so soon. I’m afraid we’re not open yet.” 

“Yeah, sorry, it was stupid,” she said, turning away. “I was just passing and I thought— never mind, I’ll go—”

“No!” She looked back at him, startled at the vehemence in his voice. He flushed faintly pink and reached up to rub at a spot behind his right ear. “No, you don’t have to go. Please don’t, in fact. I’d be happy to, um, give you a tour? If you’d like.” 

He looked hesitant but also eager, like he really, really wanted her to stay. She smiled. It felt like a long time since anyone had actually desired her company. 

“Okay,” she said, a bit shyly. “I’d like that.” 

A bright smile broke across his face, warm and soft and with just a hint of something wicked beneath it. For a moment Emma forgot to breathe. God, he’s gorgeous.

“Well, why don’t we start here?” he said, coming to stand beside her and indicating the near corner of the room with his left arm. His sleeve was pushed up slightly and she could see the seam where his prosthetic hand joined his arm. She realised with surprise that she hadn’t noticed the other day that he was missing his left hand. He’s missing his left hand. Why did that fact seem so significant to her? It tickled at the back of her mind, like something she needed to remember but couldn’t quite pull from her subconscious. 

“So we’re still waiting on some inventory, but you can see the general layout of the shop,” he was saying. “Reference material is here at the front, with theory guides just here behind it. The practical manuals we have to be a bit more careful with, so they’re back in this corner, some of them will be locked in a special glass cupboard, available on request only. Then here in this corner we have the historical context.” 

Emma frowned, looking more closely at the titles of the books that already graced the shelves. Rare volumes, he’d said the other day, but these were all—

“These are books of magic!” she cried. 

“Oh, aye, did I not mention? That’s our specialty. Books of and about magic.”

She started to laugh, then trailed off when she noticed he didn’t join her. “But you’re not serious?”

“Very serious.”

“Books of magic.” 

“And about magic, aye.” 

“But— magic isn’t real.” 

“There are quite a number of people who would disagree with that assessment, Sheriff.”

“And you’re one of them?” Her voice was rife with disbelief.

“Aye,” he replied, and the sincerity in his face and tone were unmistakable. “I am.” 

She shook her head. “I would never have pegged you as someone with an interest in the occult. You seem so, I dont know, practical.” 

“Oh, I’m very practical, love, but that doesn’t mean I can’t believe in magic.” 

She wanted to deny his words, really it was so absurd, but she realised with another start of surprise that she was genuinely interested, almost despite herself, curious to the point of fascination. “Will you tell me about them?”

He exhaled deeply, almost as if he had been holding his breath waiting for her reaction, and gave her another dazzling smile. “It would be my pleasure.” 

Nearly two hours later they were sitting on the floor surrounded by books, and Emma’s head was buzzing with stories of witches and wizards, covens and cults, fascinating details concerning the history and practice of magical arts.  She felt like she had learned more in that short time than she had before in the whole of her life. Of course, her earlier education had been… it had been… what? She couldn’t recall. Frowning, she tried to remember where she had gone to school, the names of her teachers, fellow classmates, anything, but it was all a blank. 

“Emma?” She turned to see Killian looking at her inquiringly. “Are you all right, love?”

She should really object to that ‘love’, she knew, but couldn’t bring herself to. She liked it. It made her feel warm inside. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit distracted.” 

He nodded, and reached out to close one of the books. “We’ve been talking for a long time,” he said. “Perhaps we could take a break?”

She watched carefully as he used the prosthetic hand to close the book. The hand moved, she noticed, clearly it had some sort of mechanism operating it, but he seemed to mange it awkwardly, as though not quite used to it. She wondered how long he’d had— “When did you lose your hand?” she blurted, then flushed. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.” 

He looked startled, then smiled. “No, it’s fine. It’s been so long, I don’t mind speaking of it anymore.”

“How long?”

“Oh, years and years.” 

“What happened? Er, if you don’t mind me asking.” 

“Not at all. It was stupid, really. I was young, I got in a fight. Over a woman. Woke up the next day with no hand.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

He shrugged. “Like I said it was years ago.” 

“Mmmmm.” 

“What is it, Swan?” He looked almost expectant, like he knew the gears were turning in her head and was excited to see what they would spit out. She felt again the odd, unfamiliar sensation of being the focus of genuine interest. He truly seemed to care about what she had to say, for no reason other than that she was saying it. 

“It’s just— well, you don’t seem very comfortable with the artificial one. If it’s been so long, I guess I would have thought you’d be more used to it by now.” 

“Ah, well that’s explained easily enough. I lost my hand so long ago that the prosthetics that were available to me at the time were, um, let’s say primitive. This one however is quite new. State of the art, they tell me. It works by interacting with the electrical impulses in my muscle fibres, apparently. So you see, until quite recently I had a much simpler one, and this one, while far better in many ways, is taking a bit of time to adjust to.”

Every word he spoke was the truth, she could detect no dishonesty in his face or manner, yet she sensed it wasn’t the whole story either. He was leaving out important details. And she wondered why. 

As he spoke he adjusted the prosthetic with his right hand, drawing her attention to the thick, engraved silver band he wore on its ring finger. A wedding ring? she wondered. It must be. A man with no left hand would naturally wear his wedding band on his right, wouldn’t he? Especially if until recently he’d worn a simpler prosthesis, one with no fingers. 

She wondered, and not for the first time, about Henry’s mother. Killian’s face when he’d spoken of her in Granny’s had worn for a brief moment such a devastated expression, her loss must still be fresh and painful for him. In a weird way that made her feel better about having sought him out and spent so long talking with him. She was married, he a grieving widower, what harm could there be in a friendship between them? She certainly wouldn’t have to worry about anything coming of the fierce attraction she felt for him. Even if he felt it too, he would never act on it. He was very obviously still in love with his wife, and Emma somehow knew beyond any doubt that he was not a man to betray those he loved. 

“So, um, it’s ah, lunchtime,” he said, scratching behind his ear again. “And it seems we both could use a break. Would you care to join me? For some lunch?”

“Sure, I guess. Where were you going to go?”

“I—, uh, we live upstairs,” he gestured towards the staircase. “The third floor is a loft apartment, I was just going to go up and make a sandwich.” 

Alone with him in his apartment. Emma’s heart thundered. “A sandwich sounds great,” she managed to say. “Can you do grilled cheese?”

His face twisted for a moment into the strangest expression, half blissful happiness, half like he wanted to cry. “I can,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s my son’s favourite.” 

“In that case, I’d love to join you.” 

The grilled cheese was perfect, exactly the way she liked it. She told him as much, and was rewarded with another half-delighted, half-sad expression. “I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch,” he said, almost to himself. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Grilled cheese is— Henry’s mother’s favourite as well,” he said quietly. “Since we lost her we don’t make it as often as we used to.”

Emma didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so she crunched her sandwich in slightly awkward silence as he busied himself at the stove, avoiding looking at him until he slid a cup in front of her. “What’s this?” she asked in surprise. 

“Traditional Jones family accompaniment to grilled cheese,” he replied. 

She picked up the mug and inhaled over it. “Hot chocolate with— is that cinnamon?”

“Aye. It’s a bit odd I’ll grant you, and if I’m honest I prefer it plain, but that’s how Henry likes it.”

“Seriously? You’re telling me your son likes cinnamon on his hot chocolate.” 

“Aye.” He seemed to be watching her carefully. 

“Grilled cheese and hot chocolate with cinnamon is my favourite lunch,” she said. “You’re basically telling me that I have the same tastes as your thirteen year old kid.” 

“Would it help if I confessed to an affinity for it as well?” he asked, his face deadpan but with amusement twinkling in his eyes. 

“It might.” 

“Very well, I confess it, but you mustn’t ever tell Henry. I’d never get him to eat a vegetable again if he thought he could wheedle grilled cheese out of me every night.” 

“It’s a deal.” 

The earlier awkwardness was dispelled, and as Killian sat down to eat his sandwich Emma sipped her chocolate —it too was perfect— making it last as long as possible. There was no way she could justify staying any longer once lunch was over, and she didn’t want to go. She felt comfortable with Killian, and happy, things she couldn’t remember feeling in a long, long time. Later she knew she would need to analyse these feelings, but for now she simply wished to feel them. 

When the last drop was finally drained she set the cup down on the counter, then realised it might be nice if she took it to the sink instead and went to pick it up again, at the same time as Killian reached for it himself. Her hand closed around it first followed a second later by his, his fingers linking with hers in a way that felt so natural that it didn’t even occur to her to question it, simply laughing lightly as they released the cup but not each other’s hands. His thumb caressed her bare ring finger. “You don’t wear a wedding ring,” he said softly. 

She could barely breathe her heart was pounding so hard, the gentle movements of his thumb sending sparks coursing up her arm, reverberating through her whole body. “Um,” she said, trying to think. “No, I — I have one of course, but I don’t wear it.” 

“Why not?” 

“Er.” She tried to remember. There was a reason, surely? “I can’t with— with my job. It gets in the way.” Yes, that must be it. 

“Ah.” Something in his tone suggested he didn’t quite believe her, but before she could reply he had released her hand and turned away, picking up the mug and putting it in the sink. 

“I like yours though,” she said abruptly. Where did that come from? 

“What?” He turned, giving her an odd look. 

“Your wedding ring.” She reached out and took his hand again, this time caressing the silver band upon the third finger with her own thumb. “It is a wedding ring, isn’t it?”

He cleared his throat. “Aye.” 

“Henry’s mother.” It wasn’t a question and so required no answer, but he gave one anyway. “Aye.” The sadness was back in his voice, this time untempered by any joy.

Emma smiled, feeling suddenly swamped by sadness herself. She felt such a connection to this man, unlike anything she’d ever felt before, and she hated to think of him hurting. 

Briefly she allowed herself a rare, uncharacteristic moment of self-indulgence to wonder what it would be like to be loved as devotedly as Killian loved his wife. To be loved even after she was gone. To have such an emotion, from such a man. Swallowing back tears, she looked up at him. “She had good taste. This is exactly the sort of ring I would have chosen.” 

“She’s an extraordinary woman,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion, his eyes blazing with it. 

Emma nodded, wishing she knew why that remark left such a clutching, squeezing sensation around her heart. 

“Well I should go,” she said, releasing his hand.

He swallowed hard then gave her a small smile, a tight, guarded thing that squeezed her heart again. He looked so sad. She wanted to see the bright, wicked grin from earlier. 

“May I see you out?” he asked politely, his emotions under control again. 

She shook her head, already moving towards the door. “No, it’s fine. But thanks.”

“Any time, love.”

Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke again. “Emma.” 

She looked back at him, gripped by the wild, irrational hope that he might ask her to stay. “What about your husband?” he asked. 

“Who?” She frowned in confusion, then remembered. “Oh, Walsh.” Why had she forgotten him? “What about him?” 

“Does he not wear a ring?”

“Of course he does.” Didn’t he? “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that you said ‘would have chosen.’” Killian’s face was calm, but that intensity was back in his eyes. 

“What?”

“Just now, when you looked at my ring you said it’s exactly what you would have chosen. Not what you did choose.” 

There was that confusion again, swirling through her brain and blocking her thoughts. Why couldn’t she think? “I— I must have misspoken.” She rubbed her forehead, which had started to ache. 

He was silent for a long moment before replying. “Of course, I’m sure that’s it. Goodbye, Sheriff.” 

Emma smiled tightly and left. 

When she arrived home that evening, Emma sought out Walsh in his study. He didn’t like her bothering him there but she was confused, her head spinning with questions that needed answers. She’d spent the afternoon in her office with the lights dimmed, nursing her headache and making a list of all the questions she needed to ask him, everything that was odd in their relationship and in her life. It was a long list. Why hadn’t she ever talked to him before? She’d been unhappy for so long…

“What is it, Emma?” Walsh’s voice was cold.

“I just— wanted to talk to you. About some things.” 

He turned and fixed her with the icy, probing stare that never failed to make her tongue-tied and anxious. She wanted to flee, back to the relative safety of the living room, where Walsh rarely went. No! You need answers! Stay strong! 

“Some things,” Walsh repeated. 

“Y-yes.” 

“Well go on,” he waved his hand at her and adopted an expression of exaggerated patience. “We haven’t got all night. What are these ‘things’ that are suddenly so important?”

Emma had spent an hour memorising her list of questions, but now she could only remember one. 

“Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?” she burst out. “Why don’t I?”

“Of— of course I wear one!” Walsh looked genuinely surprised, his composure slipping enough to rejuvenate her resolve. 

“Walsh I am looking at your hand right now and it is bare,” she said. “Neither of us wear rings. I’m certain I have one, I remember it, but where is it? Why did I stop wearing it?” He gaped at her and she seized her opportunity, letting months worth of questions flood out. “And why don’t we do anything together any more? What happened to our friends? I remember— I think I remember that we used to go out, do things as a couple, with other couples. But we have no friends now, and I stay in alone every night. I feel like I never see you these days, you’re hardly ever home, you never want to have sex—” she broke off as a look of revulsion crossed Walsh’s face, crushing her, stopping the words in her throat. Your own husband finds you repulsive, she thought bitterly, and a small voice at the very back of her consciousness piped up with a single word. “Why?” 

What? thought Emma, and the voice elaborated. “Dont you want to know why?”

A memory flashed through her mind, although no, not a memory, it couldn’t be, but it felt like a memory. The blue, blue eyes of Killian Jones, warm with adoration, his deep voice, his hand in her hair. “You’re so beautiful, Emma,” he whispered. “So utterly, heartbreakingly beautiful.” 

“Walsh, what’s going on?” she asked, suddenly angry, furious, incandescent with rage. “There’s something very wrong here, and I think you’re behind it. Tell me what it is. Tell me what you’ve done to me!”

Walsh’s face twisted into a terrifying snarl and he grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him until they were nose-to-nose, drowning her anger in fear. “Why are you asking these questions all of a sudden?” he hissed, “Does it by any chance have something to do with our new neighbourhood bookseller?” 

“Wh— what?” Emma scrambled to lie, to protect Killian. “No! Of course not.” 

“You’re a terrible liar, Emma.” Walsh sighed, his face falling back into its usual supercilious, condescending expression. Still holding her arm he turned and picked something up from his desk, a small box in silver filigree, beautiful in a cold and terrible way. “Fortunately it won’t matter. Come morning you’ll be yourself again. Or one of your selves, anyway.” He opened the box with a flick of his thumb and blew a harsh puff of air into it, sending a shower of glittering grey particles flying into Emma’s eyes. She gasped, then collapsed. Walsh held her up with his grip on her arm, then gave her a shove back into the sofa behind her. “That should take care of you for now,” he muttered, looking down at her unconscious form. “It appears that the pirate works faster than I had anticipated. Of course very little that we anticipated about him has turned out to be true. How he even managed to get here in the first place is something I would very much like to know. He is supposed to be stuck in Neverland.” He paused, smirking. “The power of true love, I suppose,” he said, sneering the words. “But he’ll soon be dealt with, him and your son. And now, ‘wife’, off to bed with you.” He waved his hand and Emma disappeared in a puff of green smoke. 

When she awoke the next morning, alone in her bed as always, all her doubts and worries about her marriage along with all recollection of her confrontation with Walsh were gone. 

Her memories of the time she’d spent with Killian Jones, however, were not. 

Notes: I hope this makes you feel a bit better (but still interested enough to want more!). 

[doeeyeddarlingxo]

Myriad Misadventures - Chapter 17

The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-In-Training - Chapter 17

AO3 | Previous | Next

Word Count: 1573

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Rating: T

Myriad Misadventures - Chapter 17

You can’t deal with afternoon lessons today. It’s been nearly a week since the breakfast fiasco; you’ve tried to keep a low profile since then, with varying levels of success. Loki hasn’t spoken to you at all, hasn’t even eaten any meals in the dining hall since that day, but Lady Amara has been lecturing you every chance you get, and you can’t stand it. And now that the initial novelty of it all has worn off, now that you’re solidly enveloped in a daily routine of etiquette classes and Girl-World politics, you’re more homesick than ever. Never mind that skipping today will only get you in more trouble; you’re done. Really, truly done. 

Meg isn’t in your room. I mean, she has other stuff to do. I can’t expect her to be at my beck and call 24/7. And I’m not even supposed to be here right now. But it still saddens you. The other girls aren’t terrible, but they all seem to actually want to win the competition, and Meg is your only real friend who doesn’t have any stock in the crown. The other servants are too afraid to talk to you. You’d go looking for Albert - he was nice, at least - but you don’t have the first idea of where to find him.

As much as you want to avoid Lady Amara, you really, really don’t want to spend the afternoon in your room doing nothing. 

I mean...I am falling behind on my real-world studies. Lady Amara has to have gotten all those history and government theory books from somewhere. A castle this big has to have a library. You find a quiet serving girl who, after jumping when you address her, gives you directions in a tiny, squeaky voice. You tiptoe past the Ladies’ Parlor, where your absence has no doubt been noticed by now, and around the corner, and…

Wow.

It’s breathtaking. So many books, you don’t even know where to start. Just entering the cavernous room calms you; you pick a random volume up off a nearby desk and open it, relishing in the feel and smell. You can’t read a word of it, though. It’s written in some kind of symbol-language; runes, or something. There have got to be English books in here somewhere…

“Lady (Y/N)?”

You whirl around at the sound of your name, and find yourself no more than a few inches away from a very angry-looking Loki. 

Oh, gosh. 

Again, you haven’t interacted with him at all for days. And you had never exactly apologized for your defiance in defending Albert...

“Your Majesty! I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t realize you, um, came in.” Please, please don’t vaporize me.

“I could tell.” His face is completely deadpan, but you swear you can detect just the faintest hint of humor behind his words. 

You pretend not to notice. Just in case you’re wrong.

Quick, say something! “Any recommendations?” Gah, not that!

He lifts an eyebrow, perplexed. “What?”

“Books. I’m here for books - of course, it’s a library - and I didn’t know - I mean, like, I’m not familiar with what’s here. In the library. This library, I mean, all of the books from Asgard, I don’t - you know,” you finish lamely.

“Do I?”

“Maybe?” Your eyes dart around the room, before returning to his face. “I’m sorry, am I not allowed to be here, or something? I mean,” you interrupt yourself, wincing. “Argh. That came out wrong. I promise I’m not trying to be sassy or anything, I just - “

“Sassy?”

You rack your brain for an appropriate synonym. “Sarcastic. Dryly humorous. Backtalk.”

“I see.”

“So, um, if you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.” He doesn’t respond. “Okay.” 

“Wait.” He says it quietly, so much so that, for a moment, you're unsure of whether or not he actually spoke. Still, you turn back around. “What sort of books are you interested in?”

You shrug. “What have you got?”

“Everything.”

“All right.” You chew on your lip, considering. “What are your favorites?”

He appears surprised. “You want to - “

“Sure, why not?” Your eyes widen as you realize what you have just done. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”

“No,you shouldn’t have.” You shrug, and he tilts his head ever so slightly to one side. “But you did.”

“Um.” You’re momentarily lost in his appearance. With his hair tucked behind his ears and his undereye circles erased by the soft, dusky glow of the candelabras, he looks different. Younger. No more sharp edges - save for his eyes, which are bright and piercing as ever, now scanning your face as intently as you were his mere seconds ago. 

He begins to walk towards you - just one step, but, tense as you are, you can’t help but start at the movement. He purses his lips, trying to refrain from laughing. “Lady (Y/N), after the way you reprimanded me at breakfast last week, I hardly think you’d be one to worry about speaking out of turn.”

You let out a short breath of air, trying to pull yourself together. “I was raised to be generally polite, Your Majesty. The only time I ignore that is when I feel someone is deserving of reprimand...ation.” Is that a word? You don’t think it’s a word. Oh, well.

He smirks - either at your bluntness or at the clunkiness of your speech, you’re not sure which. Probably the latter. “So I deserved it, then?”

“Yes.” You say it without thinking, nodding in earnest; as soon as you realize what just came out of your mouth, you feel your eyes widen, and the blood rise up in your cheeks. “I mean - ”

He holds up a hand. “I appreciate your candor.”

“Okay. Good.” You nod. Does this mean you’re off the hook? That was...easier than I’d expected. You’re quick to change the subject, before he has a chance to change his mind. "So. Books.” A thought occurs. “Do you have anything on Norse mythology?”

*******************************************

He helps you bring the stack of books to a table in the back corner, hidden by all the shelves. You’re surprised by the lack of tension - just like that, you’ve been forgiven. It’s a little scary, how quickly his mind can change, but in this case, you’re grateful.

He actually sits, and helps you to translate the beginning of the book you’d picked up earlier. You can’t help but feel you’re learning much more useful information than you would have if you’d actually gone to your afternoon lesson. “So the language magic doesn’t apply to books, then?”

“Not all books. Not all languages, either.” He runs his fingers back and forth across the runes. “This particular one died long ago. On Asgard, it’s commonly used in treaties and contracts, but never out loud.”

“I’ve always wondered how that happens.”

“How what happens?”

You put your elbows up on the table, ignoring all sense of propriety as you lean your cheek on your hand. “How do people just...stop speaking a language? I’m assuming it’s not a conscious decision, because that would require everyone who speaks it to stop all at once, and have a second option available. Does it evolve until it’s unrecognizable? Because then the language is still alive, just in a different skin. It’s fascinating.” You realize he’s staring at you. “Did I say something wrong? I ramble sometimes, I know, when I’m nervous, or - ”

“I make you nervous?”

“Are you surprised?”

“No, but…” He cocks his head to the left. “You’re very open about your feelings, Lady (Y/N).”

“I - yeah. I don’t mean to be. Teenager-itis, I guess, huh?” He doesn’t laugh, and you quickly look down at your hands, which are now folded neatly in your lap. “This is a completely different world than what I’m used to. The palace. Good, but different. Everybody is much more reserved in terms of what they say.” You shrug. “I guess I’m just not used to having that kind of filter.”

“I understand.”

You look up. “You do?”

“Nobody is born with an innate understanding of politics, Lady (Y/N),” he chuckles. You relax a little. “Which is why Lady Amara saw it fit to schedule daily lessons for the candidates. Every afternoon.”

Oops. You suppose you should have expected him to call you out on it eventually. “Right. About that…”

“I’ll make your excuses to Lady Amara.”

Your jaw nearly drops. “You can...well, of course you can, but you - ”

“I will,” he assures you. “Though I trust you’ll be present for all future sessions, beginning tomorrow?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” You don’t want to push your luck any further. You catch a glimpse of the clock on the other wall, and scramble to start getting the books in order. “Wow, it’s late. I should get ready for dinner, just in case…” He doesn’t respond, and you look back up to see him gone. Again. But, just as it was with the masquerade ball, he’s left you a note. 

Lady (Y/N),

Leave the books on the table. The librarians will come to sort them out before they lock the doors; if you would like, I can have them sent up to your room. 

My apologies for my abrupt departure. I must ready for dinner, and I suggest you do the same - I am sure, after missing Lady Amara’s afternoon lecture, you wouldn’t want to be late. 

Until then,

L.L.

[nara-barney-blog]

Chapter 1 |The Rarest Treasure

https://the-rarest-treasure.blogspot.com/ <- you can read it here or visit my blog! 

“The examination of Chesney Hammond’s corpse. The body was delivered yesterday evening at three o’clock in the afternoon. My name is Evelynn Bradford, Lancaster Institute in Glasgow*.”

Doctor Evelynn Bradford put the recorder down and put black nitrile gloves on her hands. She couldn’t hide her excitement. She fought long and hard for permission to exhume the corpse of an old traveler and finally succeeded. The body was discovered in Costa Rica, buried in a shallow grave near the beach. Records show that Hammond died in a fatal accident and was buried by his traveling companions. Evelynn’s task was to determine whether an unfortunate event had actually occurred or whether something much more tragic had happened in Costa Rica.

“At first glance, no suspicious bodily harm can be seen”, she said, lifting her recorder again. “The naked eye can see bone fractures indicating a fall from a high height.”

She was completely alone in the spacious, well-lit room of the Institute. She preferred to work alone, without the help of any assistants. This made her task easier and her boss, fortunately, fully respected it.

“The bones have been properly prepared for the forensic examination. I did not boil them to avoid destroying valuable evidence. They were carefully cleansed...”

The door to the room opened and Wendy, her secretary and right hand helpful in all kinds of paperwork, entered the room. She seemed disheartened by the necessity to interfere with the inspection. She tangled her hands at her back, looking at doctor Bradford with a slight concern written on her face.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Wendy said, “but there’s a man who necessarily wants to see you.”

Evelynn sighed heavily and put the recorder on the table. “Has he introduced himself?”

“No. He said he will speak only with you.”

“For Christ’s sake,” she mumbled under her nose, taking off her gloves. “Good. Tell him I’ll see him in my office.”

“He’s… already waiting there.”

Evelynn wrinkled her forehead. She has never met a person who wanted to meet her so much. She corrected her pale red gown with the Lancaster Institute’s logo and nodded her head. Wendy bent down slightly and then left the room in a hurry. Dr. Bradford had the last look at Hammond’s body. “He won’t run away,” she thought, leaving the stainless steel table, and moved on to the door. She locked them in and hid the key in her pocket.

The corridors of the Institute were exceptionally calm. Very often doctors dealing with various fields of science ran from one room to another, completing the necessary formalities or searching for equipment suitable for conducting research. Today, however, most of them took a day off to take a break from work. Many of them had families who missed them when they spent most of their time at the Institute, sometimes staying longer than they should. Evelynn did not have a family, not even a husband who would wait for her with a hot dinner and a good word after a whole day spent in the company of corpses. She went through various relationships, but most of the men she met could not stand her tight schedule and the fact that most of her time was filled by people who had already left the world.

Her small office was on the fifth floor of the Institute. It was a glazed room with shelves filled with historical books and small souvenirs of the examined dead, which she was allowed to keep. Even the skull of the famous traveler, Aldred Branson, stood on her desk. There was a middle-aged man sitting in a guest chair. He had dark hair pulled back and he held an unsmoked cigarette in his mouth. He was dressed in a slightly shabby jeans jacket worn over a regular brown T-shirt. When she entered the office, he raised himself and extended his arm to shake her hand.

“Thank you for agreeing to give me a moment.”

She shook his hand. It was coarse and hard, like he was someone who works as a manual worker. Evelynn took her place in her swivel chair.

“You are not allowed to smoke in this building.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t smoke it.”

She just sighed. She knew that there was no point in arguing about it.

“Why did you want to see me?”

“My name is Samuel Drake. A treasure hunter, by some people charmingly called a ‘thief’. I think somebody like you heard that name.”

She half-smiled.

“Indeed. Henry Avery’s treasure discoverer.”

“You are well-informed. That’s good.”

“I try my best. So, why Samuel Drake wants to see me?”

“The birds are singing that you got permission to examine Chesney Hammond’s body.”

She wrinkled her forehead.

“The birds are very talkative. I’m gonna have to do something about it.”

“The point is,” he continued with a little smirk, “I’m trying to follow his steps. To find something he found.”

She leaned forward. She tried to hide her curiosity, but guessed she wasn’t doing it very well.

“And how does that apply to me?”

“I guess you aren’t interested just in his body. I believe you studied his history and you are well-informed about him.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“So I would like to ask for your help.”

She pulled back, a little surprised. Samuel Drake looked at her with anticipation, chewing on the tip of a cigarette. What was she supposed to say to him? She already felt excited about the very idea of working with him, but on the other hand.... she was sure that not every aspect of it would be legal. Would she really be able to sacrifice her career for one adventure?

“I have to disappoint you, mister Drake. I’m an anthropologist, not a treasure hunter.”

“I’m not looking for a treasure hunter. I’m looking for someone smart, with knowledge about Chesney Hammond. Someone exactly like you.”

“I…” she grunted to stop the voice from cracking, “I would have to speak with my boss.”

“Just tell her you’re going on vacation.”

“I don’t think I can afford it.”

Drake leaned over. He put his elbow on his knee and raised his hand, and a mysterious, childlike excitement-filled flash appeared in his eyes.

“I’m 100% sure Hammond discovered an ancient treasure. I’ll give you a half.”

Evelynn raised her eyebrows.

“A half? That’s… generous.”

“If the treasure exists. If not… I’ll take care of all the costs. And pay you the appropriate amount.”

She smiled sarcastically.

“How?”

“Come on, I’m a thief. I’ll figure something out.”

She didn’t like it. She had heard many stories about Samuel’s brother Nathan, who is remembered as a discoverer of El Dorado. But there were also stories about the older Drake and not all of them were flattering. Evelynn felt that he was not a trustworthy man. On the other hand, he had something in him. Something that almost called for her to accept his offer and embark on the journey of her life.

“How can I know I can trust you?”

“You can’t. It makes it only more exciting, doesn’t it?”

She sighed and moved the chair away from her desk. She tangled her hands on her knees, staring at Samuel with a great amount of doubt. So many things could have gone wrong. What if he gets all the information about Hammond from her and leaves her to fate? What if he kills her after finding a hypothetical treasure, because he won’t need her anymore?

“Come on!”, he said, seeing her hesitation. “I’m sure you’ll love it. We can follow Hammond’s steps and do something great. Discover his story! You can’t fool me by saying you don’t dream about it.”

“I do. But I won’t put myself at risk just for some glory.”

“Then do it for yourself. I promise you that you’ll never have a chance to experience something like this.”

She started swearing in her mind. He was right. Maybe she really needed a break from this Institute. Maybe she needed to break the routine she’s been in for a long time. Has the time finally come to do something completely unlike her and set off on a journey with a man she would never trust at any price?

“Fine. I’ll examine Hammond’s body to see if there’s something interesting. And you can start the preparations.”

He smiled broadly and Evelynn could have sworn that she saw pride in his eyes. Ignoring her thundering gaze, he lit a cigarette and slowly blew out a cloud of grey smoke.

“That’s the spirit.”

*the Lancaster Institute isn’t a real place. I created it for my story.

[moddernallanpoe]

Chapter 1, Down The Rabbit-Hole

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversations?’

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.

There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!’ (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well.

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE’, but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it.

‘Well!’ thought Alice to herself, ‘after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they’ll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn’t say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!’ (Which was very likely true.)

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! ‘I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?’ she said aloud. ‘I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think—’ (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) ‘—yes, that’s about the right distance—but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I’ve got to?’ (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.)

Presently she began again. ‘I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it’ll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think—’ (she was rather glad there was no one listening, this time, as it didn’t sound at all the right word) ‘—but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma’am, is this New Zealand or Australia?’ (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke—fancy curtseying as you’re falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) ‘And what an ignorant little girl she’ll think me for asking! No, it’ll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.’

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. ‘Dinah’ll miss me very much to-night, I should think!’ (Dinah was the cat.) ‘I hope they’ll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I’m afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that’s very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?’ And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, ‘Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?’ and sometimes, ‘Do bats eat cats?’ for, you see, as she couldn’t answer either question, it didn’t much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, ‘Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?’ when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, ‘Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting!’ She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof.

There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again.

Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice’s first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!

Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway; ‘and even if my head would go through,’ thought poor Alice, ‘it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin.’ For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible.

There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it, (‘which certainly was not here before,’ said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words ‘DRINK ME’ beautifully printed on it in large letters.

It was all very well to say ‘Drink me,’ but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. ‘No, I’ll look first,’ she said, ‘and see whether it’s marked “poison” or not’; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked ‘poison,’ it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.

However, this bottle was not marked ‘poison,’ so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off.

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‘What a curious feeling!’ said Alice; ‘I must be shutting up like a telescope.’

And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; ‘for it might end, you know,’ said Alice to herself, ‘in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?’ And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing.

After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried.

‘Come, there’s no use in crying like that!’ said Alice to herself, rather sharply; ‘I advise you to leave off this minute!’ She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. ‘But it’s no use now,’ thought poor Alice, ‘to pretend to be two people! Why, there’s hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!’

Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words ‘EAT ME’ were beautifully marked in currants. ‘Well, I’ll eat it,’ said Alice, ‘and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I’ll get into the garden, and I don’t care which happens!’

She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, ‘Which way? Which way?’, holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way.

So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.