#so many thoughts about the guilt this boy must carry

[mikakuna]

you ever think about jason feeling guilty for being the only one in crime alley to make it out, to get adopted by a wealthy person. do you think he feels guilty for messing up his chance, a chance that any crime alley child could only dream of, by dying?

do you think about the guilt that must've coursed through him when he was younger, sitting at the wayne family table eating a single meal that could've fed other crime alley children for a month? how many sleepless nights must he have had, shifting from his luxurious new bed to the floor because he couldn't remember the last time one of the other children slept in actual beds?

do you think he felt guilty about going to one of the richest schools in gotham knowing that most of the crime alley children would never be able to even step foot in a school, too busy worrying about more important matters? he must've had those moments where he was so happy sitting in class because finally i can go to school and i love it i love it so much but then the regret suddenly hits and he remembers those teenagers who loved school and were so close to making it out, yet eventually they'd be spotted on street corners or running drugs.

the guilt must've weighed so heavy on his little shoulders.

[charliemwrites]

Seen first on Charlie’s server:

offering childhood friend Simon your last name because you don’t want him to have to keeping using the one his cunt of a father passed down. You were the one by his side as a child, witnessing the aftermath of his father’s rage, wiping away the tears that sprang from Simon’s eyes from the toxic mixture of pain, despair, and anger, and you were the one who made him feel safe throughout it all. A part of Simon wonders if he would have been able to survive it all without you, the rest of him answers “of course not”. Throughout the entire time, you gave Simon so much happiness that he felt he needed to keep going, while you were filled with so much love for this boy with a crooked nose that matched his crooked teeth and hair that had way too many cowlicks for how straight it was that you started to feel overwhelmed by it. Back when you were kids, you didn’t fully understand what names were and what makes a family, so you just promised that he would always be a part of your family, because that’s the only way you knew to show this suffocating love you held for him. But now you’re older. You had been torn apart from one another, in the violent end to his family and his reflexive guilt that even outsiders knew to include you in that destruction. When everyone else was telling you that Simon Riley was dead, you knew that he was alive, because you knew Simon Riley, and Simon Riley would crawl through hell, would bend time and space to his will just to return to you one last time. No grave would truly hold Simon away from you, and since your heart is still beating in your chest instead of rotting inside you, Simon Riley must be alive. And he was. And you were right. The grave they tried to keep him in was nothing compared to the thought of you. You were the only thing that carried him back home. He was nothing more than a madman searching for salvation in the arms of his savior, searching for where he had long since abandoned his heart. With his family gone and his mind in ruins, the love he held for you seemed to be the only thing he had left. So he came back to you. Just like he always will. And the two of you were together once more, just like it always should’ve been and always will be if the two of you have anything to say on the matter. He may no longer fully answer to his name, reborn as “Ghost” to everyone else, but he is still Simon Riley to you. And that grates at something in you. After all he has been through, after all that has been done to him, Simon deserves to have a name that shows he is loved, deserves to live without attaching himself to the piece of shit that was his father. That man has no right to a legacy, no right to continue to haunt Simon through his last name.

You sit Simon down, and ask him how he feels about his name, if it is a weight that is dragging him down or a badge of pride connecting him to his late brother’s family and his mother. He’s confused by it, because while you guys talk about everything (looking at Charlie’s mention that Ghost tells reader literally everything about his ops, even the most confidential of information), you don’t really talk about names? It seems weird? He gives a wishy-washy statement, nothing really of substance and asks why it matters, and that’s when you tell him the truth: that since the moment you met Simon Riley, you knew he was going to be the most important person in your life, and you were right. Truly, you never had any other choice but to love him, in that he was, all that he is, and all that he will me. Your heart set itself on him, and decided that it would take no other in his place. You had seen every part of Simon, even the parts he tries to hide from himself, the sides he thinks makes him a monster. But you still love him. And if loving a monster makes you monstrous in turn, then you would gladly turn away from the light and stalk the shadows. Because you love Simon Riley for everything that he is, not what he is lacking or what he could become. You may not be rich, you may never be able to give to Simon what you feel he is owed from the world, but you can give him something: a new last name. Yours is there if he wants it, a name that his father never touched, never soiled. A name that was given to him all those years ago in the promise of giving him a family as kids. It’s not perfect, your family has its flaws and drama, but it is given freely to him and to his family. Should he take it, you’re more than willing to save up to get new tombstones for his family, to posthumously give them sanctuary from that damned last name.

You tell him this can come with or without the ring and ceremony, that your love for him is all-encompassing and can be read in whichever way he wants to, and he finally shuts you up. He is crying silently as he kisses you, his heart so full of love for you that he sends his prayer out to any God or Higher Power, and thanks them for you. The best thing in his life.

Hopefully, one day, his wife.

Beautiful and brilliant

[abysswalkersknight]

A sequel to this drabble. Though I admit it was a little harder than the other.

While writing half of this I was thinking about that scene from the movie storks when they fight the penguins.

..................

He truly didn’t know what was worse, protecting his son from his past self or this.

His dear son, curled up in the throes of slumber against the chest of that loathsome heathen who so daringly has his arms wrapped loosely around his boy’s torso, leering down at Lilia from his chin’s perch on silver’s shoulder ‘what’s the matter old boy, that glare doesn’t suit a cute face like yours’ Lilia scowls at him and replies with an all too familiar gesture that would surely have Silver reprimanding him were he awake, alas twas not so instead his precious son was captured in such an image that Lilia would be cooing all over him, if it weren’t for this one abhorrent factor, who knowingly smirks back at Lilia with all the smugness more suited for a mischievous cat. 

After the small incident where Lilia had beat the ever loving daylights out of his younger self, poor Silver had been wracked with miserable guilt despite his father’s protestations, claiming that he had been careless and had startled Vanrouge, thus to Lilia’s displeasure he wanted to make amends with the wild fae but ever since the incident Lilia had practically glued himself to Silver’s side whenever the general was in sight even going as far as to hissing at the fae whenever he thought he was too close to his son. As such Vanrouge kept a wide berth with his head down low and Lilia would have gladly left it at that but of course when it came to things like this Silver was rather persistent. For days Lilia watched scornfully as his dear boy ventured out to look for Vanrouge, sometimes he just couldn’t understand the extent of Silver’s kindness. Just mere days ago he had been attacked by the very fae he was searching very intently for and still Silver wishes to apologise to make amends no matter how many times Lilia tried to advise that it was near impossible to reason with a beast like him at that age, the bloodlust was too far ingrained and hadn’t time to rust away. But never did Silver give up and every time they found Vanrouge he would harshly refuse whatever Silver brought as a peace offering, personally Lilia was rather offended when the rats were rejected, it took him hours to catch all of them at Silver’s behest, but oh well more for Lilia. It had been this way for some time until suddenly one day Vanrouge was found begrudgingly eating risotto next to a triumphant Silver, really what was Lilia expecting, of course his son was capable of taming even the most rabid of beasts. But did it really have to be this beast? ‘Pray, do tell how this came to be? You’ve better not be holding him hostage, Vanrouge’ he growls hands on his hips and eye almost irritably twitching  as his son shuffled in his sleep and almost buried his face in the general’s neck ‘why I’ve not the slightest clue myself, the poor thing just waltzed in here all dazed like and next thing you know he’s crawling up to me before dropping like so’ he smugly explains, nuzzling his cheek against silver locks. Oh you little…

The snide, conniving look he gives Lilia gives him the unshakable urge to bloody it black and blue again ‘why there was no hesitation whatsoever, he must have mistaken me as his father or something’

‘Of course he would, we have the same face!’ As much as he’d hate to admit, Silver’s recognition was never the best whenever a sleep spell hit him and Lilia did teach the boy to seek him out when he felt one coming. Oh well it can’t be helped he thinks reaching out to carry his boy off to the comforts of his bed only to gasp in indignation when sharp fangs clamp firmly into his hand. There’s a heavy pause as Lilia stares down at Vanrouge, who curls closer to his son, the promise of a slow, painful death blazing in his crimson eyes, yet the general was not intimidated in the slightest, of course not, what with the firm yet gentle way he manoeuvres Silver off him and down on the couch cushions, all without breaking eye contact or releasing his fang’s grip, so Lilia takes the ample opportunity to seize the ponytail he was so glad to shear off in his youth and send them both tumbling to the ground whose soft rug muffled the thud. In a silent brawl the two fae once again bite and kick at each other, daring the other to so much as make a sound and wake up the sleeping child above them, in a sense to Lilia it was a way to prove to himself that this younger version of him was just as he believed he was, a ruthless monster entirely incapable of caring for others, even if it was merely staying quiet just so his child could nap in peace. Yet as they scrapped Vanrouge refused to yield, showing off his familiar prowess by moving so that like Lilia, any blow thrown and received was muffled in some way. At one point they paused in fear when they heard a soft groan but Silver simply turned around and fell silent once more, suddenly Vanrouge whips out a fork of all things and drives it into Lilia’s arm. Lilia cried out in pain but toned it down to a quiet squeal, he rips out the fork and plunged it into the general’s shoulder who’s face blanked on impact and all of a sudden seized a spare cushion from the couch and screamed into it. Lilia would have found the whole thing hilarious had it been anyone else brawling like this.

In the background a certain Zigvolt raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the strange scene before him, honestly this would be a lot more impressive if the two fae weren’t trying to throttle the other in total silence. Wait, are they mouthing death threats to each other? Usually Sebek would never in his life dare to roll his eyes at Master Lilia but what was he to do? This was far too ridiculous, and Silver was bound to get a sore neck with the position he was in. 

The two scrabbling generals didn’t even noticed Sebek walking around them towards Silver  where he swung his fellow guard’s arm round his neck and hoisted him into his arms, may as well get him to bed, he thought as he carefully slipped out of the room, looking back to the still fighting Lilia’s, now I understand what Grandfather meant when he said that Master Lilia could be an idiot. Seven help him, these old fae were so oblivious.

[icespur]

There are not enough Mpreg Parent Akeshu fics

I must admit, I'm a bit disappointed.

it's not like there's zero. There are some, but not nearly enough or I'm not looking in the right tags.

There's especially HUGE missed potential that not enough people utilize.

I've seen wholesome Akiren as a parent. Seems everyone is in agreement he'd be the chillest, awesomest, father.

But what about Akechi?

Goro "I had a bad childhood, no father figure, Mom passed away when I was young leaving me to grow up in either Foster Homes or the closest living relatives the Social Worker could track down. Who took me in but didn't want me. so I grew up to mask my true nature by being polite on the outside and a celebrity to get some form of positive attention, and I tracked down my deadbeat father who I'm going to ruin the life and career of out of spite and vengeance, for me and my late Mother." Akechi.

The man has childhood baggage, who knows how many young children he's interacted with as an adult. So his experience would range from "limited" to "none existent"

If one of these boys wouldn't take to being a parent well immediately, it would be Akechi. Like, the man is having an external crisis, he's not okay.

"I am the LAST person that should be a father. Do I look like fatherly material to you? I can't even recall the last time I interacted or made eye contact with an infant. Maybe I never did! I can do research and read books, I'm good at researching, I'm going to read the books no matter what but that can only help so much. I know what not to do, from my childhood. I'm going to try my best to do the exact opposite of what Shido did, but no parent is perfect, I could still screw the kid up! Not to mention I'm still processing the fact that MY RIVAL HAS A FUCKING FULLY FUNCTIONING UTERUS.

I knocked up my Rival

I knocked up the man I once shot in the head

I knocked---holy hell what have I done?

I've never been interested in Women, so I never thought I'd have to worry about accidentally planting a little me inside someone. Do you realize how many women I have turned down?

So here I was, thinking I'd be safe. That obviously nothing would come from indulging in a night of passion with my frustrating, Idiotic sexy, alluring, Rival.

But once again, you are just full of surprises apparently in the internal organs sense too because you can carry children and now both of us are unironically FUCKED."

"I'm not going to force this on you, I just thought you deserved to know. If you don't want to we can--"

"Pfft, HAHAHAHA. You say that like it's an actual option. Do I need to remind you what my upbringing was like? I'm not repeating the same mistakes, I'm not leaving. Granted you are obviously in a better financial situation and have a proper support group unlike my Mother. But if I decide to leave now, or stay but run later down the line, what's stopping our child from living in a constant internal state of guilt and loneliness, which will eventually evolve into anger and spite and once they're of age to move out, make it their mission to hunt me down and enter a false work alliance so they can gain my trust enough to eventually betray and torture me. Or just flat out kill me. And You know what? I wouldn't blame them! I'd kill me too if I could. I can't let that happen, I refuse to put a child with my D.N.A. through what I went through. So we are moving in and getting married (oh my god, I have to move in and marry my Rival) Because that's what Japanese family laws all encourage. And I'm going to internally pray and wish that I don't somehow manage to fuck up an innocent being that belongs to us, even though I have no idea what I am doing. Did I mention I have zero experience with babies and children?"

Point is, parentGoro! Has so much potential and it should be a crime that there are so little fics exploring that.

[fire-branded]

There's something FFXIV Dawntrail did well in my opinion that I wish FFXVI had also highlighted.

These are, as always, just my personal opinions -- so I won't be mad if you disagree! Regardless, Dawntrail spoilers below the cut!

Dawntrail is very open about showing the impact and pressure that cultural and societal expectations can have on younger generations. Zoraal Ja and Bakool Ja Ja are probably the best examples of it.

Zoraal Ja, the first of three children of what is Tural's equivalent of a king, the only blood child of Gulool Ja Ja, and a child that no one thought could exist -- given that two-headed Mamool Ja normally can't reproduce. He is referred to as "The Resilient Son", and is constantly struggling to live up to this notion of him being a "miracle". He believes he must not only surpass his siblings in terms of strength and capability, but must surpass his father as well in order to prove that he is this miracle child that everyone believes him to be. After the Trial where you fight him, and he's talking to his son, he mentions things like having nothing to leave behind for the boy. Gulool Ja Ja may have loved his children, may have told and shown them that he loved them -- but in the case of Zoraal Ja, it was completely overshadowed by the legacy he needed to surpass(in his eyes) in order to be worthy of life, and by the immense pressure he was under to live up to the expectations of everyone who claims him to be a miracle child, possibly even on par with blessed siblings in terms of regard.

What he does is unconsciable and misguided, yes. I will never defend that, although it still is interesting to me that all three children took inspiration from different parts of Gulool Ja Ja's history and reign, with Zoraal Ja focusing on the fact that yes, his father had to fight against the Yok Huy in order to drive them back and get them to release their slaves. In most cases, no, peace is not obtained without some conflict. Zoraal Ja sees that people are taking for granted the peace that his father fought to give them, and he wants to remind them through war just how good they have it. Gulool Ja Ja was able to unite nearly an entire continent; if Zoraal Ja can unite the entire world, even if it's by using fear and force to bring them to heel, then surely he'll be good enough to make true him being a miracle child, right?

Then there's Bakool Ja Ja. He acts like an asshole who doesn't care, but in actuality, he cares -- a lot. He has the weight of not just his entire village and their expectations to shoulder, but he also has the grief and guilt of knowing about the countless two-headed infants who had died before his birth, just so that their people could carry out this building legacy of blessed siblings on the throne, thus affording them status and power to rise up from the darkness(literally) where they have been forced to call home. He agonizes, he cries, he despairs, and he hides it all, because he has no choice. The future of his village hinges upon his success, with his birth having been generations in the making. He can't fail. Not just for him or his people, no -- but also for those who died shortly after birth, to make their sacrifices and the parents who had to bury them's sacrifices worth it.

The expectations he has to live up to, too, are so incredibly high, with him having to live for everyone else as well as for ghosts of the past.

I bring this up because it's something I wish XVI had touched on more, too. Like many things in that game, there are hints and nods to it, yes. But like many things, it isn't really delved too deeply into, at least not beyond Clive's perspective. The expectations that Joshua and Dion likely had to struggle to live up to at young ages, how detrimental it likely was to their emotional well-being and sense of self-worth... And this isn't even mentioning the pot of worms that is royal status, or the rest of the Dominants and their respective stories and situations, especially when factoring in that they, like Cid, may well have accepted the inevitability of their deaths because of their Eikon's powers.

[ruffaloon]

.

those of you who have been following me for a long time may remember that for a solid few years, i was a one direction blog. my url was liampayny. as you might guess, liam was my favorite. there are well over 300 pages worth of posts about him on this blog. they're all still there. my last post about him was two years ago.

i never expected that i would one day look back on these posts in mourning. these past few days have felt completely unreal. i don't think i'll ever be able to fully comprehend it.

in the days leading up to his passing, i recieved several notifications alerting me that liam was posting on snapchat. i ignored these notifications. the truth is that in recent years, looking at liam did nothing for me except make me sad. even before he was gone, i missed the chubby cheeks i had fallen in love with that he had permanently gotten rid of. i missed when i could engage with his posts without worrying if he was doing alright, if he was eating enough, if the rehab he was open about going through had stuck.

he wasn't doing well. and even now, i can't help but feel a kind of twisted vindication as a self-described member of the original liam payne defense squad. i was right. i always feared something like this would happen. liam was always the least favorite, always the fandom punching bag, hated back then for reasons i still to this day do not understand. after the band it only got worse. the general public latched onto him as one direction's clear loser, the biggest failure. a pathetic untalented clout chaser. i'll never forget when people scoffed at liam's claim that he was originally the leader of the group, when everyone called him a liar and a narcissist, only for him to be proven right when the footage of their creation was released. liam carried that band on his back for the first year of their existence, and no one ever acknowledged it.

i can't help but wonder if this contributed to his passing. i can't help but wonder if one direction had never come to be, if he had never gotten the fame and the spotlight he thought he wanted - if he would still be alive. he almost certainly would be. the liam that was put under immense pressure and never thanked for it, who was fed to the relentless industrial pop star machine as a literal child, struggled with substance abuse and maintaining healthy relationships. he made bad choices and hurt a lot of people. this is true. i don't deny it and i'm not defending his actions.

it's also true that the fourteen year old liam who auditioned for the x factor was none of those things. it's him that i'm mourning. who would he have grown into, if simon cowell hadn't plucked him out of the crowd? we'll never know.

it's tragic. and it makes me angry. and scared for others in the industry.

i can't imagine the kind of fucked up survivor's guilt the other boys must be going through right now. my heart breaks for louis in particular, who has already lost so many people close to him. i hope they have good support systems. i hope the women affected by liam's actions are safe and can focus on healing in peace.

i wonder if i'll ever be able to listen to one direction again. i will, i think. but it will never be the same.

i wonder if one day i'll look back on this and cringe at how melodramatic it all is.

this is a much longer post than i ever expected to write, yet i feel like i've only scratched the surface. 300 pages worth of feelings condensed into one farewell.

goodbye, liam. goodbye, the sunshine of my life.

[snapeaddict]

Dearest friend

It was late, but not as late as it was when she usually looked up from her desk to notice how many hours had passed since she had started grading papers. The clock had not even struck half-past ten, she gave it a perplexed look, trying to understand why she felt as if she had just been pulled out of her routine despite sitting alone and undisturbed in the silence of her living room. Perhaps it was the silence itself; she had always graded her papers in the staff room on Saturday nights, and students, ghosts and paintings formed a familiar, soothing jabber she was used to hearing there. There was nothing like that in her tower, which she used to enjoy very much; but now, alone with the ticking of her clock, she found herself longing for that never-ending chatter. It was why she had deserted the staff room. Now, no matter the hour, no matter how many children were roaming the corridors, all was always terribly silent, and that silence was only ever broken by the consistent ringing of the bell and military-like footsteps. This sounded nothing like Hogwarts; she felt alienated. It was like looking at a beloved, familiar face and seeing nothing but foreign traits, being unable to understand why and how the muscles of that face moved, to decipher any kind of feeling behind the once friendly eyes – to see nothing at all. 

No need for metaphors. Severus carried out the task very well: he personified that silence with formidable charisma.

She looked down at her papers again. She had been grading them inattentively, with the kind of automatic skills that years of practice and a recurring lesson within the curriculum could afford a teacher – thank Merlin for small mercies. However, the paragraph she was now reading, written in shaky handwriting by a first-year student who clearly had not used many quills in the past, was absolutely mind-boggling. She could not quite pinpoint what had been going on in that boy’s brain, most likely he hadn’t had the time to proofread his essay, but that spelling mistake was unfortunate, especially in that context, and it was only because he was a first-year that she was ready to believe it was an innocent error. 

So she understood. That was why everything had felt so out of place all of a sudden: this right here was funny, and a part of her must have felt like laughing, but that too felt foreign, so here she was, wondering what was wrong. And it was as simple as that. Something was triggering a long-forgotten instinct, that of laughing, and she could not entirely process it, because she usually shared the funny student mistakes with someone. And they laughed about it together, in the staff room, on Saturday nights.

She felt that the stream of her thoughts was about to continue. She feared what reason would tell her; she precipitately took out her wand, duplicated the essay, put it aside, sat down again, went on to the next paper. At the end of the school year, there was a good chunk of assignments on that pile – all hilarious or terrible mistakes, answers and witty remarks from her students. That pile of papers only existed for those moments of timeless nostalgia she desperately needed to indulge in, and she kept on adding to it, arranging it in a neat stack, hiding it in one of her drawers. She could never open it without feeling the simultaneous burn of shame, guilt, anger, and past friendship.

-

There was a thin line between demonstrations of power and vulnerability. If you gave the impression that you were never around, if people started thinking perhaps all power had been relegated to your right hands, then you and the entire fragile ecosystem you were the centre of would be targeted by reinvigorated rebels; if, on the contrary, you were seen too often, you would become just as much of a target, and risk exposure. Severus was not meant to lead – in fact, his whole life had been spent creating a persona that could fake an innate sense of authority with simple but masterly use of demeanour and voice. Suddenly all that careful work fell into pieces, and he was thrown into a new system of hierarchy on whose preservation countless lives, and the outcome of the war, depended. There would be no use in trying to depict the mental state of the newly appointed headmaster; the dichotomy between inner and outer selves was such that doing so would certainly spark a literary debate on the theme of vraisemblance. Severus thus proceeded as he usually did in times of crisis, shutting down all emotions, putting on a familiar mask of indifference, scheduling his appearances in the corridors and Great Hall with care and repressed anxiety. His face became accustomed to the tension; it grew around his facial muscles as quickly as warm water freezes in the cold of winter.

Strangely, it was not the moments of intense pressure and unspeakable horrors that had, more than once, endangered his carefully crafted composure. It was, in fact, his rounds in the corridors: he sometimes crossed paths with unfortunate students who, because he was especially skilled at moving quietly, never heard him coming. There were a few seconds during which they kept on talking – even in situations of crisis, teenagers can be insouciant, if only to cope with reality. Thus Severus found himself interrupting many a conversation which were not of the highest intellectual standard. Many times he felt the shadow of an ironic smile on his lips, the taste of a sarcastic remark on his tongue: these were always followed by a vertiginous sense of estrangement from everything that surrounded him. By this time the students had spotted him and deserted the place, or they were waiting, terror-stricken, wondering what would come next. There Severus would have to compose himself, and the effort drained him in a way he could never fully explain. Often, when the students had left, he felt the urge to look over his shoulder, ready to mock the conversation he had overhead once more; then he was very still; and, finally, painfully, he kept on walking.

So he kept a list. It was cathartic, and he enjoyed the puzzled look on Albus’ painted face when he responded to him that this was a ‘private matter’. Very neatly, in the manner of the Domesday book, which is to say in a very organized fashion, he wrote down the silliest bits of conversations and remarks from students, sometimes adding comments in the margin such as ‘typical’, ‘6 years of education wasted. Glad I am not the one having to meet them for their orientation session’ or the occasional ‘colourful. To keep on hand in case of a meeting with the minister.’ In contrast to every other aspect of his life, from material matters to the most existential ones, he did not plan what to do with this parchment; he filled it carefree; it sat in one of his desk’s drawers that May evening.

It only left its place to be covered in remorseful tears, but the pile of essays in Minerva’s drawer remained desperately still.

[viscardiac]

A season left of summer - XIV

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 𝐗 𝐎𝐂

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: “But know this,” she rose an eyebrow. “I think Ceryse Hightower a poor match for the prince.” “And should Aella, a babe, suit him better?” He shook his head with a smile, pulling Visenya closer. “She just might.” “Let her be. Soon, Lady Ceryse shall give him an heir to care for, and this shall be long forgotten.” “I do hope you’re right,” Visenya sighed, leaning on his chest. But I don’t think you are, she thought.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.535

𝐗𝐈𝐕 - 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 '𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐔𝐓

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 || 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓

"Dear Rhaena... And all the rest of you, who will, no doubt, read this letter. I hope you fare well, and know I will not return until I see fit.

I write in good spirits, later, perhaps, than I should have. My child came to this world safe and alive, as am I now. A boy, large and beautiful, whom we named Viserion, after the queen. I am confined to bed by the midwife until she sees fit, or as she calls it, "until I am fully recovered". My son has occupied the better part of my days as he grows. When he sees me, it is with his father's eyes, that which brings me great joy. Had this senseless exile been lifted, you would meet him sooner, but alas, you shall wait. I trust all is well with your dear friend Alayne, as well as with our brothers and sisters. I shall tell you more about Viserion as he grows and finds his footing, but for now, he sleeps on my breast.

Your sister, Aella."

***

"Dearest daughter, I am overjoyed in receiving word of your successful labor, albeit through Rhaena.

She told us you found offense in your mother's letters, and therefore, I write it in her stead. Though the situation is unsavory, to say the least, I am nothing if not proud of your accomplishment, proud to say I am Prince Viserion's grandsire. I would like you to keep us apprised of his development, and look forward to meeting him, as you said, when you see fit to return to Westeros.

Your father, King Aenys."

"I am still livid that you married the prince, but I should tolerate him for as long as he should treat you with the due care. I am sure my nephew is a beautiful boy, or else he would not be my nephew, after all. Father needed days to recover from the news of Viserion's birth, but he will be well. You know how he always was, fainting any time he would need to make a decision. Mother wants me to tell you to return — but I tell you to stay put. 

Vaella is unwell, though I don't think any of them want me to tell you. I don't think she will survive the year, and Alysanne is the saddest of children. She looks forward to meeting her nephew, though, as do I. 

Queen Visenya has returned safely, as I'm sure you already know.

Your sister, Rhaena."

***

"Dear Rhaena, I am distraught over the news you have for me about Vaella. We all hoped she would have fared better, and she is often in my prayers. I hope for the best, as I do for Viserion, though he was never as frail as Vaella is. Relay my sympathies to mother, as I am sure she will be terribly sad, as am I, and surely you too.

However terrible the times are to do it, I have news of my own to give, as I am once more with child. Maegor insists he is to have another son, but the fate belongs to the gods. I will be glad with however many children the Mother deems right to give me, and I should love them all the same. Viserion has learned to laugh, and will do so at any given opportunity. You must visit me soon, to know him, to tell me the gossip of the court.

Your sister, Aella.”

***

“ALREADY?

Your sister, Rhaena.”

***

“So will the gods. And my husband.

Tell me news of Vaella, Rhaena. Queen Visenya tells me she grows fainter by the day. It guilts me to see my own son so well and have news that my sister is to die.

Your sister, Aella.”

***

“I delayed sending this letter. Unlike you, I have no sort of good news to relay. Dark wings, dark words, though no crow carried this. Vaella continued to sicken. The maesters say there was nothing that could be done, and I think they just didn’t do enough. They seldom do anything that does not align with their agendas.

She was burned, as we all are. Father had Quicksilver do it, and there is a gloom over our heads. The court says she was an infant and infants die more often than they do not, and I pay it no mind. These are the same people that spread out vicious lies about me and my travels, of how my maidenhead is gone, given to a common man. Mother has finally convinced father to do something about it, and now they wish for me and Aegon to be married.

The High Septon opposes it, as he opposes everything — I'm sure he would have me wed to his Hightower nephew as he did with Lady Ceryse. I don't believe either me or Aegon feel anything about the subject. We always presumed we would be wed after all, as I was closer to him in age than you were.

I forbid you of dying on your new child's labors as much as I did the first.

Rhaena."

***

"I never knew what to write you. Grief written doesn't seem like enough of a word. Is it ever, even spoken? Fool that I am, I pictured Vaella grown, perhaps even betrothed to my son. Mother would never allow it, but one can dream. The gods will have her, they must. She was but a babe.

The court is comprised of liars who know nothing about anything that matters. When they find no gossip, they invent it at our cost. They wouldn't dare say it to your face, though.

The maids have managed to convince my husband I am to have another son, but I am not so sure this time. It feels different. This child grows at the same rate Viserion did, likely, I will be just as huge when the time comes.

I do not intend to die in childbed anytime soon, Rhaena. I will be back to haunt the halls of our home. But it seems like our fate is to be wed without the other.

Your sister, Aella."

***

"It appears that fate has nothing but annoyance in its schedule. It'll be fine, I believe, however much of a nuisance the High Septon has decided to make himself.

As far as courtly gossip goes, I must tell you, Lord Celtigar has married that Harroway girl, in hopes she might yet give him the son he seems to need. I feel sorry for her. For a valyrian, Lord Celtigar certainly lacks a character to love or hate.

As for a son of your own, well, it would be terribly lucky. Does the lighting strike twice on the same spot? We must see. Would it not be a beauty, to give Viserion a sister to wed?

Your sister, Rhaena."

***

"I presume it would be all the easier, if there was a sister to wed Viserion to. As much as everything ought to be less complicated if we were men. The court wouldn’t mind something so trivial as whom we choose to bed, for one.

Mother seems to have given up sending patronizing letters that do nothing but sour my moods when they arrive. She has taken to tell father to write them, and however much I may know he means no harm, it is also due to his indulgence of her will that we stand as we do now. As much as I love them there is some share of it which will never stop being unforgivable.

When is the wedding planned to happen? I must send you and Aegon gifts.

Your sister, Aella.”

***

“Mother claims our wedding should be as soon as possible, but father seems tired enough, his lords wish to make an event of it and he has the bad habit of failing to tell them no. It is yet to be announced, and all hell will break loose, I’m sure of it. Mother is sure Viserion will be spoiled by your husband, but I trust you will do a fine job with them.

I will be expected to bear children, and I regret not being able to do it with the same joy you do. I don’t think I ever will. One will suffice. It will be enough for me, and it will be enough for Aegon, he may face Dreamfyre if it displeases him. I expect my nephew is growing strong, both of them, if your maids and husband are to be believed.

Your sister, Rhaena.”

***

“Viserion will outgrow me faster than I could ever imagine. He is not a year old, and yet, he is terribly big. His nursemaids have a hard time carrying him around, and so do I. The babe grows at the same fast rate Viserion did. Maegor has agreed to let me name it after our grandmother, after you. Should it be a girl, she will be Rhaella. If a boy, we are to name him Rhaegel.

I regretted you wouldn’t be here when labor came for Viserion, and for this new babe it shall be the same, for you need to focus on your own wedding. And Aegon has more to fear than just Dreamfyre’s breath if there’s a demand for more than you will to give. You must give me notice of how things went if I cannot be there myself.

Your sister, Aella.”

***

“As I predicted, things are at odds.

Father announced the match between me and Aegon, and the Faith… did not like it. I’m sure that hateful High Septon would rather I marry one of his Hightower nephews, as he did with Lady Ceryse. They were not all that happy with your wedding either, might I say, but the match you made seems to be… acceptable in face of wedding brother and sister. None of us cares the least for the High Septon’s opinion on the matter, valyrians did it for millenia, and so did the Targaryen. We will continue to do so long after they’re gone.

For once, father took a stand about it, and there has been talk among the court of things I shall not repeat. It is all the better that you need not hear it.

Your sister, Rhaena.”

***

"The court speaks because father serves no justice for their words. Maegor says this High Septon ought to be burned to the ground, and I tend to agree. His meddling has caused enough trouble as of now. Burn you, yourself, this letter if you must, but should you face trouble for that miserable old man's babble, I will be more than happy to ask of my husband to go and fulfill that wish with Balerion. And he would oblige.

Father should be controlling all this nonsense instead of planning a wedding. The gall! Talk about a princess, a prince in such a manner you yourself dare not repeat. Father should have his tongue at the very least. How does mother even tolerate it? It's absurd.

Aella."

***

"The High Septon has no use for that tongue of his, it would seem to me, except to cause discord. And yet, the plans for the wedding stand strong. They preach on the streets, ridiculously, might I add, calling us abominations as if they themselves were not so for the sheer boredom they cause me. 

Aegon is more worried than I am. I advised him to take a dragon for himself, and he will not do so, for no reason I can ascertain. He should. If anything happens to me, you have my leave to send that terrible husband of yours atop the Black Dread to reduce the Starry Sept to ash and gravel.

Your sister, Rhaena."

***

"It gladdens me to see you accept the help I can offer, even if it breaks exile. What will father do, exile us?

Sometimes I think he and mother wish for an early grave. They must. Else, why do they have so little regard for what happens right in front of their eyes? Things are not fine, nor will they be until this behaviour is excised. But of course, who am I to give an opinion? The midwife says much of my anger must be to blame on the babe, but I think her wrong. I am justified in wanting things done right.

Don’t allow them to place you in danger of becoming something you’re not. I was so close to it, and I would regret it my entire life.

Aella.”

***

“The wedding was… eventful. I’m sure you already know. Queen Visenya left it in protest, and no doubt has either sent you letters or told you in person. The Sept of Remembrance was full, and the streets were even fuller with all that hateful mob that listens to the High Septon’s detestable discourse.

We then had the banquet. I’m sure this was mother’s work, no doubt, and yet… Father has taken the title you and Prince Maegor carried, Prince of Dragonstone, and laid it upon Aegon. He cares not for the title, it is no more than words to him. I cherish it, but it is in truth his, not mine, as it was your husband’s, and not yours. It is bound to stir worse trouble, as Queen Visenya keeps this court in one piece. I’m afraid father cannot manage it on his own. Never could.

I feared these news, who are sure to anger your lord husband, would cause you or the babe harm. Even if I were not the one to give them. You are well within your term, no doubt just as big as the last time I saw you, if not bigger still. Please be well.

Your sister, Rhaena.”

***

“I delayed this one letter for one too many reasons.

For the first, Maegor was livid father would do such a thing after sending us into a senseless exile. I was, too. I will not lie to you, we took offense, and for long, I was angry at you for taking something that belonged to me. But you’re right. It was never mine to begin with, it was his, just as now it is Aegon’s.

For the second, labor came earlier than I thought it would. Perhaps it was the anger, perhaps it was the babe that wished to leave on its own accord — and I wouldn’t put it past him. Maegor blames father. He will not hear it otherwise — though he will still take any chance to burn the hateful mob you tell me of to a crisp. No doubt there are many more hateful words to my own children, who are babes at arms.

And it would seem the maids were right again. This babe is a boy, Rhaegel, as I have told you he would be called. While his brother was calm, he is fretful, and will make noise at all things he can. Not all cries, mind you, but I think he will hever tire of using his words when he learns them. Rhaegel reminds me of the paintings of our late lady grandmother, Queen Rhaenys. I wished she could have met them, the two of them. With enough hope, you still will, though.

Your sister, Aella.”

[awkwardlyfangirly]

I love the Dreamsend, Inc. characters from End Roll SO MUCH. I love their relationships I love their personalities I love their designs I LOVE THEM. and so I wrote a fic about Raymond and Walter after the events of the game :P

(ignore the way I get lost and incoherent when I have to figure out how to end a story)

/////////////

end roll fanfiction ~ takes place after the game so big spoilers lolol you've been warned ~ takes place after the true ending ~ tw/cw: mentions of suicide

/////////////

Maybe the news shouldn't have been so much of a shock. Raymond had talked to the boy - stood right in front of him - seen the haunted darkness in his eyes. He'd seen how much guilt the boy carried on his shoulders.

He kept trying to tell himself not to feel so… responsible for it. It wasn't his fault that Russell had killed himself. If anyone had seen it coming or had been able to prevent it, they would have. No one was happy with this outcome. No one ever wanted it to happen.

But still. Raymond felt the guilt, gnawing at him like it must have gnawed at Russell. If only he’d talked to him longer. If only he’d held the boy by the shoulders and really dug into him - how are you doing. really. do you need anything? we don’t want your mind to crack.

No one had even considered that Russell’s mind might snap under the pressure. All they thought about was succeeding. All they thought about was get him to repent.

Raymond missed the kid. He’d been a little odd, sure, but he’d been so brave, and so smart. There had been a lot going on in that boy’s head.

And now it was all gone.

It was haunting, really, to remember that bright and vibrant world; and then to remember how completely and utterly it had been destroyed. There was no trace left of it. None at all.

Raymond had been looking forward to talking to the kid after he’d gotten out. He had so many questions for him. That place had been messed up. And he wanted to see the kid’s face relax for once. He wanted to see him smile, for once.

Dang.

Well, it was getting late. Walter would be on his back tomorrow for not finishing all of the paperwork he’d been handed; but it had been such a thick, aggressive stack slammed down on his desk so early in the morning, and Raymond had never thrived in an office. This was his max. No more paperwork tonight. His head was fuzzy. He needed a drink.

Raymond switched off his office light and trudged down the hall. The air had been so tense, so gloomy, ever since the incident, as everyone called it in hushed whispers. Dreamsend, Inc. had just taken a major hit. And no one was taking it well.

There were several other employees still in the building this late. They ignored Raymond. He did the same.

A gust of hot, wet wind hit Raymond as soon as he opened the door. It was stormy tonight. There wasn’t much rain yet, thankfully. Only a few drizzly droplets.

Raymond tugged his hat down firmer on his head and marched on. The bar was only a few drops away. He’d be fine.

He was drenched by the time he finally got inside the bar. Out of breath and dripping. Now, at least, he looked as gross as he felt.

The bartender knew him. She waved as he approached.

“Pretty stormy out there, huh?”

“Don’t remind me.” He ordered and glanced around himself.

There was a blond man two seats down from him at the bar, staring at his own glass and obviously trying not to notice Raymond.

“...Walter?”

The man got up to leave.

“What are you doing here?” Walter at a bar was somehow the last thing Raymond could have expected. Walter seemed like he’d drink wine alone in his living room. Or drink coffee in his office, late at night. Honestly, that’s where Raymond expected him to be. Bent over a desk, stressing about the public nightmare that Russell’s situation was turning into. Filing hundreds and hundreds of pages of paperwork. Eyebrows sharp and fingers flying.

Walter sighed and finally looked over at Raymond, his eyes narrowed and angry.

“None of your concern,” he huffed. “I was just leaving, anyway.”

“No, you weren’t. Hey. Sit down. I’ll buy you a drink.”

Walter wavered.

“C’mon. I could use the company.”

Walter let out another long sigh and sat down, still a seat away.

The bartender brought him a fresh drink and he stared down at it, running his fingers over the glass.

Raymond hadn’t seen Walter in a few days; they’d both been so caught up in the chaos that had erupted ever since they’d received the panicked screams over the intercom. He took advantage of this moment to study him.

His eyes were sunken, rimmed with black; his lips chapped and shaky; his complexion pale and dry. The skin around his fingernails was chewed raw.

Raymond bit his lip. He knew Walter was upset about everything - but he hadn’t expected to see him rattled like this. Walter didn’t get rattled. He just got stressed.

But the man sitting next to him right now had obviously not slept in a few days, or eaten a solid meal, or even drawn a proper breath. He was beyond stressed. He was disturbed. Haunted.

“You good?” Raymond asked, softly.

Walter glared at him.

“Obviously not,” he snapped. “That kid - that kid was supposed to be our first success. Our first ever success. I was so proud. So excited. But he - he -”

Walter curled his fist tight around the glass and thumped his head against the bartop.

He stayed like that for a while. Raymond sipped his drink.

Walter lifted his head again.

“He was supposed to be the one,” he mumbled. “The only one to actually work. I had so much faith in him.”

Raymond ran his fingers along the wet ring on the bartop.

“You know he wasn’t, like, just a test subject, right?” he said, softly.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“I mean it. He was fourteen, you know. He was just a kid. And - and we made him feel so guilty he offed himself. We did our job a little too well. Don’t you feel bad about that, Walter? Stop blaming him for dying. We were the ones who killed him.”

“We didn’t kill him, you idiot -”

“Yes, we did! We did and you know it!!”

The bartender shot them both a dirty look. Raymond fell silent.

“I’m so disgusted at myself,” he said, quietly. “At the both of us, really, if I’m being honest.”

Walter didn’t reply.

“Don’t you feel guilty about it, Walter? Even a little? You have to realize the hand you played in it.”

Walter bit at his fingernail.

“Whatever.”

It was getting hot and loud in Raymond’s chest. If he looked at Walter any longer, he’d start yelling. And then he’d get kicked out.

He left some money for the bartender and stood up. He was almost dry now. Maybe it wouldn’t be raining outside anymore. He could only hope, right?

Walter was bent over the bartop again when he left. His shoulders were shaky.

Raymond stepped into the hot, musky air outside. The door slammed behind him.

For a moment, he considered heading back to the office to finish the paperwork. Don’t worry, Russell. I won’t forget about you. I’ll do the paperwork for you.

But in the end, he just turned around and went home.

It didn’t rain for the rest of the night.

[titisorriso]

Chapter 9/ Never Again (Wild Skies AU)

  The days were restless, the mornings were spent forging, the afternoons training, and the nights passed with her watching the skies and sea. Astrid led all the activities, the bags under her eyes hidden by the war paint, her tiredness obscured by her yells and tenacity.

Berk was at war.

She never thought this day would come. They were vikings, sure, but their tribe never worshipped war. Stoick did his best to avoid this, to maintain allies across the land, and although he had many, even them weren't expecting this fight.  

Astrid swung her axe, demonstrating to some young yelps how to fight and protect themselves. The strong shield, symbol of a Viking's battle proficiency, was held by each and every one of the warriors. The newbies were struggling; the wood and metal too heavy for their weak arms to keep up. Astrid noticed:

��- Never put down your shield. It is the one thing that will stop both a man's sword and a Nadder's spikes. It's your best friend and savior, so either you grow to carry it, or you better tell your family which rite you want them to say when you make your way to Valhalla.

One of the recruits raised his hand, Astrid sighing as she allowed him to speak.

 - No offense, ma'am... But where is your shield?

She scowled, the boy cowering back.

 - I don't need one. One day, if any of you become respectable warriors, you won't need one either.

A friendly, scruffy voice spoke up, entering the arena:

 - But until then, you can get all sorts of shields in all shapes and sizes right back at my shop! We're having a discount sale for young meat!

Astrid dismissed her soldiers, who made their way back home quickly, relishing the free time. She approached her tired old friend, a weak smile sprouting forth:

 - Gobber, you should be forging, not taking strolls.

Her voice was softer than when she talked to most people. Gobber had been someone to rely on in dark times. The moment Hiccup disappeared, both of them found comradery in talking about the scrawny boy who forged like there was no tomorrow. After some years, Astrid started visiting less and less, and now, with their respective problems, they rarely saw one another.

 - Ah, you know me. I'll find a way to do everything without help on time, don't you worry about that... Actually, i wanted to show you something. There were some interesting developments that i made with Hiccup's old drawings and schemes.

She shivered. The Valkyrie had completely forgot she asked that of him all those years ago.

Asking Gobber to figure out what all those plans were, what legacy did the boy leave behind, if he made anything that could be used against the dragons. Afterall, in the past, Astrid thought of Hiccup as a genius and one of the smartest vikings in Berk; how foolish was she.

Now, those papers were found useless. Even if there was something important there, it was probably made to aid Toothless. Besides, she wanted nothing to do with Hiccup anymore. He was a page in her book she was ready to rip off and set fire to.

 - Listen, Gobber, i...

He interrupted quickly:

 - Astrid, i know, okay?... I know i'm hanging on to false hope, i know i'm not your teacher anymore, but please, trust me when i say, you want to see this.

He looked earnest. Gobber suffered a lot of punishments thanks to the heir's disappearance. Gobber was the one responsible for the kids, he was their teacher and keeper when their parents weren't around, so when the news came out, Stoick couldn't think straight. Gobber went to trial, losing his honor and role of orientator in the arena; the only thing stopping his sentence to escalate to death being his title of Stoick's brother-in-arms. Subsequently, he became obsessed with the theory that Hiccup didn't die, that there was no blood or fabric or vestige of him, so he must have survived. Afterall, dragons weren't exactly polite eaters.

Astrid felt guilt, and maybe it was that guilt that drove her to accept his offer.

  He closed his forge. All windows, doors and exits barred, the only light being the fire inside the smelter that burned bright enough to illuminate the walls. Astrid observed Hiccup's childhood schemes, remembering his drawings back in his hut and noticing how rudimentary these ones looked in comparison. A smile forced itself on her lips, a certain nostalgia to imagining the boy jumping around the forge trying to do all of these in secret while also doing his work.

 - I miss him too.

Gobber spoke, snapping her out of her haze. She straightened her face, clearing her throat as she tried to not involve herself too much.

 - So... What did you want to show me?

He smiled, the normal excitement and edge of insanity in his voice popping back as he hooked and pulled as many pages from the wall as possible.

 - So, it's no secret that the boy was a bit nutty in the head, even when the job was as easy as sharpening swords, he still found some distraction to keep him occupied. Weird inventions with the sole purpose of "aiding us" in our battle, but as you know, it always managed to make everything a bit worse.

She held back from whispering a "still does".

 - Because of that, i looked at all his drawing and creations with those lenses. Thoughts filled with good intentions, but ultimately helpless. Something that any self-respecting viking would turn their nose at!

Astrid crossed her arms:

 - Yes, Gobber, i understand. You don't need to spell it out to me... I remember how he was. Just get to the point.

The smith halted for a moment. Stacking the specific papers in a curious manner as he prolonged his pause. He seemed unsure, almost aware of how crazy he was about to sound.

 - Well... That's how i chose to see it. That he made certain things with good intentions... But what if... - He took a moment to gather courage, spilling out what he meant with a mournful look - Astrid, what if Hiccup wasn't helping us. What if he was helping them.

Astrid shivered. She tried to mask the expression that forced its way up, begging to be seen. Her eyes went to the floor, trying to not make direct contact with the man, begging he would brush it off as being uncomfortable talking about the "dead" kid.

 - ... What do you mean them?

He took a step closer, his wooden leg dragging on the ground. The Valkyrie met his eyes.

 - I mean, what if Hiccup didn't get eaten or killed and tossed away... What if he ran away with the beasts?

Astrid took a moment... Then burst out laughing. She held her stomach, turning her face away, laughing until tears came out of her eyes.

 - Have you gone completely insane, Gobber?! These devils have no feelings or rational thought. They can't run away with Hiccup like some sort of scorned bride!

Gobber remained serious. Astrid tried to keep the mocking smile on, but the lie did not stick.

 - Astrid... I know i have no title, no worth and no claim... I know that questioning you, as a thane, can get me in a lot of trouble, but i need to know.

He took a step forward, the Valkyrie unmoving, paralyzed. Slowly, he grabbed her hand, holding it between his palm and hook, a pleading, teary look as the question rolled out of his tongue like a relieved breath, as if he already knew the answer before even asking.

 - ... Is Hiccup alive?... Astrid, is Hiccup the one that saved you from drowning?... Is he... The Night Stutter?

  A heavy silence. Moments of breathing and staring as she felt that urge. The urge to be a bad person, to lie and walk away, break his heart and let him believe himself mad. The urge was strong, and although it was wrong, she knew it was about self-defense rather than actual mean-spiritedness. About keeping yourself safe, knowing not many people like her got a chance to be where she was, a thane, the future chief of Berk even without any blood relation to the current chief. She couldn’t throw that away in a whim. Still, there was something in the now pathetic man that drove her to empathize: Gobber's situation could have been the same as hers. She always felt on the edge of falling out of Stoick's good graces, and she saw before her what would happen if she crossed the line.

Hiccup was alive. He was alive and well, flying around and enjoying his freedom while people like her and Gobber stayed behind to fix the mess. To take the brunt of the sword.

She turned away, unable to keep looking him in the eyes.

 - ... I don't... I'm sorry, Gobber.

She slowly pulled her hand away.

 - I'm sorry that i can't give you the answer that you want.

That was as cryptic as she could afford. A bad taste in her mouth with each word, something brewing in her stomach as she felt the necessity to heave and cry, but she held her ground. The man looked down, his hands falling to his sides, dejected.

 - ... It's okay, Astrid... I shouldn't put this much weight on you... Afterall, you're still a young lady!... You need to be fighting and courting! Pay no mind to the ramblings of this old man.

He turned away, his shoulders slumped, the warrior wondered if he was hiding tears. He slowly started putting the schemes and drawings back in place, mumbling things to himself so quietly Astrid couldn't discern any of it.

 - I'm... Going to go now, okay?

 - Yes, yes, you have a war to fight. Go ahead! Knock'em dead!

He spoke cheerful but did not turn around.

Astrid turned to leave, the sound of the door creaking open.

 - Just one more thing, if you wouldn't mind, thane?

She whipped around, staring at his back.

 - Anything, Gobber.

He turned to look at her, a huge smile with tears of joy streaming down his cheeks.

 - Just tell him to come by if he ever has time, alright?

  Staring at the ceiling, playing with the sheets, counting the seconds. All techniques she tried to find herself asleep, to no avail. There was a plethora of moments in her life that she was not proud of, that kept her awake and bursting with nightmares for many years; but ever since that night it had gotten worse. Ever since Hiccup said he loved her.

There was no one to turn to. No one to tell. Gobber now knew the truth, but she still couldn't risk confidence, not when it could put his life in danger.

So, she laid there. Questioning her feelings for him, her duty with the village and her role in the war, and somehow, above all of that, the tinge of doubt that came to her whenever she thought of dragons. Calling them devils, monsters, beasts, all of it felt wrong, but it wasn't supposed to.

She was a dragon hunter. She killed and maned many of them, and in turn, they killed many of hers. Did Hiccup know that? Something about the way he said things, it seemed like he believed Berk was no longer looking to exterminate dragons. How much did he know? Even more important, how much he didn't?

Rain fell on the roof, the sound being the final straw as Astrid got up, realizing there would be no sleep tonight.

She grabbed her axe, moving through the darkness and silence of the village towards the arena, unbothered by the heavy droplets drenching her.

  The arena was eerie. The usual clattering of blades and yelling replaced by water meeting rock and metal. She opened the wooden gate, the rain slowly fading out as she approached a still lit torch. With the light source in hand, she slowly marched towards her goal.

The cage of a Deadly Nadder was usually heavy metal doors and wooden beams to stop the beast from breaking or melting their way out, but this one was different. This dragon had been here since Astrid was a girl, she fought against it and trained many recruits with it, and after a while, it stopped trying to get out.

The Nadder was now behind bars. That was it. All that stopped the beast from leaving was thin metal bars that it could melt any day. Still, it never left.

Many times, Astrid wondered if it had just been broken, if it finally realized it had no way out and accepted the life of a prisoner rather than death. Often, Astrid thought of this beast as a coward, but now, the feelings of the beast felt a bit too familiar.

It was young back then, when it still had a fighting spirit and the dream of running away, of finally escaping and meeting others like it, but with time and training, it realized the world had other plans. That people expected something from it and it had no choice. With time, that trapped feeling felt like home, like how things were supposed to be. It's not that it wasn't fighting, there was just nothing to fight. It realized its role; it needed to obey and follow. No second thoughts or chances.

Astrid stared into the beast's eyes.

This was home. 

The fire flickered, the Nadder waiting for orders, for the gate to open so it could perform its duty again. The warrior obliged.

She opened the cell, taking steps back as it took steps forward, mimicking her, watching her movement as if it were a dance and it was waiting for its cue.

Carefully, Astrid put her axe down, watching as the beast's pupils grew. The Nadder was confused, but curious, almost expectant.

The Valkyrie took a deep breath and dropped the torch.

Her eyes took a while to adapt to the darkness, the rain had completely stopped. Their breaths were synchronized, waiting.

Her hand went forward, staying in the air right in front of the dragon, her palms sweating as there was still uncertainty in her mind. What stopped the beast from attacking? From taking this opportunity and biting off her hand? The hand on her side clenched, her unease quickly becoming fear as she noticed the beast approaching.

The texture of the dragon's scales was different from Toothless. Her nose meeting the warrior's palm like it was normal. As if they had done this many times before. The Nadder rubbed herself against Astrid's hand.

"She trusts me."

The realization came like a wave. She didn't run or fly away because, to her, Astrid was her friend. The dragon trusted her to not harm her, to do what needed to be done and then allow her to go back to her spot and sleep and eat. Astrid didn't even realize what she was doing, the respect that she gave to this dragon without even realizing. The trust she instilled and the false kindness she had given out of routine, out of obligation, like second nature.

Tears streamed down her face as she took a couple steps forward, the beast not even flinching as Astrid hugged her tight.

 - I'm so sorry...

Hiccup was right. She couldn't believe it, her mind reeling from everything that she had done while believing these creatures were nothing but monsters. She let go of the dragon, the Nadder tilting her head to the side, confused with Astrid's behavior, but still appreciating the affection.

“Never again.”

She wiped her tears, determination filling her heart.

 - I'm getting you out of here.

  His head was pounding, his skin itching and his lungs hurting. Of all the times Hiccup had been captured, this was by far the worst scenario. They even took his metal leg! Who does that?!

His eyes creeped open, his vision hazy and a bit blurred, but on the upside, he could move his body. On the downside, he heard and felt the rattling of chains as his hands were restrained.

He leaned his head back, hitting it against the stones a few times. There needed to be a way for him to force his mind to create some smart ideas.

 - Hello?... Anyone there?

His voice was raspy as he tried to get some attention. Were there no guards? Well, there really was no need for them anyway, it's not like there was a way out of here.

He felt his body wanting to find Toothless. To see if he was okay, wondering what terrible things they were doing to him, but those thoughts wouldn't help right now. The questions of how long did Johann plan this, who's attention was he trying to get, how were these buildings made and did they have to do with the Razorwhips disappearing?

He pulled forward, testing the strength of the chains. They tensed but remained strong.

 - HEY! Anyone! Let me OUT!

He yelled and made the chains rattle. A punch to the metal door of the cell:

 - QUIET DOWN, PRISONER!

So, there was someone there. Hiccup itched his face against his shoulder, noticing his armor was filled with holes and burns from the acid. His voice came at an almost reassuring tone:

 - Oh, so there is someone there... What's your name?

He was met with silence, but he could hear a shuffling of fabric as the guard moved.

 - C'mon, what bad could it do for me to know your name? It's not like i can do anything.

The guard punched the door again:

 - I said SILENCE! You are not to speak another word.

Hiccup noticed his tactic wasn't working. Since being friendly wasn't the way, he would try a different method.

 - You know... It doesn't really *matter* how trapped i am right now. I have dealt with worse enemies than a trader with some exotic weapons. Ever heard of the Grimborn brothers? Yeah, i dealt with them. Let's just say it's not a good idea to be on my bad side.

He was met with a long silence, and then a prolonged laugh.

 - Oh, i'm aware of your doings, Night Stutter. I know them way too well.

He heard keys jingle as the door was unlocked. Hiccup scooched back, thinking of how he could react against this guy while fully in chains.

The familiar face that appeared made the rider shiver.

 - ... Krogan?...

The man smiled. There was a huge new scar going across his face, and his right leg was replaced with a metal spike.

 - Surprised to see me, Haddock?

Hiccup's stomach turned, his anger rising as this simple kidnapping became more problematic than he imagined. He killed the Grimborn brothers, he defeated Drago and Toothless became the new alpha. Krogan was Drago's servant, a lackey he thought the monster had given an end to; but now, Hiccup wondered how big of a threat this all was, who was involved in this and what was really happening.

He jumped forward, forgetting his wounds, the chains and the lack of a leg. The rider fell backwards with his failed attempt of lunging at him.

 - WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! WHAT DID YOU DO TO TOOTHLESS?!

Hiccup expected anything from him. A sadistic laugh, a mean remark, even a punch to the gut.

Krogan said nothing.

The man just stared at the rider, a mysterious look over his eyes.

 - Your dragon is unharmed. Johann needs him alive to command the other beasts.

Hiccup's rage did not falter even with the reluctant answer.

 - I swear, if only one of his scales is out of place, Odin have mercy--

 - What? What will you do, rider?!

The interruption caught Hiccup off guard. What could he do? Nobody knew he was here; he didn't even leave a note back home because he thought it would be a quick surveillance.

 - That's the thing, Hiccup Haddock, you always need others. You're useless by yourself. The dragon is gone, your precious Berserker friends are too busy dealing with a sudden Dragonvine outbreak, Alvin has a little riot the hunters incited on his hands, and Berk... Well, it's not like Berk can miss what they don't know exists...

Hiccup's brain yelled at him to not incite the hunter, but something about this situation made his rationality be destroyed:

 - I have more allies than you know. You haven't even scratched the surface.

 - Oh, please. They know you, Hiccup! Bayana, the Wingmaidens, the Defenders of the Wing, they're all busy. You are helpless, and soon, you will be dead.

The rider's head dropped, the anger slowly fading to a sense of despair.

 - I... I've been through worse. This is nothing.

 - Do you truly believe that?

Krogan approached Hiccup, kneeling to see him eye to eye as the rider sat dejected against the wall:

 - You have nowhere to go, Hiccup. No one to turn to. They won, and you will be nothing but a faraway memory of what could have been.

Hiccup's face lit up, coming to a conclusion he hoped wasn't the wrong one:

 - ... You keep saying "they" instead of "we"... Why are you here, Krogan?

The two stared at each other. That similar flame of rivalry and hatred threatening to spark again and ruin whatever was about to be proposed. Krogan was one of the only hunters to have come close to killing Toothless, and that was all it took for Hiccup to hate someone. He was heartless, emotionless and observant. In many ways, he reminded Hiccup of Viggo, but Viggo had some sort of feeling, just any feeling. He got something from this cat and mouse chase. Krogan seemed to only focus on his goal: Surviving. Anything else was just colateral damage. Krogan’s voice turned somber:

 - ... These people, they are not to be trusted. When Drago tried to execute me, i barely made it; having to hide in corners and stay away from the public... I would thank the gods if i believed in any of them for letting me live for so long, but i'll settle for thanking you.

He got up, holding a key as he showed it to Hiccup, just out of reach.

 - You, rider, killed Drago. You freed me from that prison of shrouded shadows.

 - Believe me, you weren't really in my mind when i did it. Call it a unfortunate consequence.

 - Ah, but that's where you're wrong.

Krogan took a step forward, Hiccup flinching backwards, ready to headbutt or kick as much as it was necessary, but the hunter simply threw the key into his hand.

 - ... I'm returning the favor. Go, Night Stutter. You're free.

Krogan turned around, already leaving as Hiccup shouted:

 - WAIT!

The man stopped.

 - You expect me to believe that? I'm not a child anymore, Krogan. What is your true goal?! What do you want from me?! I'm not going to be a pawn in your sick game!

The hunter put his hood on, a low chuckle making even the walls shiver.

 - Just get out alive, rider. We have just begun.

  The devil was stubborn. Astrid tied a rope around her neck, pulling her silently through the houses and fields... Except the dragon didn't get the sudden change of pace.

The Nadder groaned and perched on every fence and wall it could find, Astrid having to pull extra hard for the beast to keep it pushing. The Valkyrie would often whisper in anger:

 - I swear, you're not exactly making this change of heart easy. 

The dragon flapped her wings in response. Unbothered and quite excited to see the outside again.

They eventually reached the forest, Astrid less worried about being found out as Raven's point was the only spot she didn't assign a patrol to, worried Hiccup could be stalking around these parts again and not wanting him to get caught.

The open sky was littered with stars, the warrior remembering her first time flying as she realized the time had come. The wind howled, a bitter cold predicting the arrival of winter. Astrid turned to the Nadder, untying her rope.

 - Well, this is it.

The Nadder stared, confused. Astrid smiled, finding the beast's confusion endearing.

 - C'mon, go! You're free. 

The dragon remained put. Seconds passed, then minutes, and all the beast did was look around the woods and stay put. Astrid lost her patience.

 - I'm serious, go! You can leave!

More empty staring.

 - Sweet Thor, do you not understand me? Is that it? Okay...

Astrid took some steps back, the dragon tilting her head as she observed the woman start mimicking flying.

 - You... SOAR! Go... UP! The SKY is OPEN! You can GO!

The Nadder sat down. Astrid's palm went to her face.

 - You are smarter than this. I know you are! Why are you resisting me?!

She was talking to a dragon as if it had feelings and thoughts. Dear gods, she was becoming Hiccup. The warrior decided to change her method.

 - Okay... Maybe you just don't know i'm talking to you. I mean, Hiccup named his Night Fury, maybe you want a name too...

The Nadder seemed interested, loafing forward like a hen as she waited for a name.

 - Uh... How about... Zephyr? Like the wind! I always wanted a daughter named Zephyr.

The dragon shook her head.

 - Okay... Maybe Gunnr?! Like battle! That's a solid name, right?

The dragon groaned in disapproval. Astrid stared at the sky, bewildered and annoyed. She was really asking a dragon what she wanted her name to be. A stark contrast to the butchering and axeing she could be doing instead.

She watched as the wind brought dark clouds over Berk, a weird tint to them that she had never seen before. An idea formed as she looked to the Nadder.

 - How about... ÉlFljúga? Stormfly? Do you like that?

The Nadder jumped up, considering it, then running towards Astrid and nuzzling the woman who giggled with the affection.

 - Alright, alright. Well, Stormfly... It's time to go. You can't stay, it's not safe.

Stormfly moaned, confused at the woman pushing her away.

 - I'm serious, girl. You can't stay, they'll... We'll kill you.

The dragon looked into Astrid's eyes, still confused and reluctant, but a certain understanding went between their hearts. There was a connection there, as Astrid touched her forehead to Stormfly's spike, the dragon closed her eyes, saying goodbye.

 - I'm sorry that i hurt you so much... I promise that there is someone out there who will treat you with the most love and respect.

She kept holding on to the dragon's face as she moved to the side so Stormfly could see her as she spoke:

 - There's a guy that will find just the right habitat for you. He's a bit smelly and has a bad sense of humor, but he'll treat you right. Just follow north, he'll find you.

She let go of Stormfly, the dragon moaning as it once more refused to leave, but clearly more willing to do so if ordered again. Astrid felt a pang in her heart.

 - ... The world isn't ready for you. We... We don't deserve you. At least i don't. Not after everything i've done.

 - Well, at least you admit it.

The Valkyrie turned around like lightning, grabbing her axe and swinging it to a fighting pose. Stormfly jumped beside her, readying a shot.

A hooded woman mounted on a Razorwhip. Astrid had never seen one face to face, the surprise must have been all over her complexion, for the woman laughed.

 - Don't worry, Windshear doesn't bite... Too hard.

 - Who are you?!

The woman dismounted her dragon, revealing her face and long black braided hair.

 - Name is Heather. We need to talk about Hiccup. °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°    This one took a lot of editing. Had to find the old notebook i wrote the story on to see where i was going with this and decided to change it all. Hope you enjoyed it! (And i know this is looking like the end, but believe me, there is so much story to go. I had way too much freetime back then.)

[the-bi-space-ace]

Before I rewatch season 1 & 2 of The Bad Batch I wanted to watch the season 7 episodes that the bad batch is in and I have so many thoughts.

I’m going to put it below the cut because it gets very long and kind of chaotic.

The Bad Batch - TCW S7 E1

Quote - Embrace others for their differences, for that makes you whole

AH FUCK YEAH CODY IS HERE. I love Cody. I love that Cody comes to Mace and Anakin and is like Rex has thoughts and you should hear them. Good brother energy.

Rex standing here saying that the Separatists know his plays and they know his strategies despite them being unique to these new battles is so interesting to me. How he can see them taking advantage of new tactical plans and is worried. ALSO that Anakin knows immediately that something is off about Rex. Rex lies, says that’s all, but Anakin knows. He knows. It's also great that Cody says that Rex is one of their best and if the Separatists have found a way to counteract Rex's strategies this effectively then they've got a problem. He believes so strongly in Rex. Again. Good brother energy.

THIS MOMENT THAT FOLLOWS IS WHAT I WANNA TALK ABOUT. Rex is staring at this photo of him, Cody, Echo, and Fives. And he’s thinking. And Cody says this line that kills me every single time: In war it’s hard to be the one that survives. But Rex follows it up with “I know. That’s what I’m worried about.” And he knows it might be hard to believe. He knows it might make him seem unstable but he tells Cody anyway. He tells Cody that he believes Echo is alive. He already knows. He already feels it. Cody tries to bring him away from this theory. He doesn’t want Rex to start holding onto “misplaced hope”. I think there are a few reasons why Cody tries to steer him away from this idea. Partially because this is a major distraction for Rex on this mission. He must carry so much guilt about everything that has happened and Cody must know this, so he’s trying to steer Rex away from this theory. Because what would that even look like? Let’s say he’s right and Echo is alive (we know he is) and that leaves two choices: he’s turned on you willingly or he’s being used against his will. In Cody’s eyes they need to not put too much stock into Echo being alive because none of the outcomes seem favorable and he needs Rex’s head in the game. It has to be Rex’s overactive guilt that’s creating this not because Cody wants to discount him but because it’s better if Rex doesn’t draw conclusions before he has evidence. How many times can I point out that Cody has good brother energy before it becomes annoying?

Also because I love this line: “Echo’s fingerprints are all over this.” Rex knows. He has probably always known. I think he never gave up, never stopped believing that Echo was alive somewhere. It probably ate him up inside. But he knows a plan that Echo has touched, he knows how Echo’s mind works.

Oh hell yeah here come our boys.

Rex already likes them (partially because Cody likes them so much) but also because of this line: “99. Nice touch.” Rex thinks that’s a nice homage. He appreciates what they’re trying to do.

They are all so fucking dramatic getting off of that ship I love them.

Uh oh. Crosshair is already confrontational on the ship on the way there and Jesse is taking the bait so easily. He’s practically itching for a reason to fight and I think Crosshair picks up on this and baits him on purpose. Crosshair also wants a reason not to like these three and is pushing. He’s pushing for some sort of satisfactory reason to hate them. I do appreciate here that Cody tells them to cut the attitude. They’re on the same side. Jesse and Crosshair have already been openly antagonistic towards each other and it needs to stop. I have a feeling Cody would’ve kept them in line had he not gotten hurt.

They really made Wrecker seem like such an adrenaline junkie in this episode lol. I love how chaotic he is.

Ugh. Okay. I can see why Jesse doesn’t like them but I do wish he liked them more. I mean, their plan worked! They may have ignored Rex to do it but it worked and Rex didn’t balk at them not listening to him. BECAUSE IT WORKED. He appreciates a good strategy. I can see how Jesse in particular has already seen things he doesn’t like and wants to put them in their place for it. They’ve been showy, they ignored Rex’s orders, Crosshair has been a dick (crossy, baby, maybe shut your mouth. Hunter said you weren’t a conversationalist and you’re out here running your mouth), and he already didn’t like them before he even met them. “It’s not that they win, it’s how they win that worries me.” - Okay, Jesse, yeah, that’s fair but you were judgey before they even got off the ship. I get it. They have a reputation. They swoop in, don’t have much regard for the things they destroy or the other clones that might get hurt in the process, they think only about themselves, they’re cocky, they wear their differences from other clones like it’s a badge of honor. I know that’s irritating. That’s insulting. That’s hard to watch. You want to know how you could actually get under their skin, Jesse? Shut up. Crosshair wants a rise out of you? Laugh. Just laugh. Wrecker says something about ‘regs’? Don’t engage. The less you engage with antagonistic behavior from them the more irritated they’ll get with your lack of response. Act as unbothered by them as possible. Act like you couldn’t be more bored with what they're saying. It’ll drive Crosshair, in particular, up a wall because he wants to get a rise out of you. I see your need to get a few solid shots in at them, to defend your captain, to stand up for other clones. I see that. I think your instinct to defend is strong and admirable. But you judged them before you even meet them and, ya know what, they did too. They have preconceived notions about you and all other clones. There is judgment and antagonizing from both sides and Crosshair has latched onto Jesse because he can already sense that there is a rocky start here. He's going to try to exploit that.

What I think this episode is trying to say is that mixing up tactics is what is going to give them the advantage. The Separatists have found a way to understand their next move. That’s why Clone Force 99 is so effective here. It is not that other clones aren’t good at what they do. But this situation in particular requires plans that Rex didn’t come up with on his own and are not in widespread use. They’ve found a way to counteract his strategies, they need a different approach. Clone Force 99 does just that. It’s a balance.

Oh boy okay. Boys… I am trying to find ways to make Jesse and Kix like you but you’re making it difficult. So, Crosshair is fighty again and this time it’s towards Rex. I find it interesting that Rex doesn’t balk at the disrespect. Because it is very disrespectful. Rex doesn’t entertain it with a response even if he doesn’t look pleased (he takes my earlier advice, maybe?) Rex knows he’s a good leader, knows Cody doesn’t doubt him, so why fight with Crosshair over something he is not insecure about? He doesn’t need to fight this battle, there’s no reason to. Then Jesse defends him in, honestly, a very reasonable way and Wrecker LIFTS HIM OFF OF THE GROUND. BOYS. BOYS PLEASE. IS IT ALWAYS LIKE THIS? IS IT? STOP FIGHTING CODY IS HURT. THERE IS MORE AT STAKE THAN THIS. THIS IS NOT A REASONABLE WAY TO RESPOND TO JESSE TELLING YOU THAT YOU CAN'T TALK TO REX WITH DISRESPECT.

Rex is starting to lose his patience now, I can see that. I mean who wouldn’t? Jesse is being held off the ground by someone who clearly finds it humorous despite the fact that he’s probably hurting him. Crosshair is pushing Kix around. Cody is hurt. They will be two men down when they attack the tower since Kix is going to stay behind with Cody to wait for the evac. Tech, very interestingly, is trying to mediate. Ya know, I’m starting to see that here Tech is more curious than anything else. He answered Jesse and Kix’s questions about Hunter’s capabilities. He told Wrecker and Crosshair to calm down. He looks a bit horrified that Wrecker is holding Jesse off the ground by his neck (I’m horrified. I’m horrified for sure.) He’s curious about these new clones they’re meeting.

Hunter steps in and they behave, they stop fighting, they even look a bit shameful about it. If Hunter is angry with them then they’re taking it too far. It’s interesting how they don’t want to disappoint Hunter even if their structure as a squad is a bit different than the rest of the clones. This is where Hunter concedes, probably as a gesture of good faith, that Rex is in fact in charge (because he is, command structures and all) and Rex gets to do what he does best: lead.

Here is where Rex shows why he is a good leader. He liked their strategy from before when they crashed. He wants to use it. He doesn’t stick to what he’s used to because he saw something he liked and wants to try it. He takes the good ideas of those around him and implements them. He’s not focused on being right, he's focused on using what is working with the team he has. He is using their tactical advantages because he has observed the ways they can all work well together.

The way Rex’s face changes when he hears Echo’s voice. It breaks my heart. Tech asking Rex what the number meant and Rex telling him is also such a good moment. Again this to me screams Tech being curious about them and what they know and who they are. Tech is curious by nature, he saw how Rex reacted and he wants to know why. I love this moment.

As a whole I think this episode does a good job at showing that they all needed to embrace each other’s differences to get this mission to work. If the batch keeps going off on their own and doing whatever they want it’s not going to work. If Rex and Jesse stick to how they’re used to doing things and don’t use the batch’s tactical advantages to their advantage then they won’t get anywhere either.

Overall a great episode to introduce the Bad Batch in and it really does build up the tension for the three after it.

[the-graves-family]

13. Infection | "I don't feel so good."

“Vi…?”

The axe stops a fraction of an inch before it hits the wood, and Victor carefully drops it before he turns around. His little brother is standing out in the snow, clumsily bundled in a thick blanket, looking absolutely miserable.

“Colin, you know you can’t be out here when I’m cutting wood.” It’s far too dangerous for a five-year-old to be close by when there’s splinters and sharp objects involved, no matter what Father says. “You have to wait inside.”

“But I’m cold.”

Ever the patient older brother, Victor doesn’t point out that being outside in the middle of winter is not going to make his little brother feel any warmer. Instead, he sighs and trudges to where Colin is standing, gently herding him back into the cabin. Father and Uncle have left with their youngest brother for a doctor’s appointment in the city, and it will be a couple of days before they return.

The house is freezing cold, and yet it feels warmer than when Father is home.

A poorly-hidden cough breaks him out of his thoughts, and he blinks down at Colin. Oh dear. Getting sick was not ideal at the best of times, although Father isn’t there to witness it, at least. Now all he has to do is make sure Colin gets better before the adults return.

He can do this. He’s twelve. He should be able to do this all alone.

“Are you feeling ill?” Victor asks gently, crouching down and putting his hand on his brother’s forehead. Which very quickly turns out to be a mistake, because his fingers are extremely cold from being outside without gloves; it means he can’t get an accurate feeling for the boy’s temperature, and it means that Colin is now fussing about being even colder.

“Vic, I’m cold!”

“Right, of course. I’m sorry, Colin,” he murmurs, before gathering his brother in his arms and moving him to the couch. “Don’t move, alright?”

He’d only planned to replace the wood they’d used to stay warm at night so that Father wouldn’t notice it being gone, but now he realises he’s going to have to use a lot more to keep the cabin even marginally comfortable. But that doesn’t matter, right now. He’ll gladly stay the night awake chopping wood if that means Colin can get better.

Victor grabs as many logs as he can carry and rushes back inside, hoping they’re dry enough to catch. His brother has not moved from the sofa, still looking pretty sickly. He feels awful for not noticing it sooner, and the guilt sits heavy in his stomach as he slowly coaxes a fire into being. With a sigh, he watches it for a few moments, just to make sure it’s not going to die out, before moving to the kitchen.

They’re not supposed to use the stove, but Victor is fairly sure he can put it back the way he found it. Nobody would have to know. Replacing the lemon he’s going to have to use for tea is going to be a challenge, but he can’t focus on that right now.

As the water boils, he feels the weight of everything crushing him, but he tries to shake it off. His brother needs him.

Father had taken the key to the pantry, so he can’t add honey into the tea, but he hopes it will still help. Carefully, he brings a steaming mug out to Colin, who has only moved to settle more comfortably on the couch.

“Here, be careful. It’s really hot,” he warns as he holds the mug to the boy’s mouth so he can take a sip. He doesn’t want to burn him. That would be terrible.

His hands are still cold, and his fingers hurt from holding the axe so tightly for so long, but he’s the eldest son. He has duties he needs to attend to. The house must be spotless before Father comes home, or Colin will be the one to suffer. Victor wishes he could just stay by his brother’s side, but there’s no way he can do that, replace the firewood, do his schoolwork, and make sure the house is in order.

Colin coughs again and looks at him with wide, tearful eyes.

“You’re not going to tell Father, are you?” 

It breaks him, just a little bit.

“Of course not, Colin,” Victor assures him, petting his hair, feeling the what radiating off his skin, this time. Hopefully it’s just a small bug, something quick and painless. Father will not be happy if they have to leave for the doctor again. “He’s never going to know.”

[believemetheodore]

Northern Attitude pt. 4

Ted Lasso x Rebecca Welton

Divorce is hard. it doesn't matter if you're the one who got left, or you're the one doing the leaving. When an unexpected blizzard puts a dangerous twist in Ted's hiking adventures he's rescued by an axe-wielding, lumber-chopping, blonde angel. Oh, and there's only one bed.

Warnings: divorce mentions, mentions of Ted's dad, implied sex, let me know if you want me to add anything.

(Side note: this was supposed to be 3 chapters max. But now it's going to be 5. Apparently, I just have a lot of thoughts and feelings)

Fic navigation

In like a Lion, out like a lamb. The heavy winds and torrid icy weather fade quietly into a green spring. Rain becomes white noise beating against windows and rooftops. Ted wonders what the trees along the trails in the park must look like with their new leaves; how many new critters, and returning ducks must be enjoying the foliage and the defrosted lakes and rivers? 

He thinks about Rebecca daily. Hoping that she’s staying dry and warm as the new season’s downpours water the ground, and nature’s renewed life. 

Henry catches a cold in early April. A Saturday afternoon of splashing around in puddles and playing freeze-tag in the rain left him with sniffles and a chill. Ted makes soup from scratch, just like his mother used to make, and Henry seems content to watch movies on the couch in between bouts of sleep. The two of them end up missing the baseball game they were supposed to attend, but Ted couldn’t care less. 

“Can we watch it on the TV?” Henry asks. “Sure bud, so long as you think you’re going to be comfortable enough on the couch”. 

When his fever spikes, the boy curls up close to Ted’s side, his face buried against his chest. He can’t stand seeing Henry ill, but with his eyes shut, and his breathing slow and deep as he dreams, Ted remembers holding him when he was born. He recalls the promises he made to keep his little boy safe, to make sure he always feels loved.

There’s a guilt that creeps in; a sorry sort of feeling as he holds his son closer, guessing how much longer he’ll be able to take care of Henry in this way. Soon, he’ll be too tall to curl up next to him, too heavy for Ted to carry him up to his bed, too grown to want to seek out his comfort. 

He wonders if this might be the last time for all of those things. How many ‘last times’ have come and gone already, without either of them noticing? 

Ted doesn’t remember the last diaper he changed, or the last time he woke up at 3 am for an early morning feed. He struggles to recall the last time Henry asked to be picked up or the last time he needed a parent to give him a bath. 

His mother was always free with her affections; she still plants kisses on his cheeks and forehead when he goes to see her. His mom was always a hugger and never had a problem telling him she loved him. No matter how old he got, Ted was always her baby, as embarrassing as he found her adoration he understood it.

His dad talked a lot. There was never any mystery about Ted’s inherited loquacious nature. But, his father rarely shared his feelings. Ted can see now that while he never said anything, there was love in all his actions. 

Ted didn’t understand as a kid why his father asked him so many questions about his day. He couldn’t wrap his head around why his dad might care about what he learned at school, or what games he’d played with his friends after school. He never thought to care about why his dad was always the parent who volunteered to stay home when he was sick. 

He remembers being about Henry’s age, home sick from school, and feeling awful about his dad having to miss work. He worked so much and so often, Ted had always assumed he must’ve enjoyed his job, but when Ted cried as his father set down a plate of toast, and a glass of watered-down ginger ale for him he asked; “Why would I want to be anywhere else? You’re here?” 

Ted hadn’t had a good enough answer so he only shrugged. “Being your dad is the best job I could ever have,” he assured him before adding conspiratorially, “And between you and I, it’s nice getting to play hooky”. 

In memories of his father, Ted sees himself. So worried about being too much for others, never brave enough to actually wear his heart on his sleeve. He can hear the love his father gave him in his own laughter, and penchant for jokes. He feels his father’s fears when he looks at Henry, concerned that he’s failing to remember the tiniest of moments, perturbed by the prospect of missing the bigger moments too. 

. Ted knows he needs to do better in order to be better. He knows the best thing he can do is stop bottling everything up, he can’t take care of the people he loves if he doesn’t look after himself first. 

So, when his sleepless nights and restless days return, he books two weeks off of work, determined to return to the place he felt at peace, in the interest of collecting up the pieces of himself he’s allowed to fall by the wayside. 

He doesn’t know if Rebecca is still there, in her cabin in the woods, nor does it really matter. Every moment he had with her was more than enough if that’s all he gets. He’s made peace with that. This trip is for himself, he knows no one can fix him but himself. It wasn’t Michelle’s job, and it’s not Rebecca’s, but Ted knows that the days he spent hiking, and cozied up on Rebecca’s sofa made him want to be a finer version of himself. 

Beard had noticed in the day following his return to work his attempts to be kinder to himself, commenting on how it was about time Ted started taking some of his own advice. He felt more complete, somehow more whole, and far more centred than he had been in years, and he wants to feel that way again. 

The drive out of town is shadowed by thoughts of his father. Every dart game they played together, and the first one they never got to play together. His heart holds his rage, and his grief in equal measure. It feels an awful lot like fear when it claws its way out his throat, digging into his rib cage, and pressing on his lungs. 

He has to pull over. Choking on his own breaths.

Fathers and sons. They’ve written enough songs about it-- Ted wonders how many different forms the same type of guilt can take, and he can only hope he doesn’t pass it down to Henry. 

The park is unrecognizable from when Ted last wandered the trails. As he expected, the trees are all in bloom, bright green leaves leaving kaleidoscope shapes across the forest floor with the light shining above the canopies. The hills and valleys have become home to fresh bursts of tall grass, and sprawling plants. The chattering sounds of the birds and bugs prove to be a constant soundtrack for his hike up the first hill. 

His pack is lighter this trip, no heavy sweaters, or thermal pants to lug around. His knees and his back appreciate the lack of snow, each step he takes now feels half as heavy, and the same trek he took months ago takes half the time it did before. By noon, Ted passes the first cabin he stayed in previously. He stops to drink his water, and have a snack; stretching out his legs before resuming his journey. 

It’s raining now, but Ted doesn’t bother to stop to slip his raincoat on. The dirt turns to mud beneath his feet, and he only slows his pace to tread more carefully. He silently thanks the branches overhead for their natural umbrella, filtering the downpour into a drizzle for him. 

Rebecca’s cabin is harder to find now that the foliage is in it’s fullest state, but the puffs of chimney smoke serve as a beacon, leading his way off the gravel trails, and down the hill on beaten footpaths, carved out by repeated travel rather than official travel suggestions. 

When he climbs the steps up to the front porch, and knocks on the door, he gets no response. She isn’t home, and as the rain begins to fall harder in the small clearing he can only hope she’s dressed warmly, and keeping relatively dry. He settles on the top step, covered by the awning, watching the raindrops leave pockmarks on the softened ground. A chill runs up his spine as the wind blows and he hopes Rebecca will return soon. 

Ted knows what his mother would’ve told him about showing up at people’s homes unannounced, and a part of him feels dreadfully rude, but as the sun begins to set he finds his concern over Rebecca’s well-being is enough to override the fear of intrusion. 

He has no plans of making himself her guest again, he only wants to say thank you again, and visit the woman he’s decided to consider a friend. He’s packed his own food, and he knows where the guest cabins are. He’ll be off and on his way once she’s home. 

“Ted?” her voice shakes him from his drifting thoughts as she approaches, her slide of firewood trailing behind her. Her face is hidden by the hood of her black and white raincoat, but he grins at the sight of her baby pink rainboots. 

He’s down the steps without thinking, helping her load the wood into the shed next to the house. 

“What are you doing here?” She asks, slipping off her hood to get a better look at him. “The four seasons aren't just a cool band or a swanky hotel chain. I had winter all checked off. Thought it might be fun to collect the other three”.

“I can’t believe you came back,” she’s smiling, though there are tears in her eyes when she pulls him into a tight hug. He’s sure it’s more than just the joy of seeing him that’s got her tearing up. But, he doesn’t ask, he just holds her closer. 

“We should get inside before one of us catches a cold,” She states, pulling away, and nodding her head towards the door. 

The cabin is cozier than the last time he saw it if that’s even possible. The fire needs to be stoked, but still casts its shimmering orange light. He takes it in as they slip out of muddied boots, and drenched outer layers. 

She’s hung artwork on the walls, wildflowers, and butterflies in lifelike watercolour studies. The throw pillows, and blankets on the couch have changed too. Plusher fabrics, even more pastels, and fun colours liven up the space. But the brightest thing in the room, without a doubt, is her. 

Rebecca’s hair curls at odd, uneven angles, and sticks to her cheeks and forehead in its damp state. Her cheeks are pink from the wind and the cold spring rain, and she is an absolute vision. Prettier than he could’ve remembered her, and if the sparkle in her eye, and her Cheshire grin are anything to go by, she’s happy. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I usually don’t show up places without an invite--”. “It’s okay,” She cuts him off, “I’m glad you’re here”. 

“I didn’t come empty-handed though!” She watches silently, bemused, as he shuffles through his bag before digging out a plastic food container, with a small pink box inside. He hands it to her. 

“What is this?” “Take a peak,” he encourages, eyes wide and buzzing with excitement. 

Biscuits. He made her biscuits. It was the least he could do. 

She takes a bite, and he watches her enjoy herself. 

“Is there anything better than a food that makes you feel all warm and snuggly inside?” he wonders aloud. 

She shakes her head in response, setting the box down on her kitchen counter, 

“Ted?”

“Mhmm?” She stands in front of him now, closer than she was before. Her hand brushes his elbow, moving up to rest on his chest between them. “I think you should kiss me”. “Great minds think alike,” it’s not difficult for him to agree; his left hand is warm against her wind-chilled skin when he leans in to kiss her.

[leogichidaa]

Okay, so if Regulus doesn’t succeed in bringing Sirius back home and people know he killed James (half-giant Hagrid was also believed to be a murderer, I can’t recall if he was officially convicted because the Wizarding Legal System is a joke, and he was allowed to remain on the grounds of the place the murder occurred at, so a Black of all people sure isn’t being convicted of murder), I feel like that also can influence how others regard Sirius, because it’s super obvious Regulus targeted James because of his brother, so how would they handle knowing that this particular friend of theirs is the reason why their other friend was murdered? You’re giving me so many questions and thoughts about this fic, I’m already invested and I’ve only read a snippet

Hmm, I think if people knew Regulus killed James he would at the very least be kicked out of Hogwarts. Hagrid and everyone Dumbledore graces with his support get full legal immunity because 🤷🏻🤷🏻🤷🏻 the Ministry is a joke. But Dumbledore isn't going to go to bat for the murderous Slytherin who killed the talented and beloved Head Boy. And this is in the midst of the war, with the wizarding legal system headed by Crouch Sr., so the corrupt and ridiculous "legal system" isn't going to be working in his favor either. He could maybe avoid Azkaban with his family's support, but I imagine he'd have to be somewhat in hiding until tides change.

Regardless, it would still of course impact the way others see Sirius and would still, I imagine, lead to Sirius being held at arm's length and considered with deep suspicion. Why did Sirius let his homicidal maniac of a brother near James? Surely he must have known that Regulus had it out for James. Why didn't he warn James? Is he helping to protect Regulus now? Hey, remember that time Sirius almost killed someone he hated? I wonder what Sirius is capable of.

If that isn't enough to kill the vibe, the fact that Sirius was the indirect cause would come into play. Mostly, I think, because Sirius would be carrying so much guilt. You know in PoA when he tells Harry he killed Lily and James? He's going to be bringing that same energy. "I killed James. This is my fault. I brought Regulus into his life, I as good as killed him." I think he would isolate himself, in this instance. I definitely don't think he'd stay with the Potters or keep in touch with them because he would think he's done enough damage. He might cut off Remus and Peter in a misguided attempt to protect them too.

Peter's feelings about it are going to be complicated because Peter was also indirectly involved in this murder plot, albeit unknowingly (this part I am sure of because he gets roped in almost immediately). I can see Remus feeling some type of way about Sirius because he was always wary of Regulus and Sirius never seemed appropriately concerned. Well, now look. I don't think he would blame or resent Sirius for making James a target by befriending him. Remus knows what it is like to feel like befriending someone is inherently risking their safety. But he might blame Sirius for not intervening more aggressively when Regulus began to take an interest in James.

I think James' parents would just feel super devastated. They would not, imo, blame Sirius at all. They would feel like they lost two sons because Sirius is now afraid to talk to them. Tragedy all around, truly.

I appreciate these asks, they are helping me brainstorm and think things through :)

[slickmcrty]

Rick OC Info

Name: Rick Sanchez

Nicknames: Grandpa (by slick), grandpa rick (by slick) and Chill Rick

Dimension: C-149

Age: 64 (currently deceased)

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Demisexual

Appearance: He has the normal appearance of a rick. Only different features being having a longer and shaggier hairstyle and scars on both his hands and palms. He wears this hat along with this tank top (usually worn with grease stains) with this brown leather jacket, distressed jeans and brown combat boots.

Bio: He was orphaned as baby. Growing up a group home and several foster families that just never stuck. Rick was left to fend for himself which he found easy to do. Because people wanted little to do with him he found it easy to just handle things by himself and as a result it's hard for him to feel comfortable around other people. He really has to comfortable around you and learn to trust you for him to build a proper bond.

Seeing as he just kept to himself with the occasional drinking buddy he never met his diane and as a result never had beth as a daughter. Deep down he desperately craved companionship and to belong to a family but he didn't trust people enough due to his upbringing to try to make those connections.

When he was offered to live at the citadel among other ricks he thought this was his chance to make some connections. Being around other versions of himself must mean they have a lot in common. Which wasn't the case as much as he thought but he was able to make a few friends. His strongest connection was definitely with the morty he was assigned with. Slick morty.

He didn't know how to feel about taking care of a morty considering he had never even been a father let alone a grandfather but seeing as he grew up in foster care himself he wanted slick to avoid that if he could so he tried his best to take care of him.

Over time he noticed how other ricks treated their mortys was abusive at worst and just assholes to their kids at best. Rick opted to be neither. Treating the boy like he was his own. He worked as mechanic to make ends meet. All the inventions he made in his down time being stuff they could either enjoy together or little gadgets that just amused the boy like robot dogs and jetpacks. Adventures they go on are often light hearted. When things get too dangerous for comfort he makes sure to portal them home quickly.

Personality wise he's relaxed compared to most ricks. Only getting upset about things that negatively affected him and his morty. He doesn't exactly agree with how the citadel is run but is willing to be just another cog in the machine if it means him and his grandson can have a peaceful and happy life for the most part.

Though slick called him grandpa he was more of a father figure to him. He just thought calling him dad would be too weird and they'd get odd looks from the other rick and mortys. Their time together ended when a grenade was thrown on one of their fun adventures. The attack came from out of nowhere. He acted on his protective instincts. Slick being the only thing he really cared about he pushed him out of the way sacrificing himself in the process.

Slick didn't take it well not only because of how close they were but due to how the system worked when it came to mortys. They had no patience with his grief. Wanting him to get over it quickly. They gave him a new rick so he should be over it right? It was due to his intense grief and guilt over being the reason he got himself killed that he messed up on so many adventures with his ricks getting a majority of the killed and the others so annoyed with his uselessness that they sent him back. He decided at some point to fake it.

Pretend he got over his death. Life had to move on so he had to put on a somewhat happy face and do what he was told. To this day while he's happier with AR and SR as his caretakers he still isn't over his grandpa's death. Carrying this repressed rage over his demise. Pretty much the only people who were know about it and comfort him over it being his group of friends and boyfriend.

[popopretty]

The Day I Picked Up Dazai - Side B (Final)

Links to Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Final

This is the translation of the last part (from page 48 to 63) of Side B of the Dazai novel which was given out as free bonus for those who come to the cinema to watch the BEAST live action movie in Japan.

I HIGHLY recommend you to read Side A first before moving on to this one more context, better understanding, and easier comparison between the two sides. You can find the link to the tag with all Side A translations I have done in my pinned post.

Please also carefully read the notes below before progressing. - This post contains spoilers. If you plan to read the novel later yourself and think this would ruin your expectation, please stop here.

· I tried to keep the translation as accurate as possible, but as I don’t speak English or Japanese as my native language, I may make some mistakes or use weird words etc. This translation might not be final. I may come back and fix it later if I find any mistakes.

· This is a moviegoers-only benefit, so please be extra careful when discussing it about on Twitter. Use a #spoilers tag on your tweets or your fanarts. You can share the links to this post but don’t take many screenshots.

· Don’t retranslate it. [UPDATE MAY 9, 2023] You can retranslate it but please keep in mind that my translation is not perfect and some meanings will be lost through re-translation. If you are not sure about the meaning at any part, please let me know! Don’t repost this translation anywhere else out of Tumblr.

· DON’T GO TO THE AUTHORS’ OR OFFICIAL TWITTERS TO COMMENT ABOUT THE CONTENTS OF IT.

I’m sorry if that’s too much but honestly all I want is for everyone to have a good experience, for those who wants to read the novels to be able to read the novels, and for those who don’t want to be spoiled, to be safe from it as much as possible.

If you have read and are okay with all the above, please continue to move forward and enjoy the novel. Have a good day!

...

I killed that wealthy man, simply because it was a mission. I didn’t know why I was killing him, nor what kind of person he was. I just aimed for his head and pulled the trigger. That was it.

It seemed that the client who ordered the assassination was targeting that painting. I did not find out about it until much later. My job was only to kill the man. Carrying the painting out and cleaning up the aftermath was another professional’s job. They did their job. I did my job. And on my way back after the mission, I casually had my eye on a novel on the desk, so I took it and left the house.

It always starts with the little things.

That novel triggered a lot of things, and I eventually stopped killing. I have not killed a single person since then.

One day about two years after that day, I suddenly came up with an idea that I should go back and return that novel. There was no big reason for it. It was not out of sense of morality or guilt. It was simply because I thought if I did that, I would be able to face that novel directly. I already had another copy of the book that I bought by myself.

In the mansion that was once owed by the wealthy man lived a son of his. He was seventeen years old. I later heard that he was not his real son, but a boy who had lost his parents in an underworld conflict, that the man took in. An orphan.

I must have been out of my mind at that time. To think I would go and meet that son of his. I could have just sneaked into the house, put the book there and left, and it would have been as easy as bending a finger for me. But anyway, I ended up standing in front of the son and introducing myself. As “the person who killed your father.”

There was no word that could describe how angry the son was. He had all the rights to be angry. His family was killed by the underworld, twice. He was hitting me, throwing stuff at me, and attacking me with all sorts of insults. I could easily dodge all of his attacks, but there was no way to avoid the insults.

When he became exhausted from all the rampage and finally sat down, I explained to him about the killing. After that, he demanded a compensation. For his father’s life, and for the rental fee of that book I took without permission.

Bring that painting back, he said.

There was no reason for me to accept that request. First, I didn’t know where the painting was then. It must have been bought by yet another wealthy person far across the sea. I could find some clues if I looked, but that would mean a long, tedious and unprofitable job on top of that.

If it had not been for the book, I would not have accepted it.

As it turned out, my guess was correct. It was a long, tedious and unprofitable job. To add to that, it was a dangerous job. I had to get into a private military company (PMC) of nearly one hundred and fifty armed soldiers and carry the painting out under a rain of bullets, without killing anyone. If I were asked to do it again, I would absolutely refuse. Most of the troubles in my life were brought upon me by myself.

Standing in front of the painting that I brought back, the son of the wealthy man just looked at it in silence. After about thirty minutes, he started talking, little by little. About the reason he wanted the painting back. And how that painting was the object of a bet.

His father wanted his son to become a businessman that would surpass himself. So, he made a promise that if the son could make ten million yen by the time he turned eighteen, he would give him that painting.

“Stupid parents”, he said. In the first place, it was a dirty painting that had been obtained through illegal means. Did he really think that the son would try that hard to get his hand on such a thing?

But the son did try very hard. He managed to earn almost 80% of that ten million by himself. He did not try that hard because he wanted the painting, he said.

There was one year left till the promised eighteen.

That young man asked me to keep that painting for him until then.

The painting had a setup. It had been written on, by a special type of paint that would become visible when exposed to ultraviolet rays. The text covered an aera of about a quarter of the painting. And it said,

“You are my pride.”

If all the art lovers over the world saw that, they would just faint in anger. This kind of graffiti just blew away the whole five million yen worth of the painting. The man caused troubles even after his death. But perhaps, that wealthy man did it exactly because it was trouble.

He probably wanted to say that he wouldn’t care even if the painting’s value was to be reduced to zero, because his son was worth all that much. Or maybe that was why he went through the trouble of buying that painting illegally. Of course, the truth stayed unknown until now.

Because I killed the father.

I kept the painting as requested. I put it in a storage box and stored it in a dark, cool and windy place.

It is under the floor of my house, near the foot of my bed.

It is a painting that no longer has any artistic value. There is no point in preserving it with care.However, it has value to that young man. The son whose father was killed. That painting is the memento of his father, the will of his father, and in a sense, his father himself.

I am still protecting it now.

It is not to atone for my sin. I am not that kind of an admirable person. It is just because a lot of things piled up, that I decided to do so.

“And once I have made up my mind, I am not going to change it, no matter who asks me to.” I say as I walk toward the cop. “Got it? Bandaged man?”

“What?”

Before the cop can react, I quickly snatch the gun from his hand. The cop, whose arms have been injured and cannot even stand up, do not have the strength to steal it back. I bring the gun close to my face and say.

“This is not a gun.” I say. “This is a listening device. You are listening to us over there, right? You have anticipated this and created a situation for me to tell where the painting is, and tried to eavesdrop through this gun.”

“This gun … listening device?” The cop was stunned. So he did not know either.

“I found it odd from the beginning. That this was an automatic gun.” I say as I observe the gun. “When they stormed into my house, they were carrying the revolvers used by the city police. This is a different kind. Perhaps, this automatic pistol was the one you used when you threatened this guy? One more thing, if you want to threaten me, basically, you will have to come to me directly. But all I can see here are injured people. So, this is what I came up with: you, in order to find out where the painting is without showing up here, have created a situation for this cop to threaten me. If that is the case, then there must be a listening device somewhere.”

Of course, the gun does not answer me. It is just there, cold, heavy and quiet. But just by being there, that gun is radiating its unique presence to the surroundings. I continue to talk to the gun.

“This is loaded. But I guess it is just a blank, right?” I point the gun at the ceiling and fire a single shot. It makes an explosive sound and a flash of light cut through the darkness. But that is it. There is no bullet hole on the ceiling.

“That was quite a performance. Did you calculate everything up to this point, and collapse in front of my house on purpose? If so, that was impressive. Now, I have told you everything about the painting. Break the siege as you promised. Or you can let everyone in here and we can have a fun killing party. I am fine either way.”

As I am speaking, I check the gun more closely. Originally, it is my tool of trade. I know the balance of the weight like I know my fingers. The grip is a little heavy. I press the button to release the magazine, it drops into my hand. In the area near the grip screw, the polymer plastic material on the side of the magazine has been removed and a black rectangle part was embedded in it. That is the listening device.

I hold up the magazine like a microphone, and talk into the device. “Within ten seconds, you will make three blasts. After that, you will disappear immediately. If you don’t, I will consider that our negotiation has failed and I will come get you from here.”

I throw away the device and count to ten inside my head. Between eight and nine, a series of shocks shake up the underground basement. Exactly three times. The blasts sound like thunders from afar, and then the sound suddenly stops as if it has been chopped off. All that is left is silence. A silence that makes my ears ache.

“It is over.” I take a breath and walk away. “I will call the cops once I get out. The real ones, you know. All of you will be arrested, but at least you will be treated a little better. Compared to the Mafia.”

“Wa… wait a minute.” The cop says with a hard voice. “You…. Why? You said yourself that you alone could get away with this. You even knew that the gun I pointed at you couldn’t be used? Could it be that… you… you saved me? For what?”

The answer to that question is simple. But I don’t want to answer him. What is the point of answering anyway? I feel empty. I am tired, wounded, betrayed by people, and betraying people.”

“I am thirsty.” I say to myself. “I’m going home.”

The guy says something but I don’t hear it. I keep walking out of that place.

***

The light from the gas lamp illuminates the profiles of people walking through the ticket gate.

The blue stars of the city, of which there are only a few, are scattered in the night sky like a film.

The station is surrounded by the night sky, the night scenery, and a group of people walking home in silence. There is no explosion, no gun shot, no bargaining for your life here. It is the plain scene of the closing of a day like every day, which starts mechanically and ends mechanically.

Dazai Osamu and Oda Sakunosuke are there at that same station. In different places.

Oda is exhausted. Covering his aching back, he walks among the crowd rushing out of that station.

Dazai stands in the darkness, away from the street lights of the station front, watching Oda as he becomes one with the night.

Oda walks along the station platform, out of the ticket gate, and stesp into the night of the city. After getting out of the underground bunker, he crossed the mountain and walked over to a nearby village. He negotiated with the farmers there for them to give him a ride. He then got on buses and trains one after another, back to the nearest station to his home. When he arrives, it has become completely dark.

Oda rubs his own shoulders, and walks home with an exhausted face as he cracks his neck. His clothes are wrinkled and covered in mud. Sometimes, people passing by Oda look at him as if they are looking at a strange, foreign creature. But no one calls out to him. People in the city just don’t do that.

Oda gets through the ticket gate and walks under the street lights, as he takes out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. Then he starts searching for something in his jacket. He is looking for a fire.

“Here you go.”

Suddenly, a voice comes from behind him. Oda turns around. In front of his eyes, there is a light from a match. And a hand holding it.

Oda is caught by surprise for a second, but he immediately places the cigarette in his mouth on that. He closes his eyes, breathes in the smoke, and breathes it out into the dark night. Then he looks at the person.

“Hi. What a look you’ve got there. Are you okay?”

That is Dazai.

Dazai, who has half melted into the dark, is standing there silently, smiling a smile that does not look like one.

“Nothing.” Oda says so as he looks at the other person through the smoke. “I just tripped.”

“This matchbox is yours, isn’t? I saw you drop it at the ticket gate.”

Oda looks at the matchbox Dazai is holding. It is black on the sides, white on top, and has a logo of a bar in front. It is clearly the one that Oda always carry with him.

“Yes.” Oda says, looking at the matchbox.

Then he observes the man. He stays silent for a few seconds before asking with a blank expression.

“Have I met you anywhere?”

Dazai smiles a smile of no personality. “No. This is the first time we met.”

The bandages that have covered most of Dazai’s face the whole time are no longer there. He is wearing a flat cap to cover his eyes, and a black inverness coat to hide his shape and his wounds. As for the voice, Oda has not heard Dazai speak even once.

“Is that so?” Oda says as he takes the matchbox from Dazai and turns his back on him. “Thanks for the match. Good night then.”

Oda is just taking a few steps when Dazai calls out to him from behind.

“Looks like you got into quite a bit of trouble.”

Oda stops and slowly turns around. “What?”

“Just… You seem so worn out. Your face looks so bad… Also, that thing on your hand and clothes, I can’t see very well in the dark, but it’s not just dirt. There is blood too, right?”

Oda looks at his own hands. It is true that there is still some blood from when he tried to help the injured cop on his wrists.

“Well, there was a bit of a situation.” Oda says, checking the smell on his hands. “It is not my blood. But it’s true that I got into some trouble. I got something important taken from me. Something I have always protected.”

“If it has been taken”, Dazai smiles helplessly, “then at least you don’t have to worry about it being taken anymore.”

Oda looks at the other for a while. As if he is trying to look for an answer there.

“Probably.” Oda says. “I can’t forgive the guy who took it, though.”

Dazai slowly nods. Trying to hide his expression.

Oda watches his expression for a moment but he finally turns away. “Thanks for the match. That was a big help. Bye then.”

Dazai looks at the back walking away from him and speaks quickly. “If you ever get into trouble in the future…”

Oda turns around, “Huh?”

“You can turn to The Armed Detective Agency in Yokohama for help. They will take on even the troublesome stuff. And they will get the job done without fail. I was helped by them in the past, too.”

“I see.” Oda says after he gives it a moment of thought. “I’ll do so then. That is very kind of you. You are a good guy.”

Dazai’s expression becomes distorted.

He opens his mouth, and closes it again, as if he can no longer breathe.

If he tells him everything now, maybe things will go back to how they were. The two of them will go to the bar together and have a toast. Just like that night.

“Odasa…”

Just as Dazai is about to say that name, a train passes by. The express train passing through that station cuts through the silence of the night, right next to where Dazai and Oda is.

The darkness and the light alternatively hit the road, and the roar of the steel blows away the silence of the whole surrounding. Oda narrows his eyes.

The train is long, and the sound it makes sounds like an extended sorrow. Dazai looks down so that no one can see him, his face twisted in grief. It is as if that long roar is promising him six long years of heartlessness to come.

The train finally passes through.

Oda looks around, trying to get what the other was saying again.

There is nobody there anymore.

Oda blinks his eyes, feeling confused. He looks around. Then he shakes his head as if to shake off all the thoughts, and walks away with a resigned expression.

Only the cold and quiet night breeze is left blowing through the space where no one remains, trying to fill up the emptiness.

Nobody says a word. The painting is kept by the Port Mafia for a year, before it is returned to its owner, the son of the wealthy man.

The son keeps it for a few years, and later donates it to a museum anonymously.

That way, Dazai has achieved his goal. Getting Oda to tell him where the painting is without facing him, nor having his face remembered. And by doing that, Oda will never be targeted by a criminal organization again. That is Dazai’s goal.

He has another goal.

To make Oda despise the Port Mafia. So that he will not join the Port Mafia, thus avoiding his coming death.

That goal is accomplished. Oda becomes involved with not the Port Mafia but the Armed Detective Agency, and joins the Agency two years later.

And then two years after that, Oda meets Dazai again one more time.

At the bar counter, in the sad melody of a parting song.

That is where Oda points his gun at Dazai, and Dazai says the last goodbye.

The last goodbye of his life.

The Day I Picked Up Dazai – Side Beast <The END>