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typingtess · 2 years ago

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NCIS: Los Angeles Season 13 Rewatch: “Live Free or Die Standing”

The basics: When a whistleblower is chased by the drug cartels and a DEA Agent is killed, the team and Talia Del Campo start the search.

Written by: Eric Christian Olsen co-wrote "Mother" in season 11.

Directed by: Daniela Ruah directed "Russia, Russia, Russia", "Lost Soldier Down" and "Pandora's Box".

Guest stars of note: Mercedes Mason returns as DEA Agent Talia Del Campo, last seen in "The Guardian", part one of the three-part season 10 finale/season 11 premiere. And since we're talking about the three-parter, who killed Ellie Simms? Duncan Campbell as NCIS Special Agent Castor, back from “Hard for the Money”. Brian Leigh Smith was Bomb Tech Aaron Roberts, a role he played in “Mother” but he also appeared as a police officer in "Overwatch" and was a wingman in "The Bear" season 12 premiere. Rick Pasqualone as Martin Henderson, Goya Robles as Miguel Flores, Dan Gauthier as Carlyle Huntington, Larry Herron as DEA Agent David Ramirez, Carolina Gutierrez as Emma Ruiz, Alicia Urizar as Isabella Cruz, Pam Trotter as Loretta Dawson/Desk Clerk and Sheila Wills as Thelma.

Our heroes: Try to save a marked man.

What important things did we learn about:

Callen: Not here. Sam: Teamed with both Fatima and Rountree during different parts of the episode. Kensi: Teases Deeks about a mancave. Deeks: Looking to spend their money on a welcome to the family package for Rosa or Pilar. Fatima: Tackling gun runners. Rountree: Never saw “Top Gun” but knows Goose dies. Kilbride: Filled with righteous indignation.

What not so important things did we learn about:

Callen: Absent. Sam: 15-minutes early or you’re late. Kensi: Likes the mindful breakfast. Deeks: Jacks down a breakfast man-shake like a Neanderthal. Fatima: Etsy fan. Rountree: Man-shake fan, too. Kilbride: Voted red since Coolidge and has lots of guns.

Where in the world is Henrietta Lange? Who knows but she should check in soon – Eric Beale is mailing out checks.

Who's down with OTP: Kensi and Deeks were great if a little forced.

Who's down with BrOTP: Not Talia and Rountree. Those scenes were not great.

Fashion review: Sam is wearing a long-sleeve black tee-shirt has he has for a lot of episodes this season. Kensi is wearing her white sweater with the thin blue stripes. For Deeks, a royal blue henley. Fatima has a multi-color quarter zip zipped all the way up under a dark blue jacket. A long-sleeve green tee for Rountree. The Admiral is in a dark blue suit, white dress-shirt and an aquamarine tie.

Music: No.

Any notable cut scene: One. In the retirement home, Rountree and Talia are going to speak to a Wayne Brown. Brown bought several weapons. Banging on his door and not getting a response, Rountree wonders if Brown is at the gun range. Talia shoots back debating if he’s “tossing his hot dog down the hallway.” Rountree thinks Talia is an HR nightmare. As a diligent federal agent, Talia thinks they should be checking to see if Brown is “shampooing the Wookie.” Brown’s nurse brings the sleeping man to his apartment in a wheelchair. He’s sound asleep. Calling Rountree “Rounbush”, Talia thinks Brown can only butter his own buns.

Quote: Anything from an angry Admiral in this episode. From interrogation with Huntington, to yelling at the team to save Henderson to cursing at the gods for the system’s decision to bury Henderson’s video – this was a great episode for the Admiral and Gerald McRaney.

Anything else: A shootout is happening in the dark. Two men are running upstairs. One says “Please God help us.” They make their way to the roof of the building. With just a chair to barricade the door, one man, armed and who looks like law enforcement says he’ll watch the door. The other man goes down the fire escape to get away from the shooters. Before he starts down, the man at the door says “Don’t trust anybody. They’ve got people everywhere.”

With the fellow climbing down the fire escape, the man at the door tries to reposition himself. He’s been shot. Gun drawn, he waits for what’s on the other side of the door.

As the other man gets to the street, he pulls out his cellphone and tries to get it to work. Before he can, the headless body of the man barricading the door lands at his feet. The people in the street start screaming and running. The survivor is covered with blood spatter.

At 7:58AM, Kensi and Deeks arrive at the office. They are greeted by Sam’s “It’s about time.” Deeks points out they are actually two minutes early to work. That makes them 13-minutes late is Sam’s world. Deeks likes being early too but Kensi has the “clock management skills of a tree sloth.” Kensi likes a mindful breakfast while Deeks inhales a “man-shake” like a Neanderthal.

Looking at an envelope on his desk, Deeks thinks it is a Dear John letter from Eric Beale. Sam and Kensi both have an envelope as well. There are instructions on the envelope that nobody should open theirs until everyone is present. Sam says “we” have been waiting for Kensi and Deeks to arrive. Deeks asks who is we? We includes Rountree at his desk, drinking his own man-shake. Inspector Deeks just learns about the desks by the old wardrobe.

Sam, Kensi, Deeks and Rountree open their envelopes to find a $10,000 check for each of them. Eric writes that in Silicon Valley, success is confused with happiness. Eric is sharing some of his success with his friends and hope it makes them happy. Deeks thinks Eric was inspired by Gibbs (great call-out show). There is also a $10,000 check to each of the team member’s favorite charities. Eric’s only stipulation is that the gift has to be spent – no putting it in the bank.

Rountree finds Eric to be a modern-day Robin Hood. Only if the Sheriff of Nottingham is riding on a Segway talking Klingon Sam adds. Deeks would strap on some green tights and be Eric’s Merry Man for $10,000. The Admiral makes a note of that offer and adds it to the growing list of things he can’t unsee now that he’s with OSP. They have a case. Deeks asks if the Admiral got a check. He did. And he’s ordering noise-canceling headphones and soundproof glass for his office. Deeks giggles all the way to Ops.

In Ops, Deeks tells Fatima to check her desk. She already has and has been “doom scrolling” on Etsy until she heard from a very special guest. Talia Del Campo pops up on the big screen – she’s on a plane and opens with “Welcome Avengers.” She wishes she was there to give everyone extra gluten muffins and Deeks a long and inappropriate hug. That gets a “Yes please” from Deeks and laughs from everyone else.

All was well with Talia until 24-hours ago when the DEA lost contact with one of their agents who was on a protection detail with a cartel whistleblower. The DEA Agent was the man barricading the door – David Ramirez. There are some really terrible headless photos on the big screen – don’t do that show. Sam offers condolences. Worried about the whistleblower, Talia turns the briefing over the Fatima.

The missing man is Martin Henderson, a 20-year Navy veteran who retired to work in sales and distribution for a firearms manufacturer. Henderson found that straw buyers were being used to make weapons sales and those weapons were being shipped to the cartels in Mexico. Mexico has one legal gun shop in the whole country and they sell about 10,000 guns a year. These straw purchases are moving 250,000 guns illegally into Mexico each year.

Fatima asks her little “Norwegian Weasel” if he has any guesses why there isn’t a crackdown on this. He doesn’t have an answer. Since nobody wants American guns in the hands of Mexican criminals, the Mexican government is trying to crackdown by suing the gun manufacturers the way the parents in Sandy Hook did. Martin Henderson was supposed to testify about the gun sales. Talia expects to arrive in 30-minutes. She has two addresses for the team to check out. With the clock ticking, Sam knows there will be six different body bags for Henderson if the cartels find him first.

As Deeks drives, he is looking for an update from Fatima. Henderson has not contacted his family or the DEA. The addresses Talia sent was the only leads. One is connected to Carlyle Huntington, Henderson’s boss. Fatima sends a photo that Kensi considers a “hard swipe right”. Huntington has a clean record and a lot of money with homes in LA, Manhattan, ranch house in New Mexico and a penthouse in Mexico City. Kaleidoscope caught him entering a restaurant called La Bocca Felice, which impresses Deeks. Sam and Rountree are on their way.

Feeling he lost a bet, Deeks asks why are they going to Lancaster. There is an address that is the last thing Henderson sent out before disappearing. The address is a large ranch house being remodeled. Sam is worried – nobody knows what is in Lancaster so he wants Kensi and Deeks to be careful.

During the drive to Lancaster, Deeks asks Kensi if she has any idea what they should do with their $20,000. Kensi thinks put it back in the house. Make the garage a staycation paradise, maybe get a pool table. Deeks is intrigued. Get a flat screen TV, a minifridge and a golden shark. Deeks laughs and calls her cruel and heartless. Kensi laughs at how the joy in his eyes all melted away. Deeks is offended she’d use his golden shark to trick him. He’d also like to know what are they going to do with the money – “for real.”

Since they’ve been busy and it only just happened, Kensi doesn’t really have plans. Deeks does. He’s thinking satellite phone, iPad, monogramed towels. Kensi says they have all those things. They do but maybe for Pilar or Rosa. Deeks has been reading and part of adopting a teen from another country after making them feel safe and loved is giving them the opportunity to stay in contact with their extended family. Kensi loves Deeks and thinks it is so thoughtful. But since she brought up the golden shark, why not a pinball machine?

Blowing right past the parking valet, Sam and Rountree walk into La Bocca Felice. Huntington is having a meal with a female friend. As Sam and Rountree go to Huntington, two bodyguards try to stop them. They are not good bodyguards – they are in handcuffs in short order.

Walking up to the table, Sam notices Huntington is drinking an expresso martini at 10AM. “Well, I don’t do coke anymore.” He also denies that the bodyguards were with him – he’s never seen them before. With his date leaving early, Huntington is willing to talk to Sam and see “how poorly our tax dollars are spent.”

On the phone, the Admiral is exasperated. Nobody got Henderson’s testimony in writing. Anything would be better than nothing and the way things are going, they have nothing.

Kensi and Deeks pull up to a house under construction in his truck. Deeks has been watching the show. He can’t understand why they say “federal agents” since everyone either runs away or starts shooting. God bless you Martin A. Deeks. He thinks they should yell Jonas Brothers and honestly, I’m, not 100% on board for that. Kensi still says “federal agents” as they kick in the door. The house is empty but under construction.

Fatima calls. There is video of Kensi and Deeks getting out of the truck and going into the house. NCIS’s threat management team picked it up on the internet. They’re being watched. Since they’re in “frickin’ Egypt” there is no time for back-up. Kensi asks could the footage be from a hacked surveillance camera. She and Deeks hid near the windows, gun drawn. Fatima can see them in the house in the video. They are right outside of the house. Deeks finds this all a bummer, he didn’t plan on bleeding today. Kensi thinks the $10,000 shouldn’t go to hospital bills. Going outside, everyone is gone. All the construction workers are gone but their trucks and equipment are still there. They wanted Kensi and Deeks to know they were being watched.

In interrogation, Sam finds it interesting that Huntington didn’t ask why he was being brought in. Huntington isn’t interested in acting oblivious. He knows Henderson is missing. Sam asks for a reason Henderson would be missing and Huntington snarks about a second family. He knows about Henderson working the DEA and NCIS dropping by his “brunch with benefits” confirms that. Huntington finds it odd that Henderson’s ex-wife and daughters haven’t approached him. He has contacts all over the world and they didn’t ask for help. They didn’t ask for help because Henderson is working against him. Selling guns and ammo isn’t for everyone. Henderson obviously became “allergic” to his great salary and hefty 401K.

Pushing back, Sam thinks Henderson learned about the straw buyers. Saying his company is bulletproof (pun intended), Huntington invites NCIS to get a warrant and look thought all of his paperwork, they haven’t broken a single law. The ATF is in Huntington’s offices right now looking around. They aren’t going to find anything. Huntington does tell Sam and Rountree that the two bodyguards at the restaurant really weren’t working for him. Now, if someone really believes that guns purchased from Huntington’s company are smuggled into Mexico, the cartels have a good reason to keep Huntington safe. Leaving interrogation, Rountree tells Huntington that he doesn’t like him. Huntington tells him the night is still young.

In the main room, the Admiral doesn’t like Huntington either. Fatima pops up on the plasma, she has over 100 gun purchases coming from a single address with the names of multiple buyers. Talia has arrived and is looking for “a wingman to be her Goose.” Rountree asks “who’s Goose” and it is hard to tell who is more offended, Sam or the Admiral. Sam can’t believe Rountree never saw “Top Gun”. “Of course he hasn’t, unless it’s in 30-second clips on TikTok or they’ve made it with vampires.” Rountree gets to work with Talia today while the Admiral tries to work on Huntington. As he leaves, Sam tells Rountree that Goose dies in “Top Gun”. Rountree is not pleased. The Admiral is going after Huntington.

Walking into interrogation, the Admiral is greeted by Huntington with an AARP joke or “Bring Grandpa to work day.” The Admiral admits he’s 74 (when the episode was filmed, so was Gerald McRaney). He should be living on a beach in Costa Rica, reading a cheap spy novel and drinking an expensive single malt. Instead, he’s in LA. He goes on a long tirade about LA types.

Moving to the wrong side of the table, the Admiral needs a name of someone who can find Henderson. Huntington replies “Keyser Soze.” That gets a chuckle from the Admiral for being clever but look where clever got him. Huntington thinks clever got him a lunch date with a woman half his age and twice as hot.

Getting serious, the Admiral explains that if Henderson is caught by the cartels, he’s getting a Columbian necktie and the Admiral goes into great detail on how that happens. Touching the Admiral’s suit, Huntington asks if that would be considered business causal. The 74-year old Admiral takes Huntington’s hand, turns his wrist and has him face down on the edge of the table. Asking one more time, the Admiral wants a name. Huntington blurts out “Miguel Flores”. As the Admiral leaves, Huntington said he didn’t see Kilbride as a “smug, anti-gun snowflake”. He’s not – he’s voted red since Coolidge and he’s got more guns than Huntington has empty bottles of Viagra. This is about choosing financial gain over human decency.

In the main room, Sam is impressed. The Admiral admits having not made a move like that since BUD/S. Fatima is back on the plasma. Miguel Flores is an immigrant who became a US citizen after spending 10-years in the Navy. Now, Flores crosses the border daily with handipainted tiles. Fatima can’t find a brick and mortar address for Flores but he has a boat near Sam’s and two expensive vehicles – a Raptor and a Ducati.

As Sam is about to go to the boat alone, the Admiral reminds him they work in teams. Fatima is out of Ops and working with Sam. The Admiral wants blood, answers or both. He’d really like both.

Clearing the perimeter of the house, Kensi arrives at the home’s garage where there are three additional locks. Deeks finally gets in by doing a crane kick and they find the expensive Raptor with handmade Mexican tile.

Screeching to a stop, Talia jumps out of her Honda and apologizes for being late. She makes several In-n-Out jokes and Rountree isn’t there for it. Approaching the front desk of this retirement home, Talia introduces herself and Agent Squaretree. When Rountree corrects her, the two bicker and the desk clerk is not amused. Fatima wants a list of residents, some have purchased over 100 guns. The clerk gladly turns it over with a warning that if they are going to talk to anyone, knock hard. It was water aerobics day and after 10AM, that place becomes frisky. Rountree could have lived without that image. As Rountree and Fatima walk up the stairs to find the residents, a younger woman – obviously not a resident – walks down.

Exiting his car, Sam talks about spending the $10,000 as an extension of your happiness. Sam would take a family vacation, maybe help Kam with a car down payment. Fatima asks as a millennial, should she stop buying useless items from Etsy. Depends, Sam tells her. “Do they spark joy?” Coming across the Ducati, Sam asks for Miguel Flores, who is working on his boat. Sam goes “federal agent” and really should have gone Jonas brother. Flores takes off. Sam chases while Fatima goes around. When Flores goes where Fatima stationed herself, she blocks him into the water.

After examining the truck, Kensi finds it squeaky clean. Thinking that moving Mexican tile doesn’t pay for expensive trucks and a fancy motorcycle, Deeks uses a broomstick to try to get into a strange spot in the ceiling. Deeks is a fan of the home repair shows and Zillow porn surfing. Climbing into the overhead, Deeks is walking around when he finds a dead body when he falls through the ceiling.

In handcuffs, Flores says he doesn’t live in the house. He just drives the tiles back and forth. Fatima promises NCIS can help him but he thinks he’s dead man walking. His family �� mom, dad, two little brothers – all depend on him for money. If the cartels learn he’s talking to NCIS, the family will be killed.

A woman named Thelma invites Talia and ”Agent Rounleaf” into her apartment. They think Thelma is a straw buyer but she has guns. They are old fashion rifles. Thelma hasn’t bought any of the guns no the list. When asked about her ID, Thelma tells them there was a robbery in the building so the front office keeps the IDs safe. The desk clerk collected the IDs. When Talia and Rountree go back to see the desk clerk, her throat was cut.

In the boat shed, Huntington’s lawyer arrived. She tells the Admiral that Huntington is returning to New Mexico on a six o’clock private flight so she wants to wrap things up.

The bomb squad checked out the house. No bombs. The bad news is their sub-surface tech found something in the walls of the house. While Kensi is asking how they can look into the walls, Deeks just busts one up. There are guns all through the walls.

In an NCIS-style Zoom call with the faces on the plasma, Talia and Rountree matched the out of state IDs with the purchases of the guns. The desk clerk was the straw buyer. Lawyer Deeks says even if they can connected the guns and Loretta to the cartels, that doesn’t give them anything against Huntington’s company. Sam doesn’t want to get caught in the weeds – Henderson can make all those connections when they find him. They have to get either Huntington or Flores to flip. The Admiral will start with Huntington.

With his lawyer in interrogation, Huntington waits. When the Admiral walks in and tells him he can go but not before calling him a few names. More than a few. The lawyer doesn’t thinks they have to listen to the Admiral. Huntington gets off a few shots at the “Captain”. Saying that the country was born in genocide and hasn’t had a good war since the Great War. When Huntington finishes, the Admiral says he was a solider who fought for Huntington’s right to be a jackass.

Huntington continue to talk about soldiers fighting because big business wants them to. The Admiral calls Huntington a war profiteer who can sleep at night because of the distanced between him and the bodies his weapons killed. Huntington replies about drones killing children and calling it diplomacy. When the Admiral talks about a particular atrocity committed by the cartels, Huntington says that means there are less mouths to feed. “Does your dead mother in heave know what you’ve become?”

Standing, Huntington’s lawyer wants them to go. The Admiral talks about Huntington’s mother, a church secretary and a middle school teacher. She made people’s lives better and is crying in heaven because “what you are is an abomination.” Huntington breaks – he could tell every the Admiral every straw buyer, every cartel person who gets a gun but nothing will happen because of the corrupt lawyers and lobbyists and judges. Pointing to his lawyer, Huntington says he didn’t hire her, the cartels did to keep the system safe. She pulls out a pen and asks him to get up and go. When Huntington is about to give up Henderson’s location, the lawyer stabs Huntington in the neck with the pen. Huntington is dying. While tending to Huntington, the Admiral calls for Castor to arrest the lawyer. Huntington is foaming at the mouth – there was poison on the pen.

Stopping LAPD before Flores is put into the back of a black and white, Sam begs Flores to help them. Fatima says NCIS is ready to get his family from Mexico and bring them to the US, granting them asylum. Flores turns them down. His family will be dead before the agents get there. Sam understands that the cartel helped him get to the Navy, get dual citizenship. With the power to save a man’s life, Flores can strike down the monsters who own him and his family. Flores asks for his phone. Sam says the right thing to do and the hardest thing to do are the same thing. Flores finds out Henderson was found – he’s in a warehouse in Culver City.

Sam and Fatima are five-minutes out from the warehouse. If he survives with a speeding Talia, Rountree things he’s seven-minutes out. The Culver City PD is ten-minutes out and the building is on fire. Sam and Fatima do not have full face respirators to go into the fire – budget cuts. Fatima found something to buy with her $10,000. Rountree and Talia have them. The Admiral orders, “Sam, save this man.”

As they get to the warehouse, Sam and Fatima are immediately under fire. The Hellcat and the gunmen get shot up. Taking some deep breaths, Sam runs into the fire. In the warehouse is the woman Rountree and Talia passed at the retirement home. She’s shooting at Sam while everything is on fire. Sam follows her. In the middle of the warehouse with flames around him, Sam finds Henderson covered in his own blood.

As the woman who Sam was chasing before finding Henderson is about to flee, she is stopped by Talia. Talia warns her to drop the gun. The woman would “rather die standing.” Talia tells her to shut up and drop the gun. The woman asks if Talia believes in the devil. Talia does. When the woman brings her arm up to shoot Talia, Talia shoots her on the spot. “Tell him I say hello.” The woman tries to take Talia out before dying. She is killed.

Sam runs out of the burning building with a dying Henderson in a fireman’s hold. Getting into the ambulance, Sam tells the EMTs that Henderson must live. Rountree sees Henderson was holding onto his phone. Looking at the phone, he sees that Henderson was recording. Asked what to do with it, Rountree is told by Fatima to send it to the office and hope it was worth the lives of two good men.

The Admiral is arguing with someone on the phone because while the video can’t be used as testimony it could be used for probative value. The Admiral gets a text – Henderson died going to the hospital. Livid, the Admiral says he will bury the video. Kensi and Deeks arrive and the Admiral is screaming in frustration in his office. Deeks notes the soundproof glass has not arrived. The Admiral marches to Ops, telling Kensi and Deeks they weren’t in the office, they saw nothing. Deeks thinks murders often make that statement.

Kensi is willing to spend her $10,000 to buy a time machine so they can go back. They can do this case again only smarter, faster, so Henderson survives. Deeks wouldn’t mind not riding the “corpse coaster” from the ceiling. Kensi’s phone buzzes, so does Deeks. A blocked number sends a message to over 200 NCIS staffers. Putting it up on the bullpen’s plasma, it is Henderson’s video. The guns were marketed to Mexican cartels using quotes of Mexican heroes on the guns slides. Everyone knew they were sold to straw buyers. Henderson said he can’t look another atrocity committed by the cartels and know that he played a role in this – he didn’t want to be a whistleblower but now he is.

Kensi and Deeks watch from the bullpen. Rountree watches with Talia in the warehouse parking lot. Sam is watching in the ambulance with Henderson’s body. In the video, Henderson talks about being the father of two beautiful girls, spending 20-years with the Navy defending his country and 10-years selling his soul. He knew what he was doing was wrong. It ate away at his soul. “Speak the truth and the dawn will come.” He says goodbye to his daughters and is shot. “I love you so much.” The woman Talia shot kills him, complete with the line about believing in the devil.

Kensi and Deeks looks up and sees Kilbride at the top of the stairs. They all know what he did.

What head canon can be formed from here: This should have been a better episode. Parts of it – where they weren’t overdoing the comedy, were terrific. The goofy physical humor with Deeks, the bad behaving Talia to Rountree – who has done nothing to earn her dismissive attitude – was all just a bit too much. It works so hard against the amazing work in the dramatic scenes.

Based on the show’s history, wouldn’t Kensi inhale a shake for breakfast while Deeks have a mindful morning meal?

For those wondering, a gift of $10,000 is not a taxable event and will not trigger an audit. That number has gone up recently but $10,000 is the commonly thought threshold. Eric talked to a good tax lawyer.

Episode number: Episode 299 overall, the 19th episode of season 13.

#NCIS: Los Angeles Rewatch #NCIS: Los Angeles #NCIS: LA #NCIS Los Angeles #ncis la

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viperbarnes · 4 years ago

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Longer Than Forever – One of Four

[B. Barnes]

Medieval/Fantasy AU

Summary: You’d heard rumours of him. Terrible stories of horror and brutality, of merciless bloodshed. The Winter Knight was a demon in every way imaginable, and you expect your arranged marriage to him to be no different. However, the truth is far more complicated, and the man you anticipate fearing the most may just be your only solace.

Warnings: Major warnings for a scene with dubious consent, smut, talk of depression, attempted suicide, and attempted assault.

Note: This story was previously posted on another platform!

You keep your eyes down and your head lowered as you’re guided through the Imperial Palace. You’re led by a severe-looking man who tips his nose high as he moves, as if despite his role as a steward, he thought this task beneath him. At your side, your father’s hand is curled gently around your arm, and you’re thankful for the small amount of comfort it lends. In a castle as large and cold as Palais de la Hiver, you would need every comfort you could find.

You already know it would be a hard task, the stoney walls, large echoing rooms and passages, finely furnished, but not enough to hide the sheer level of discomfort the Palace was built to offer. It was entirely different from your family’s cozy manor. Entirely different from anything you’d ever known.

Your family was wealthy, your father owned great stretches of land near the border of the kingdom, but you’d earnt that wealth and land through generations of hard work. Your ancestor’s had been allies with the former ruling empire, they had worked the lands they’d been gifted to sell crops, and their children had made it into a business.

But the former royals had been deposed of many years ago, when you were still a child. Your kingdom had been conquered and now the lands your father owned were the reason you were in your current situation.

Lord Pierce may have extended the offer of an allying marriage between you and one of his loyal knights, but it was never really an offer at all. Lord Pierce was not a man known for his leniency or tolerance of discord. Outwardly, he may never lift a hand himself, but he had spies and agents everywhere and it would only take one misspoken word and entire families would disappear, their land ceased.

Any pretence of choice or power your father held in this situation was just that; pretence.

You’re led into a drawing room of sorts, though it lacked any real amount of recreation, discounting the small chess set in the corner and the bookshelves lining the walls. A fireplace crackles away on the far side, and in the centre of the room two chaise lounges sit opposite one another, a small table between them.

The servant waits for you to be seated before he bows low.

“Lord Pierce shall be with you soon.” He tells you, though you hardly listen. You sit numbly with your hands in your lap, staring across the room at the fire. Your father paces, occasionally stopping to stand behind you with his hand resting on your shoulder briefly, before nerves take him again and he paces once more.

Under any other circumstances you might’ve been at least a little excited to meet your future husband. You wouldn’t have picked him yourself, but you were hardly expected to anyway. Any excitement was quelled by rumour. Lord Pierce’s most loyal and trusted men, those knighted were all ruthless soldiers.

Although natives to your lands had lived with your conquerors for many years now, there was still an air of mystery, a divide between the two cultures. The Hydran’s kept to themselves in the castle, dishing out edicts and enforcing the law where necessary, but never fully integrating themselves into society.

It didn’t help that the knights were all universally feared. It didn’t matter that you were no longer at war, Pierce ruled with an iron fist and his men had total authority when they deigned to visit the towns or villages. They acted with complete impunity, and their known violence and unforgiving nature only served to further the peoples’ fear.

And you were to marry one of these men.

You had done your best over the past days to remain positive, but the reality of your situation was setting in. You could only hope now that your future husband’s reputation was reserved for the battlefield.

The door opens suddenly and both you and your father jump in your places, standing immediately as Lord Pierce comes sweeping into the room. Perhaps in his heyday he might’ve been a handsome man, but his features had since shrivelled, giving away his age, though he still looked spry, still moved with ease.

His warm smile is almost convincing as he approaches, holding his hand out for your father to shake in greeting.

“Sir, how good to see you well.” Pierce firmly shakes your father’s hand, before his eyes turn on you. You curtsy, just in time for his time-ripened fingers to take your hand, and he tuts at your formality. You pause, uncertain of what to do when he does a slight bow of his own, bringing your hand to his lips.

“As lovely as you described.” He compliments, standing straight once more and you duck your head in gratitude. He releases your hand and holds his arms wide for a moment.

“Well, let us not stand around, please, sit!”

You do as asked, eyes traveling to where Pierce now gestures to a man who had entered behind him, though you’d been far too involved with the feared ruler to pay him mind previously.

The man steps around the couches, not to sit, simply to stand at the end between both, his gloved hands clasped before him. It takes you a moment to see beyond the dark mass of clothing he wears and make out the individual parts of his pitch black armour, the cape that is swung around his neck and over his shoulders, billowing out behind him. Details of silver stand out to you as you look closer, spying several belt buckles and—

You swallow at the sight of the large sword hung on his hip, and your gaze flickers up to take in the man again, this time as a whole.

Tall, broad, and dark. Despite his pale skin, dark is the only word that comes to mind to describe him. His hair was long and hangs about his face, perhaps neat at some point prior to now, but had since been windswept. His eyes are directed to the floor, so you can’t see them, but dark shadows linger underneath, making his complexion rather sallow in the dim lighting of the sitting room.

His face is rather handsome, you can’t help but think, a thick but shortly trimmed beard covering the lower portion of it. It’s then however, your eyes catch upon something shiny at his shoulder, a pin that holds his cloak in place and you freeze, blood running cold.

A skull, six curling tentacles reaching out from underneath it.

You look away from the knight and lace your shaking fingers together in your lap. Your father and Lord Pierce had been speaking all this time about your marriage, and your dowry of at least half your family’s land. That was Lord Pierce’s ploy all along, there had been no denying it.

He could care less about forming alliances with local families, it was the border land he wanted most. You don’t doubt that your husband would only act as a proxy for Pierce’s control, carrying out whatever the warlord wished for it, no questions asked.

You swallow thickly as at last Lord Pierce and your father stand, stepping toward the Knight, but you find yourself frozen to the spot. They don’t immediately notice, Pierce holding a hand out to gesture at his knight.

“This is my Winter Knight, Sir James. I’m sure you’ll have heard of him,” He speaks to your father, still ignoring how you haven't moved yet. You had heard of him. You weren’t sure of anybody who hadn’t.

Among Lord Pierce’s Knights, The Winter Knight was perhaps one of the most storied. The man had never lost a fight, and was obedient to Lord Pierce as if he were a hound. When talk of Lord Pierce’s Knights came about, the whispered deeds of The Winter Knight were among the most feared.

All of them awful.

All of them horrific.

You feel your stomach drop to your knees, but you have no more time to dwell as suddenly all eyes are on you, and you blink up at the men, Lord Pierce giving you an unsettlingly encouraging look, and you follow to where his hand is still held out in gesture to his knight.

You stand, like you’re supposed to, and step closer to the knight, like you’re supposed to. Your shaky hands gather your skirts and you curtsy like you’re supposed to, offering out your hand, like you’re supposed to.

You nearly gasp when black-gloved fingers take your own, far lighter than you might have thought, his fingers certainly holding yours, however the touch feels as soft as a feather.

The knight bows deep, bringing your hand to his lips gently. You keep your eyes firmly on the floor, afraid you might begin shaking worse than you already were, afraid that your future husband may feel the tremble in your fingers. The brief glance you do steal does nothing to settle your growing anxiety or nerves, his features seemingly devoid of any emotion at all, and the dark, imposing man only becoming darker, more imposing in your mind with his complete lack of reaction.

His movements were swift and smooth enough to appear natural, but something tells you diplomacy was not his calling. No, in your mind's eye you conjure wicked images of the man in the midst of a heated battle, blood marring his still emotionless features.

You’re thankful when he drops your hand at last and you take an involuntary step backwards, toward your father. The knight’s eyes remain downturned. Lord Pierce claps his hands.

“A handsome couple I should say!”

Your father hums along feebly, agreeing.

“The wedding shall be tomorrow. A servant will escort the Lady to her temporary rooms for tonight, and I will act as her guardian at tomorrow's nuptials.” Lord Pierce informs you both, making your heart begin to thump wildly in your chest, and your head snaps to your father with wide eyes.

“B-but Sire, I—” Your father begins, stepping forward, but he’s swiftly cut off.

“—I understand your people have your wedding traditions, but we are in the midst of important siege planning, it would be unwise for me to allow you to stay. As it is, nobody enters the Palais and nobody leaves it until we are finished. Your arrival and departure are the only exceptions, of course.” Lord Pierce tells him with a wave of his hand. There was no room for argument, a sternness now to his words.

Your father sputters, but turns to look at you, eyes brimming with unshed tears and apologies. You silently beg him not to leave, but somewhat reluctantly, his gaze hardens, and he looks away, bowing to Lord Pierce.

“Very well, My Lord. I shall depart with haste…”

You force fight the urge to throw yourself at him, beg him to stay, but instead curl your fists tightly into your palms, remaining rooted to the spot as your father leans in to kiss your forehead.

“I… I love you. I’m so—” Before he can finish his apology, he shuts his mouth, lips forming into a thin line. He nods at you firmly, finally.

You watch as the same man who had escorted you inside the palace leads your father from the room, the door shutting loudly behind them. A few tears escape your eyes and trail down your cheeks.

You jump when a hand lands on your shoulder.

“I know it is unfortunate, but you will be just fine. Before you know it, Palais de la Hiver will be home.” Lord Pierce tells you, and if you hadn’t heard all the stories about his cruelty, his sympathetic smile and warm eyes might have fooled you.

You swallow and let your eyes fall to the stone floor.

Home?

This would never be your home.

—-

You feel numb.

Everything about your wedding was already planned and organised, and you float through the day like a fog in a valley. The ladies that were clearly assigned to help you prepare hardly speak to you, and while they aren’t outright unkind, the room is filled with tension. You can tell they wished to be elsewhere.

They don’t know you. They don’t trust you. You aren’t one of them.

You see nothing of Lord Pierce or the man you’re set to marry right up until the ruler appears and takes your arm to lead you to the altar. The whole ceremony plays out unfamiliar to you, Hydran traditions and weddings vastly different from your own native ones, but that hardly seemed to matter.

The ceremonial room isn’t large or particularly grand. A few other knights, ladies and officials seem to have gathered to pay witness, and in the few moments you lift your eyes from the floor as you’re led forward, it seems as though all watch on with fascinated boredom.

When you finally reach the officiant, Lord Pierce releases your arm, taking your hand and transferring it into the clutches of a dark glove. For a moment you peek up at your soon-to-be husband, only to find him once more with that blank expression. You cast your eyes back to the ground and try to keep your lip from wobbling.

You must disassociate, your mind travelling elsewhere, because the ceremony is over before you know it, the Hydran officiant untying your wrists from where you and Sir James’ hands had been symbolically bound together. There is a polite clapping as you both turn, presented to the bored audience as man and wife and Lord Pierce announces a feast.

The feast has far more guests than your wedding did, and although you and Sir James sit at a long table joined by other apparently important figures, you feel as though the celebration has more to do with the acquisition of your father’s lands than your union.

You sit quietly and watch the festivities, the whole room loud and laughing, music playing raucously as couples drink and dance. Nobody approaches either you or your new husband. Nobody seems to care at all. You can’t even bring yourself to cry, as numb as you are now.

Throughout the meal, you briefly steal glances at your husband, and part of you feels almost angry for his impassiveness, the way his eyes flick slowly around the room. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.

You do think it odd that for a knight he seemed to have no colleagues willing to come congratulate him. In fact, it’s odd to you that nobody seems to address him at all. The only person who does is Lord Pierce, and even then he only ever seems to command him. Did the tales of your husband’s brutality isolate him from those within his own circles as well?

Were you truly now married to a man feared even by his own people?

You swallow, and smooth your hands over your lap for the hundredth time since the meal had begun. At any moment now you would retire to your new rooms, the chambers you will share with your new husband, and you will find out how much of a monster he really is. The thought should have made you scared, at the very least nervous, but you felt too numb for that, one small blessing.

It only takes another twenty minutes, and you notice Lord Pierce lean into Sir James, speaking quietly into the man’s ear. Predictably, the knight’s face doesn’t change, he only nods shortly. You feel your heartbeat jump when Sir James stands, and he doesn’t even speak, simply holds his hand out for you expectantly.

For the first time ever his eyes fall upon you and you realise with some amount of surprise, that they’re a stunning bright blue.

You take the hand offered, and keep your head low as you’re led from the table. You might’ve thought the feasting crowd would have noticed the bride and groom leaving, dreaded the whistles and cheering on from the men, but there’s nothing, not a soul seems moved by your exit from the evening.

The hallways are cold and empty as you move through them, doubly so with your company, and you attempt to distract yourself by keeping track of which hall led where and what staircases you climbed and which you didn’t, but the palace is a maze.

You do stop eventually, at a large wooden door Sir James pushes open with one hand. Unfortunately, your numbness takes leave of you then, your heart thumping and you feel as if you’ve been dropped in frozen water.

Your blood pumps loudly in your ears as you are guided inside, and you distract yourself once more by taking an inventory of the chambers before you.

They were large enough, though not particularly lavish, and the furnishings that were present seemed like they might have been put there by someone else. A fireplace with a seat and table by it, a tall bookcase nearby. On the other side of the room, opposite the fireplace was an armoured figure, and it takes you a moment to realise that it is only a mannequin, with your husband’s armour placed upon it.

The back of the room holds the bed, and directly to the left of it, curtained doors that you suppose lead to a balcony. On the right side of the bed is another door, a washroom you suppose.

There are few cupboards and trunks for things, and you wonder how suddenly this marriage was thrust upon Sir James if he had not yet found time to acquire more furniture for your own possessions. It matters not, you spy your own trunk by the wall, a maid clearly having collected it from the room you’d occupied last night.

Your husband closes the door and immediately moves to the fire, stoking it. You take several deep breaths before moving toward the table, where you spy a bottle of something and two glasses, clearly placed there in anticipation of your return to the chamber. You wonder by who, though. You hardly think your husband the sort.

You don’t speak or offer him a drink, you simply pour a good amount into each glass and take a hefty swig of your own before you look up again, nearly jumping when you find Sir James stood, just watching you. He doesn’t move, he just stares at you and for a moment you think perhaps you should have waited, but then he does something that catches you completely by surprise;

His head cocks the tiniest amount, and his eyes narrow in interest.

It’s the first sort-of expression you’ve ever seen cross his face, the first acknowledgement of you being in the same room as him at all, and you wonder what on earth it meant. You see his eyes flick down to your glass, and then back to your face.

You swallow thickly before taking a final drink, finishing the remaining wine and placing the glass back down on the table.

This was it, whether you liked it or not. You look down at yourself, not even really sure of what your gown looked like, or how it came undone. You knew what was required of you, you wouldn’t struggle or fight. Perhaps if he knew this, he’d be kinder. You decide to voice as much, but spare yourself the embarrassment by turning away, moving toward the bed.

“I know what is expected from me. I will yield.” Your hands shake almost violently when you begin pulling apart the fastenings of your dress, but you push down the fear and the worry, focusing instead on undressing. If you could be quick, perhaps he would be too, and you would be left to sleep sooner.

You don’t look back at your husband as you do this, but you know he watches, the prickle of skin on the back of your neck alerting you to his attention. It feels wrong, and yet, this man was your husband. This was the only right way for a man to see you like this.

By the time you’re fully nude, and you’ve gathered the courage to look back at him, you find him exactly where he was the last time you’d looked at him, but now, his eyes seem to be averted, cast downwards.

A moment of panic fills you. What if he did not like what he saw?! You had no desire to be married to this man, but you were now, and his approval of you was important!

You lie down quickly, unwilling to entertain the crazed, panicked thoughts rushing through your mind. No man could be truly displeased with a woman lying ready for them, yes? All you had to do was be a good wife and perhaps your life would not become completely miserable. You could take joy in that, at the very least.

Hours seem to pass in the time it takes his footsteps to near, and you steal a look to where your husband appears in the corner of your vision. You watch him pull his coat and doublet off, each being placed neatly back into a drawer, and the sight almost makes you laugh.

This strange, fearsome man would prioritise cleanliness on his wedding night?

You stay silent however, and turn your eyes away as he continues to undress. He nears at one point, and you tense up, readying yourself, only to stop when he bends low, takes your own clothes from the floor, and sets them tidily inside the same drawer. Your mind spins and whirs and you can’t decide if it's an act of kindness or of his own desire to have his chambers clean.

He approaches you for good then, to the side of the bed and you shift slightly to make more room if he needs it. A tiny peek at his body tells you the man had survived more injuries than you can count with the number of scars that cover his muscled body.

You hold your breath when he gracefully climbs atop you, and you stare up at the ceiling of the four-poster bed, begging your nerves to calm down. You jump when a warm hand grasps your ankle, you gaze snapping to the touch. Sir James seems to pause with your movement, his eyes locked onto yours and your heartbeat quadruples. He dips his chin just slightly, still looking at you, and then continues to move your leg, slowly, perhaps even gently.

You can’t help but watch him as he settles between your legs. You swallow, and with his eyes now moving elsewhere, you look back to the ceiling, your jaw beginning to shake some as you feel him shuffle forwards. He doesn’t lie atop you, instead he places his hands on your hips and carefully tugs you down the bed.

You talk yourself down through each movement he makes, staring upwards even when your vision becomes blurry and you’re forced to close your eyes. One of his hands keeps your body against his while you guess the other guides his length to your entrance. You force yourself to swallow the gasp that climbs up your throat when a hand, a finger prods there instead.

Confusion fills you, and you gasp when the finger pushes into you, dragging and a little painful, but it’s pulled away again in a few seconds, and you keep your eyes closed, too embarrassed now to open them, too scared to move as more fingers glide up your core, settling at the place just above. You wonder what he’s doing, but as he slowly moves his fingers in small circles, you feel the muscles in your core twitch.

It takes you a moment to realise that the ministrations aren’t unpleasant. It’s an odd sensation, warmth crawling over your skin like you were sinking into a hot bath. It doesn’t calm your nerves, but you do feel your body begin to relax.

After a few minutes, the movement stops, and you feel his fingers travel down again, back to your entrance where, just like before, one digit presses in. It doesn’t drag or hurt this time, aided by a wetness you had not realised had spread there. A second finger joins a moment later, and this time he pumps them slowly, sending a slight thrill though you involuntarily.

The fingers stop then, and the hand seems to be pulled away completely. For a moment you debate opening your eyes, but then you feel something warm and hard press against your entrance, and before you can even think a second more, you’re gasping sharply as he sinks inside.

He doesn’t stop or pause like he had with your ankle, but his press forward slows some, both his hands moving back to your hips. You take shallow, hurried breaths as you feel his cock stretch you out, your muscles screaming in discomfort, but you force yourself to be quiet, even when your eyes begin leaking again, and you shake uncontrollably as the tears drip down your cheeks and onto the bed below.

He’s sheathed all the way inside you when a hand leaves your hip. You yelp softly, not expecting the fingers that clutch gently at your chin, holding it still from your shaking. His hold is so soft and gentle, you can’t help but open your eyes, half expecting to find another man.

Sir James leans forward slightly, his expression almost entirely the same as it always is, except for a tiny furrow in his brow. Looking at him almost distracts you some, and you can only stare in mild surprise as he then lifts his hand from your chin, and uses the rough, calloused pad of his thumb to wipe at the wetness on your cheeks, one, and then the other.

Your breathing stutters at the tenderness of it, and even though he speaks no words, the message is clear: He did not intend on hurting you, on making this more painful than it had to be.

Shock only makes you shake more, but the pit of anxiety in your chest seems to dissipate.

He pulls his hand away, and back to your hip.

His first thrust hurts, and you wince. The second does too, but less so and soon he seems to have carved out a place in you that feels somewhat comfortable, and you manage to relax. You keep your eyes fixated on the ceiling, your tears drying.

At last his hips stutter and his breathing gets heavier, and finally with a deep exhale and juddering last thrust forward, you feel the fruits of his labour pool inside you, the feeling of which surprises you for. You swallow thick at the thought of bearing a child to this man, but decide to consider such subjects later.

He pulls out of you quickly, and in seconds is on his feet, moving away from the bed. You watch him as he goes for a new drawer, and he pulls several items from it. He dresses himself in breeches made for sleeping, but steps back toward the bed with a rag and a plain tunic held out.

You blink in surprise, and gingerly take the items from him, using the rag to wipe at the mess between your legs, and then slipping the shirt over your head, taking comfort in the warmth of no longer lying nude. Your husband takes back the rag, disappearing into the washroom before stalking out of it once more. You watch him as he moves about the room, putting out any candles until the chamber is cast in only the small light from the fireplace.

When he returns to the bed, he keeps to the opposite side, but pulls back the blankets and furs and allows you to climb beneath them before he himself follows. He does not touch you further, or bid you goodnight, and you are left with your own dizzying thoughts.

You were confused, and grateful, and in slight disbelief, but you fall asleep with more hope for your future than you had woken up with.

—-

Life in Palais de la Hiver is different in every way than what you knew.

You were a Lady now, and as such had no chores to do, no work, no schedule to keep you busy. In fact, as long as you stayed out of the way of any private business, nobody seemed to notice you at all. Every morning your husband was gone before you awoke, returning only near midday to wash and change from his training, before he left again to do who knows what.

In the evenings he would return and quietly eat whatever meal had been delivered to you by the servants, before climbing into bed and the cycle would repeat. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.

You had begun imposing your own schedule. When you rose in the morning, you would dress and eat, before taking a stroll in the castle grounds. You’d given yourself the task of memorising the layout of the areas you were allowed, and in the process, you’d discovered the training ring where the knights would spar.

The ring was overlooked by a balcony that was often occupied by many ladies of the court, clearly vying for the attention of various men. Eventually you make a habit out of watching the knights too, though you keep to yourself, all too aware that you were unwelcome.

You observe your husband more than any of the others, seeing his skill and prowess for yourself. Unlike the other knights, who appeared to take pleasure in violence even within a training scenario, there was never any rage behind your husband’s movements. Much as he was outside of the ring, he always appeared to be indifferent, his actions almost effortless.

If any one thing had become clear to you over the past several months, however, it was the fact that your husband was… different. Aside from the fact he never spoke a word to you, and appeared to hold zero capacity for emotion, the other knights treated him as though he were a dog.

Snide comments and barked orders, your husband obeyed every one of them, even if they, the orders or the man, were below him. The other knights didn’t treat each other the same way, they seemed to have camaraderie, if not friendship.

It makes you confused, and almost angry, but it’s not your place to address.

So you continue on.

After you watch the training for a while, you return to your chambers. You had taken up embroidery and knitting, but you weren’t particularly good at either, so you usually end up reading. When your husband returns at noon to clean up, you always stand to greet him, though he never gives you more than a polite nod as he passes to the washroom, eyes downturned.

You’d begun a ritual of cleaning off his boots and armour when he hung it up. You’d seen him do it every so often, when it was well and truly caked on, and so once he’d left again to oversee his other duties, you’d take a cloth and water and wipe down each piece, before placing it back on it's mantle.

You don’t know if he’d noticed or not, as usual, he never said anything.

You observe one morning while watching the men train, the winter chill in the air requiring you to wrap yourself in a thick shawl, that your husband’s long hair appears to bother him. You’d seen him flick it out of his eyes on many occasions, but for some reason this morning with the wind whipping around the ring non-stop, he appears to be truly frustrated.

Well, as frustrated as he could manage. Nobody else would have noticed, and if you weren’t so used to him by now, you wouldn’t have either, but his hand clenches by his side before he tucks the hair behind his ear, his brow furrowing deeper, and slightly more telling, his nostrils flare. You briefly wonder about offering to cut his hair, before you realise that you had no talent for the art.

It isn’t until you’ve returned to the warmth of your chambers, your embroidery in your hands, that you get an idea.

You make him a ribbon.

It takes you two whole months, and even though your design was fairly simple, your talent was truly non-existent. You also had to contend with the cold that makes your fingers and hands ache after short periods of time, but eventually you sit with a completed ribbon.

It’s black, like the rest of the clothes he wore, but with a dark blue thread you’d created a row of flowers along it, connected by thin white diamonds. You aren’t quite sure what he might think, but you were rather proud.

You’re inspecting it one last time, sitting in the chair by the fireplace when the door swings swiftly open. You jump slightly, ribbon falling to your lap as your husband stalks inside, closing the door gently behind him.

You stand quickly, as you always do, clutching your gift tightly in your hand now as you step toward where he already moves toward the washroom.

“Wait! Please… if you might…?” You realise rather suddenly, that you have no idea how you should address him, but you see him stop anyway. He turns to look at you slowly, brow creased barely noticeably, and you quickly take several more steps toward him.

“I noticed that your hair keeps bothering you while you train… I made this for you, to keep it back…” You hold out the ribbon, trying to keep your hand from shaking too much. Your husband’s eyes drop from your face to your hand.

You see his brow furrow deeper, and hesitantly he takes the gift from you, holding it’s length with both hands as he inspects it closely. You think your heart might burst from your chest in anticipation. When his eyes meet yours once more, and he bows his head deep and low, you have to suppress the urge to jump up and down.

You let out your held air and watch as he stands straight again, turning on his heel and continuing on toward the washroom. It was more of a reaction than you had expected, and even with his silence, his mostly-blank expression, the acknowledgement makes you feel as though you float through clouds.

The next morning when you come to watch the knights train, you hardly recognise Sir James, his face on full display for perhaps the first time you’ve ever seen, his dark hair pulled back from his face, held together by a dark blue and black ribbon.

In a moment between spars, when he rights himself and rolls his shoulders, his eyes cast upwards toward the balcony. Your breath catches in your throat when his eyes lock with yours, staring for just a moment longer than necessary.

—-

Despite the steps forward you make in turning Palais de la Hiver into your home, you’re possessed continually by a pervasive loneliness and depression that refuses to leave you. Some days you were alright, you’d read and walk and find things to fill your time. On other days, you’d stand on your balcony and stare at the massive drop below, wondering if it would be enough to send you away for good, to release you.

As the winter joins you in full force you spend more time out there, standing, staring down below you.

If you were to die, nobody aside from your family would care. Your husband would likely hardly notice your absence, and anybody else at the castle would probably be unsure of your name, let alone if you disappeared or not. However, heights scare you, and any time you attempt to climb up onto the bannister, you scramble back again, afraid.

You would have to try something else.

Your husband has many weapons, he keeps them, his swords and daggers, on his person always, but there was one item he owned that he did not bring with him. A small knife that you’d seen him occasionally clean and place under his pillow. Perhaps once it might’ve scared you to know your husband slept with a weapon so near, but at some point you had either stopped caring or realised he wouldn’t use it on you.

So you take it, one cold and drizzly afternoon, after your husband has returned and left once more for the day, and you know you’ll be alone for hours. You think about perhaps leaving a note, but decide against it. Your life intersecting with his would be nothing more than a passing breeze, you imagine. He would find you, alert Lord Pierce, you would be buried, and life would go on.

Still, you don’t want to make a mess on the carpets, or on the chair you’d spend most of your days in. You think you’d like to be in the open air, so that perhaps your soul can fly freely, return home, and escape the castle walls.

You stand on the balcony once again, eyes dipping down briefly before you shakily lift the knife. It’s cold and heavy in your hands, but you weren’t scared of the pain. You’d thought about this for a long time, one whole year in fact, and it would be the easiest conclusion to your tale.

Despite this, your eyes leak warm tears against your cheeks as you finally place the sharp, gleaming tip of the knife against your chest, directly over your heart. You wouldn’t risk a wound you could survive. You swallow and just hold it there for a moment, calming yourself and evening out your breathing.

This is what you wanted.

You don’t hear the door to your chambers open, the wind and your heart too loud in your ears, but you do see the flicker of movement at the corner of your eyes. Your head snaps quickly to the left in fright, and you find your husband standing by the door to the balcony, his hand on the handle as if he were about to close it when he’d seen you.

For the first time in the whole year you’d been married, his expression is no longer blank, his eyes wide and mouth parted in surprise. For a split second you can only stare at one another, before his eyes drop to the knife held to your chest. A frenzy seems to overcome you both then and you cry out as he lunges for you.

You try to escape him, lifting the knife high and attempting to bring it to your chest before he can reach you, but your hands are grabbed tightly. You thrash against his hold, even manage to drive an elbow into his chest, forcing him back. As you try to clamber away from him, you’re grabbed roughly around the middle with one arm, another hand shooting out and wrapping around your wrist tightly, forcing it, and the knife, away from you.

“Let— Let me go! Let me go!” You gasp, struggling and squirming against him, but he doesn’t listen, only forcing your arm back even more, until it almost hurts, before his thumb suddenly presses down against the inside of your wrist, the force and pain of which shocks you. You cry out again, even as your hand is involuntarily forced open at the move, the knife tumbling from your grasp and over the edge of the balcony.

A sob is torn from your throat as you see it fall, and your husband’s hold on you slackens enough for you to shoot forward, hands clutching the ledge as you lean to watch. He doesn’t release you entirely, his arm around your middle still tight, as if he thinks you may try to jump. You don’t however, instead collapsing in a heap against him, allowing him to hold you up as you begin to sob.

Why did he have to try and stop you?! You want to scream and shout and strike him, but you can do nothing but weep pathetically. Your husband makes no move, not until the rain begins again. You’d have been happy to stay right where you are, but the arm around your middle shifts, and your legs are swept out from under you. You droop even more as he carries you out of the wet, deflating completely as you cry.

In the warmth of the room, you realise how cold you are, your body shaking involuntarily now. Your husband sets you on the chair by the fire and walks away, making you wipe at your eyes, sniffling softly. You jump when he steps in front of you again.

His serious and intent expression as he wraps the blanket from your bed around your shoulders might’ve been funny had the circumstances been different. He seems to fuss for several moments, pulling the blanket securely and tucking it up. When he stops, he pauses, before crouching down in front of you.

You blink tearfully at him, unsure of what to say or do. You watch him as he hesitantly raises a hand, and then lays it on your lap, palm up. You’re too upset and shaken to think clearly, and you react instinctively, unfurling your own hand and placing it in his. He’s warm, and even though his hands are rough and calloused, there’s a comfort in the simple touch that makes your cry again.

You realise that it has been a whole year since someone touched you.

Your mouth seems to work unbound then, and you find yourself sobbing once more as you begin to tell him of your unhappiness. His face remains still, though for once you’re thankful that he appears emotionless. You needed that, for just a moment as you bared all.

“And— and I—” You stutter, lip trembling as you finally stop to catch your breath, eyes falling to your lap as your shoulders lose all tension, and you feel yourself all but slump down in the chair.

“I miss my mother… I want to go home,” You whimper, quietly, lip trembling.

Your husband doesn’t speak, but he does squeeze your hand gently, making you look up at him. When you do, he releases his hold on you, and reaches out to wipe your eyes, like he’d done that very first night, first one, and then the other. He nods softly, frowning slightly.

He doesn’t leave again that afternoon, as you might’ve expected him too, like he probably had planned to when he’d first come back for whatever reason in the first place. Instead helps you into bed, and then sits himself in the chair by the fireplace. You drift in and out of sleep as the rain pours outside, exhausted from your outburst.

When you wake briefly after the night has fallen, you find that he has joined you in bed, though he does not sleep. His eyes open when you shift, and he watches you for several moments as you settle again. He moves slowly then, extending his arm to the vast space between you, his hand once again offered, palm up. You breath in shakily as you place your hand in his again, closing your eyes as he takes proper hold.

When you wake the next morning your hand is still outstretched, but your husband is gone.

A sudden knocking on your chamber door startles you, making you jump up in bed. When it continues, you stumble to your feet, wrapping yourself in a gown before meekly pulling the wooden door open. You almost never had visitors, and you always woke after your husband had taken his breakfast, your plates left for you on the table.

A young man in the armour of the castle guards greets you, his bow half-hearted at most.

“Sir James has asked for you to dress and meet him in the stables, my Lady.”

“My husband?” You ask, confused.

“Yes, my Lady. He urges you to hurry, due to the weather.” He bows again before you can reply, and you’re left standing there blinking into the corridor.

You really felt no desire to leave your rooms at all today, not after the stress of yesterday, and you’d rather been hoping to be alone, but you find yourself hurrying to dress anyway. When you’re ready, you step out of your rooms and find your way to the stables.

You arrive to find your husband standing by a large, stocky horse that was tacked up and even lightly armoured in traditional Hyrdan fashion. He appeared to be fiddling with part of a strap when he notices you.

“Good morning,” You greet nervously, his own head nodding slowly before he lifts his hand, holding it out towards you. It was strange how suddenly you had both taken to the touch.

You give your own nod, heart jumping to your throat when he releases your hand, and leans down, taking your waist in his hands and lifting you to the horse's back as though you weighed nothing.

You have to shuffle to sit properly, your skirts quite in the way, but you sit side saddle, holding tightly onto the saddlehorn when Sir James’ hands leave you, and he climbs up easily, situating himself behind you, much closer than you are expecting.

It isn’t that you’re embarrassed for your husband to be so close, but the fact that the two of you had hardly interacted before yesterday, let alone physically, makes you feel as though it’s something taboo. Moreso when his arms come around you on either side, taking the reins in his hands.

You briefly cast a look up at him as he gently nudges the horse into motion, your hand shooting out to grip his arm when you jerk a little off balance, and he glances down at you. Releasing the reins to hold them with only one hand, he wraps his arm around your middle, holding you more secure as he guides the horse from the stable.

You want to ask where exactly he’s taking you, but you keep quiet, knowing you won’t get a reply. Once you’ve ridden out of the Palais gates, you feel his hold on you tighten even more and quickly the horse is galloping fast down the road, mud and dirt flicking up behind you as you go.

You were never one for horseback riding, apparent as it is, and your nerves jitter anxiously at the edges of your vision, held back only by the strong arm around your middle, and the trust you’ve decided to place in the owner.

You ride for two hours, stopping briefly under a tree when the rain passes through, taking the chance to stretch your legs some, before you mount once more and go on your way. You begin to wonder what exactly you’re doing when the land starts becoming more familiar, and when you pass a signpost that leads you toward your hometown, your hand squeezes at your husband’s arm, just as your heart squeezes in your chest.

You’re swallowing thickly, and trying to blink the tears from welling up in your eyes when he slows his horse, bringing her into a light trot as you approach a large manor house. Servants and maids mill about, collecting water, and doing their chores, and when you’ve finally come to a stop, you all but slip from the staddle, your husband’s arm around your middle preventing you from outright falling, but he does lower you gently, only letting go once your feet have found the ground.

You don’t watch him dismount, too focused on running as fast as you can toward your mother, who must have seen you approaching from the window. She comes stumbling down the front steps, skirts held in her hands, her face pulled into a wide, desperate smile as you throw your arms around her.

“Mama!”

“My baby! My baby! You’re home!” She cries into your neck, and you feel the flow of warm tears down your own cheeks as well. You pull back a little, enough for her to kiss your face, and you coo, excitedly giving your father a hug too when he appears, almost dumbfounded behind her.

“You— You’re— You came home?!” he stutters, holding you tightly, a hand stroking down the back of your head and you nod, pulling away to wipe your face.

“F-for the day, I suspect…” You smile, and look over your shoulder, searching for your husband who stands rigid by his horse, face impassive as ever, but he watches you closely.

You look back to your parents, who have both followed your gaze, their faces suddenly nervous by the knight’s presence. They knew the rumours too, but at this point, you had no idea what to believe. Your husband had been kind to you, for the most part, it didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t seen him train, it wasn’t as though he wasn’t a seasoned warrior

Letting go of your mother to step back toward your husband, you hold out a hand for him. His shoulders seem to straighten, and you get the feeling he had intended to keep away while you reunited with your family. He steps toward you quickly, his eyes flicking to your parents, then back to you before he places his hand in yours.

“My husband, Sir James.” You introduce him properly.

“Well…!” You mother blinks in surprise as she takes him in fully, his height and size intimidating without all his armour, let alone with him currently in it.

“I… I will set the tea on…!” She announces, turning away and ushering you all inside.

For a moment before you step through the door, you turn back, unable to keep the grateful smile from your face. Your husband blinks down at you, perhaps startled by your sudden spin. Your sheer happiness spurs on your next movements, and you quickly lean forward and press a kiss to his stubbly cheek.

“Thank you,” You say softly, pulling back and watching his eyes dart around your features for a moment. You see his lips part, and he swallows before closing them again, and nodding.

With his hand still in yours, you lead him into your family home.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes/you

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no-droids · 5 years ago

Text

Why is the Girl Here?

Part 1 of 2 of The Locked Door Series

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/fem!Reader

Word Count: 12.8K

Summary: The Clone Wars have launched the galaxy into darkness, and hundreds of Jedi have fallen. With nowhere else to turn, the Order seeks to ally with powerful Force users from the Unknown Regions. Just a three-cycle trip from Ilum, the planet s’Ziscari is home to the largest army of Force sensitives known to the galaxy, three times the size of the Jedi Order and with no current allegiance to the Republic. There, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi and his newly ordained Jedi Knight are to negotiate an alliance with the s’Ziscari government on behalf of the Order and the Republic. As the separatist army grows ever stronger, the fate of trillions rests in their hands…

Warnings: THIS WILL BE A FUCK OR DIE-ESQUE FIC. Smut will come in the second part.

***

“Why is it,” you ask, the heels of your leather boots clicking in perfect synchronization with the cloaked figure to your left, “that the greatest negotiator in the Jedi Order wields a blue saber, and not a green one?”

While you're unable to see his gentle smile from underneath your dark cowl, you sense a general wave of amusement reverberate through the Force from his direction. The energy somehow feels like the equivalent of a lift inside the cavity in your chest; transparent, tinted a soft blue in color, comfortable, calm, and familiar.

“Perhaps we should trade,” comes that crisp and precise Coruscanti accent you've ached to hear for the past two years. “No matter how much you lamented its color as a youngling, you know I have always been rather fond of yours.”

It’s true, you think. The color green never really… agreed with you, and much less what it represents to the Jedi, but your Master always said he found the pastel hue of the saber currently clipped to your belt to be unique and appealing. Green—any shade of it, really—is the color of the Jedi Consulars. The peacekeepers, the diplomats, the healers and seers. Their—your—inner nature and connection to the Force speaks to concord and harmony, and though you’ve come to accept your place amongst the pacifists and mediators in the Order after years of training and meditation, you still remember what a shock it was to discover the color of your kyber crystal as a youngling.

You always thought you’d have a blue saber. The mark of the Guardians—the second of the three branches of Jedi. Their skills are focused in battle, and any saber towards the far end of the color spectrum typically leads to specializing in lightsaber combat and warfare tactics. That’s what you always thought your soul spoke to most—the warriors of the Order. The soldiers and the members of the Jedi Core, the battle tacticians, the security of the Republic and law enforcers. You were always a bit of a brash and emotional child compared to your peers, a bit of a handful as a youngling, and you were certain your saber would be some shade of blue because of that. At that age, a yellow saber was maybe a possibility. Though you didn’t really have the amount of friends a sociable, service-oriented Sentinel would have, you still felt that if you didn’t have a blue saber, then yellow was far more likely than green. Yet, you still remember blinking down at your tiny, open palm deep in a cave on Ilum, stunned, a pale mint kyber crystal held precariously in it and nearly vibrating with how loudly it was calling to you through the Force.

“Did the Council do that on purpose, you think?” You ask, the both of you taking a sharp right down another unfamiliar marble hallway with no spoken direction. “Pair their most combative Consular with their most mild-mannered Guardian all those years ago, hoping we’d make a good team?”

“You know as well as I do that I chose you for a Padawan myself, young one,” your Master hums. “And that… we have always been.”

It’s been two years since you last saw him. Two years, since you passed your trials and graduated from his tutelage. Knighthood has been good to you with the exception of your former Master’s extended absence, a consequence of your newfound independence as a bonafide member of the Order. Though the circumstances surrounding your much anticipated reunion with him certainly aren’t ideal, you’re glad nonetheless that you’re face-to-face again—or, currently, shoulder-to-shoulder.

You hide the ghost of a smile under your hood and maintain a steady, calm signature in the Force, keeping in stride with him and speaking in hushed tones. “Things must really be desperate if they’re putting us back together again.”

“I do not wish to alarm you,” he drawls, sarcastic in cadence but a hint of affection weaving through his voice all the same, “but we are in the middle of a war.”

“Fair,” you acknowledge with a tilt of your head, though being on a planet so far removed from the chaos currently wreaking havoc on the rest of the galaxy allows you the privilege of pretending for the moment. “A threat to the very fabric of the Republic is the only reason the Council would sanction the two of us reuniting.”

Though you say it jokingly, there’s something hidden in it. An unspoken apprehension you’re attempting to mask with the high spirits of seeing him again. The stakes of the forthcoming interplanetary negotiation are absolutely staggering, and though it remains unsaid, you understand that just as well as he does. Scared isn’t the right word, and neither is worried, but—

“I sense a mild trepidation in you, young one,” your Master murmurs, and yes, that’s it. A mild trepidation.

“I am…” You close your eyes and attempt to find the right words. “I am… considering the long-term consequences should this endeavor fail,” you eventually settle on, allowing your feet to lead you left as you keep your pace with him. “While I consider it a great honor to lead this negotiation on behalf of the Galactic Republic, I’m concerned the Council’s faith in me is… ill-placed.”

Your Master turns his head just marginally in your direction, and though you both can't technically see each other, you know the face he's making under the hood of his robe: his eyebrow is raised, his chin is tilted, and there's the faintest hint of an amused grin threatening to morph the slightly sassy expression to one of genuine humor. “You distrust the Council’s judgement?”

“Failure and any potential repercussions will be mine alone to bear,” you clarify. “It’s not the Council I lack faith in, but rather my own skills as a mediator.”

At this, the Jedi does chuckle. “And I'm to assume I'm just the tauntaun next door in this scenario?”

The apprehension clears, almost immediately, and you can’t help but grin gently in return. He always did have that effect on you. “Better be,” you toss out, sensing the large congregation of lifeforms gradually burn brighter in the Force as you both continue your quiet approach. “This is my negotiation, after all; the Council’s instructions were clear.”

“Very well,” he agrees. “And, since this is your negotiation, I’m sure you’re more than aware of s’Ziscari etiquette and tradition? Wouldn’t want to offend them by accident.”

“Of course,” you nod. “But a… a quick refresher certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

Your Master just tsks quietly, but launches into a brief explanation for you all the same. “It is the Council’s understanding that Queen s’Zerthia is absent from the Palace at the moment. In lieu of an audience with her, Ambassador Zyther is the only other member of her Royal Majesty’s court who happens to be fluent in Basic, so be sure to address only him when you speak, and to speak slowly and clearly, as it’s crucial they understand our intentions are purely diplomatic in nature. Do not forget the s’Ziscari are a Force sensitive race; they’ll be able to spot deception the second you think to speak it aloud. Not that I anticipate the need to mislead them for any reason, of course, but please. Be mindful.”

Instead of answering him, you direct an affirmative through the Force, and your Master continues.

“They are known to take offense to extended eye contact and they’re not fond of humor or small-talk either, so skip directly to the point: the Jedi are here on behalf of the Republic to garner the support of their planet during these times of war and great unease. Intel tells us they have amassed an army of Force sensitives three times the size of the Order. While we’re hoping for a pledge of at least a thousand soldiers to fight in the Clone Wars, we are more than willing to compromise and accept any assistance they’d be gracious enough to provide nonetheless.”

“In exchange for what?” You ask, the throne room doors now in sight. You were formally debriefed on mission details during the three day trip to s’Ziscari, but the answer to that specific question was kept purposefully vague, even for the likes of the Council. Presently, you still have no idea what exactly you’re meant to be bargaining with, not for.

“In exchange for the continued security of having a peaceful and harmonious neighbor with which to share the galaxy,” he replies breezily, the both of you coming to a halt directly in front of two large wooden doors. “Now. Are you quite ready?”

“Hang on,” you say, turning to face him, and he carefully ducks his head and removes his hood with two hands as his body rotates to mirror yours. “You’re telling me that we’re walking into the most important negotiation in the entire galaxy without actually having anything substantial to offer on our behalf?”

Slowly, the dark cowl is lifted from your head as well, and your eyes lock with a pair of calm cerulean blues staring back at you as he gently soothes the fabric down by your collar. He looks older—ever since the Clone Wars started, Jedi Master General Obi-Wan Kenobi has aged significantly. Gone are the long, flowing locks he sported for most of your youth—the short hair with a clean part is more refined, the beard fuller and more mature. More… attractive than you remember him being, even though you always remembered him being… achingly attractive.

Instead of answering your question, however, he simply moves both hands to rest over the curve of your shoulders, lowering his head and lifting his eyebrows at you in a look of genuine sincerity that makes your heart thump painfully in your chest.

“I am so very proud of you, my former Padawan,” he tells you quietly, and you feel yourself nearly swell with warmth. You’re strong enough in the Force to subdue the sentiment before it bleeds into your signature, but you can’t help the way your face flushes slightly and a girlish little smile pulls tight at your cheeks. “You’ve grown into a fine Knight and an exemplar for the Order. No matter the outcome of this mission, nor of this war, please know I’ve been truly blessed by the Maker to have been given the privilege of training you all these years.”

Master Kenobi tilts his head forward just slightly, allowing his Force signature to brush delicately against yours for just a moment, the soft periwinkles and lavenders of his energy swirling gently through your pastel seafoams and teals.

And then he clears his throat, straightens his spine, and claps his hands tight to your upper arms.

“Come now, Jedi,” he winks, turning his head to the double doors and breaking into a brilliant grin, the skin around his eyes crinkling with age but the sparkle in them still lovely and youthful and bright. “The fate of the galaxy awaits.”

***

Master Obi-Wan Kenobi remembers very clearly the day he chose you as a Padawan.

You were a fiery little thing. The Sentinels who raised younglings at the Academy would often speak about you at length to the Council, each of them reporting back with the same issues and concerns. Too emotional, too chaotic, too rebellious for the likes of the Jedi. You threw tantrums, you had outbursts, and to him, you were very likely the worst possible candidate for a negotiator to take on as an apprentice, if only because by all accounts it appeared that you were nigh impossible to negotiate with.

But then you caught his eye one day when Master Yoda was in the process of introducing him to your class. You should’ve been paying attention to the wisdom being shared by the oldest Consular in the Order (and, admittedly, so should he) but instead, you were gazing quietly at a dove that made its nest on the transparisteel dome arching across the ceiling. Obi-Wan remembers feeling your energy cautiously reach out towards it, gentler than anything he could’ve expected from a child of your age and reputation, and the moment stuck with him.

The younglings were each allowed one possession at the Academy, and when it came time for him to choose a Padawan, he swiped yours, if only to see what you’d do. A stuffed rancor you’d endearingly named Cory—rather hideous looking thing, if you asked him—and he was told you were fiercely protective over it.

Obi-Wan remembers carefully setting the stuffed animal down next to him in one of the old storage rooms in the isolated training area, locking the door manually and then taking a quick second to cloak his Force signature. You had three options, he figured, if you were able to find its location. Use the Force to unlock the door, use the brand new saber clipped to your belt to create your own door, or leave without your stuffed rancor. Based off your reputation as an emotionally volatile little youngling, he was assuming he’d have to replace the frame and wall paneling altogether, but regardless, Obi-Wan figured that if you had the nerve to break into the locked room to retrieve your missing possession, he would train you, and if you didn’t, then he’d find someone else.

He waited patiently, meditating for a few hours on your signature from across the Academy. He went through the subsequent stages with you. A bright flare of panic, probably from noticing its absence from your quarters. Sharp sparks of frustration for the next few minutes, likely in response to nobody knowing where it went. He was expecting some sort of distraught next as you began making your way through the Academy to search for it yourself, some sort of upset, but then you surprised him for the second time.

All at once… Quiet. Serenity. Your signature carefully sweeping out in all directions as you walked through the halls, calmly attempting to locate your missing possession.

Obi-Wan pondered this as you approached, and what it might mean. Were you just an excellent student when you felt the stakes were high enough? Were you capable of listening to instructions despite what he’d heard about you in passing? Were you simply just strong in the Force? Or was there perhaps more to you than what others had told him?

Soon, he could hear your footsteps come to a halt in front of the locked door. He waited silently; hidden in the darkness, hidden in the Force, barely breathing while he listened for either the sound of a lightsaber turning on or a lock clicking. He knew you’d find some way to breach the entrance somehow; he knew you wouldn’t just give up and leave.

Except, then all he heard was a quiet little rap of knuckles against metal.

“Master Kenobi?” A small voice called through the door, and Obi-Wan froze.

To your credit, he wasn’t focusing on hiding himself the way he should’ve been. Had you been roughly ten years older, he might’ve taken the time to concentrate a bit harder on it, but truthfully, that’s not what surprised him the most.

You didn’t break in at all.

Instead, you… knocked.

“Master Kenobi?” You tried again after a moment, your knuckles tapping quietly on the door once more.

“Em…” He eventually cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“I think you may have accidentally taken something of mine on accident,” you carefully said after a moment, the overly cautious intent not to offend or intrude suddenly striking him as an invaluable trait in a potential negotiator. “May I please have him back please?”

You were quite a handful at times, Obi-Wan thinks, but it’s been so long. So long since he’s had to correct you in any way. As the years passed, you aged from an emotional Padawan to a refined Knight, a hot-tempered adolescent to a disciplined and capable young Jedi.

Now he looks on as you greet the s’Ziscari Ambassador to the Republic, your head bowed in respect and your eyes focused somewhere near the man’s chest. It appears the two of you have an audience for your audience—members of the Royal Court are sitting perched in a tiered viewing gallery, speaking quietly amongst themselves as you introduce Obi-Wan and state your purpose to the room.

Your voice rings out sharp and clear, and throughout the entire negotiation, not once does he feel compelled to assist you in any way. You do everything right—you make fair points without stepping on any toes, you never allow the Ambassador’s booming voice intimidate you or sway your collected composure.

Obi-Wan meant what he said. He’s proud of you.

Though… though at one point throughout the mediation, something about this starts to not… feel right.

It’s the Royal Court, he realizes. They’ve stopped talking, they’re… paying attention. It doesn’t make sense—none of them speak Basic, they must just be reading the energies in the room. Nothing spectacular has happened—no outburst, nothing to draw their attention any more than when you both first made your entrance. The Ambassador’s voice continues to echo throughout the vast ceilings and contrast with the pleasant and tranquil alto of your steady responses, but then Obi-Wan suddenly goes rigid and spins around—

The Royal Count immediately stands in unison as the Ambassador abruptly cuts off, and a familiar signature reveals itself in the Force.

***

The Queen.

The Queen is here.

You keep your head down and follow the intricate laced bodice of her gown as she makes her entrance into the grand throne room, gliding right between you and your Master before climbing the stairs and collapsing down onto the throne with a sigh. The Council was misinformed concerning her whereabouts, apparently.

The Court finds a seat not long after she does, and you clench your jaw at the unfortunate twist of events. Her presence means that whatever progress you’ve made with the Ambassador is now, for all intents and purposes, moot.

There’s also just something… odd about her and her energy, you think, something you can’t quite place. The second she turns her head and looks in your eyes is the second you forget all about avoiding eye contact with her, but if she’s offended by your sudden lack of etiquette, she displays no signs of it. In fact, you’d almost argue she looks intrigued.

“Your Majesty,” you greet. “I was just—”

“I got the gist,” she waves a manicured hand at you. “What was your name again, little girl?”

You tell her, and put a hard emphasis on your full title. She may be a monarch, but you are a General in the Clone Wars and a Knight of the Republic, and an attempt by the opposing party at intimidation by flippant degradation will not be tolerated.

“Pleasure,” she nods. “May I ask what your people are willing to offer in exchange for the military assistance you’re seeking?”

You swallow thickly, your stomach sinking. “Truly, your Majesty, I… I cannot provide you with a specific answer to that at this time. However, we would gladly be willing to—”

“Perhaps you can answer me this, then, little Knight, since I never was able to obtain anything satisfactory from your High Council,” the Queen interrupts, studying her jeweled manicure and sounding bored with the conversation she just initiated, and you feel your Master stiffen behind you. “If we s’Ziscari are so incredibly important to the Jedi, as you previously insisted to the Ambassador multiple times, then why in Maker’s name does the Council reject invitations to partake in our people’s most sacred of ceremonies year after year?”

You’re… you’re at a complete loss for words. The Sentinels have dedicated ambassadors to travel the territories specifically for these reasons, to keep political relations agreeable between outer-rim planets and the Jedi. There would be no discernible reason as to why the Council would reject attendance to an annual s’Ziscari cultural celebration, especially if their standing military was even half as powerful in the Force as rumors would imply.

Obviously you’re not privy to any of this information, so you subtly reach out to Master Kenobi’s Force signature with a tiny flicker of uncertainty, silently questioning your next move. However, before you can barely even mentally gauge the calm, sky blue of his aura, your Master’s outer-shields slam into place and even so much as shove against your open question in warning.

“It was—” You trip over your sentence, heart thumping in your chest with panic at his unprecedented response to you, “—It was never our intention to cause any offense, I’m certain—”

“And yet great offense was caused nonetheless,” the Queen returns. “However. As it just so happens, you’ve arrived on my planet the day the Sh’inzith Ritual is to commence. Because of that, I am more than willing to allow the Order to remedy their grave lapse in judgement tonight, in exchange for…” She tilts her chin at you, considering. “Ten thousand soldiers to fight in your little war. What say you, Jedi?”

No, this is wrong. This is all wrong—an addition of ten thousand trained Force sensitives would put an immediate end to the Clone Wars. Full stop. Instead of being tempted by the bait, however, you’re just becoming increasingly wary of it.

Regardless of how on edge you are, you keep an unbothered composure and continue stunting any major change to your signature. “You cannot expect me to agree to a deal before knowing the finer points of its terms, my Queen.”

“Of course not,” she agrees diplomatically. “My terms are simple, really. All you have to do is—”

“If you will pardon the interruption,” Master Kenobi’s voice suddenly rings out from behind you for the first time in what feels like ages, and he takes a few steps forward until he’s standing directly adjacent to you. “Apologies to the Court, but my companion and I have grown very weary from a long tr—”

“No apologies necessary, Master Kenobi,” the Queen grins, her eyes flicking away from yours. “Thought I saw you back there. Shall I elaborate? I’ll make it quick, so you don’t fall asleep.”

There’s a tense, pregnant silence that fills the throne room as everybody waits for his response, and you’re left wondering how your Master knows this woman.

He breaks eye contact with the monarch first and stares down at the floor while he considers his answer, before finally settling on a quiet, “Leave us.”

The Queen nods exactly once and everyone in the gallery rises and slowly files out. You take a moment to glance around at the handful of guards surrounding the throne room, waiting for their perfect statuesque posture to falter. Only, they remain completely motionless.

You turn back to the Queen, watching you thoughtfully from her elevated throne, and then to your Master, who’s… still looking down at the floor.

It takes you a bit longer than it should, even then.

Obi-Wan says your name in a tight, urging tone, not even bothering to turn his head to address you. “Please.”

What?

You? He wants you to leave? But… the Council said… they said that this is your negotiation. Clearly they failed to provide you with some very crucial piece of information, so now he’s dismissing you because of it? Openly? In front of the other party?

“But… But I was supposed to—”

“Padawan,” he all but snaps at you. “Please.”

You stand there, holding yourself as still as possible, absolutely stunned. Your Master has never spoken to you this way. You’ve never heard him speak to anyone this way.

The Queen just smiles down at you saccharinely from her throne, clearly enjoying your blatant discomfort and embarrassment.

This is humiliating.

You’d never say it out loud. But as you quietly leave the throne room, two guards on either side accompanying you to your chambers, you practically shove the words at him through the Force, trying your absolute hardest not to let the hurt through. Though in hindsight, you may have emphasized the last part a bit too harshly.

Of course. Master.

***

Obi-Wan realizes the grievousness of his mistake the second it comes out of his mouth. He doesn’t need the extended moment of silence as you work to process the unintentional insult. He doesn’t need the way your Force signature suddenly seems incredibly small, like it shrank in on itself in mortification. He most definitely does not need the spiteful remark reverberating around his brain as your footsteps fade into nothingness, the thought so sharp and directed that he’d likely have trouble blocking it out.

“Strange,” the Queen drawls out in his direction, breaking him from the whirlwind of his thoughts. “Do you really still view her as a Padawan? But she’s such a pretty girl. And she was doing so well.”

“I will not speak of this with you,” Obi-Wan replies candidly, abandoning all pleasantries now that they’re alone.

“Oh, but you will,” s’Zerthia tuts, somehow sounding disapproving and gleeful in equal parts. “If you want your army, that is.”

“Must you be so cruel, Your Majesty?” Obi-Wan sighs, lowering his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Maker, he’s getting a headache. “Are the Uncharted Regions truly that dull?”

“Come now, old friend,” she grins, tilting her head at him as she relaxes back in her throne. “You’ve known of my nature since we were introduced at the Senate all those decades ago. There is a reason you’re still with the peace-loving wizard monks and I am now the reigning monarch over twenty thousand square parsecs of territories.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan acknowledges. “And now we are grown. Though it appears someone has yet to remind you.”

“Contrary to what you may believe, General Kenobi, this is not about me,” the Queen sighs. “My people do not look kindly upon the Jedi. The Ritual is a celebration of our connection with the Force, and denying an invitation, to them, is akin to denying their existence as a Force sensitive people. I can give you your army at any time, of course—I am Queen. But I fear that will not be enough. The s’Ziscari will not willingly fight for you until you pay your due respects to our culture.”

“Queen s’Zerthia,” he exhales, clearly exasperated, “I cannot call myself Jedi and partake in such… proclivities. The Council will never agree to such measures. There must be some other way.”

“There isn’t, old friend,” she huffs shortly, her signature beginning to spark with impatience. “Make your choice.”

“I am not having sex in an arena, s’Zerthia,” he hisses.

“Then the Republic shall fall.”

“You’ll let trillions die—”

“Do not speak to me as if you are not the only person who can change that, Jedi!” The Queen suddenly barks, her voice echoing throughout the empty throne room and booming with frustration. “I cannot make them fight! They love their Queen, but I am thirty-nine years old, for star’s sake! These traditions have lasted for millennia! Would you abandon the ways of your religion simply because your leader ordered it so?”

“That is exactly what you’re demanding of me,” he returns sharply.

“Yes,” s’Zerthia acknowledges. “But you are but one martyr, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Not an army.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “I’ve… s’Zerthia, I’ve never… It’s forbidden. And now you’re asking me to break my oath in front of an audience… with someone I don’t know?” He keeps his voice as steady as possible, but he knows it’s useless. The Queen of the s’Ziscari will see the wavering in his Force signature. The underlying pulse of fear at the center.

It’s her turn to sigh. “The Sh’inzith is about celebrating our connection with the Force… consensually. I… may be able to speak to some of my people about the possibility of you participating in private, due to the,” she clears her throat, “delicate nature of the situation, as well as your particular upbringing. However. You will have to project during the… closing ceremonies, if only to prove your direct involvement. This is the best I can do. Do we have an agreement?”

Obi-Wan drops his gaze. “I… I don’t know. I must confer with the Council first. But… but with their permission…” He chooses to leave his sentence unfinished, still so unbelievably uncomfortable with the terms of this nightmare to agree to them aloud.

“Understood,” she nods. “Then I shall arrange to send someone to your chambers at midnight unless you notify my staff otherwise. Which would you prefer—a man or a woman?”

He stays silent, his stomach churning in discomfort. He doesn’t think he’s ever even considered the question before. He truly doesn’t know how to answer it.

Intuitively, the Queen moves on. “No matter. What of the girl, then? A man would do well for her, I’m assuming?”

He lifts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “The girl? What girl?”

“The girl,” s’Zerthia repeats blankly. “All Jedi present will need to participate, of course.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says immediately, taking a few steps forward. “No, that wasn’t the deal. The girl has been a Knight for barely two years, she’s never even heard of the Ritual. She has no part in this.”

“And yet she was meant to lead this negotiation, was she not?” She tsks in disappointment, each staccato click of her tongue echoing throughout the vast ceilings and rafters of the room. “Is that how you Jedi treat your women? Throw her headfirst into a mediator’s position with none of the details she needs to be successful, dismiss and humiliate her when she inevitably fails, and subsequently refuse any involvement in a potential solution on her behalf because she ‘has no part in this’? Perhaps I should be offended that the Jedi thought so little of the s’Ziscari as to assign someone of her standing to lead this negotiation, but as of right now, considering the mere fact that my palace is still intact, I’m actually starting to believe your little Padawan may just be the best of you.”

Obi-Wan says absolutely nothing in response, his heart panging in his chest in shame hearing it put into words that way. He’s never been one to question the decision-making of the Council, but assigning you to this mission had admittedly been something he himself couldn’t quite puzzle out. Obi-Wan understands the need to further develop your diplomatic skills, but the terms of this specific negotiation were just far too complex and far too crucial to the survival of the Republic to gamble on one of the youngest Knights in the Order. By all accounts, you shouldn’t be here, but the Council was very specific in their instructions. You were to lead negotiations, and Obi-Wan was to act as reinforcement should anything happen to go awry.

The Queen quietly studies the Jedi Master all the while, tilting her head thoughtfully. “None of this makes any sense, does it?”

Again, Obi-Wan maintains his silence with a furrowed brow and a far-off look on his face.

“What’s so different about this one?” She asks him, sincere curiosity appearing to overtake her in the moment. “This girl, specifically, out of everyone—why would they choose her for this negotiation? There’d be no discernible reason, unless they wanted her to—”

She cuts herself off abruptly as Obi-Wan quickly flicks his gaze over to her. When she’s silent for too long, he has to prompt her. “Unless they wanted her to what?”

“Ah,” she whispers at once, her expression immediately clearing in understanding. “Clever. Diabolical, manipulative, and entirely unexpected from a group of glorified cultists with brightly colored laser swords. But oh, so clever.”

Obi-Wan is starting to become very frustrated with this conversation.

“You know,” the Queen continues, back to studying her manicure, “I used to lament my lack of free will as a member of royalty by marriage. My husband, Maker rest his soul, could never yearn for what he did not know, but as the daughter of a Senator, I was born as low as you. I was a Miss once,” she laughs airily, as if the thought of her holding that title is absolutely ridiculous now. “I knew the difference between a life of freedom and that of a puppet. But. At least my superiors revoked my autonomy to my face. Your Council sees fit to pull strings from behind a curtain.”

“You think the Council wanted this?” He can’t keep the intense skepticism from lacing his tone, despite his best efforts.

The Queen suddenly looks up from her jeweled fingernails and pins him with a hard stare. “Will you bed a stranger even with the direct permission of your betters?” She shoots at him, quite unexpectedly and shameless in her phrasing.

Obi-Wan nearly jerks back, the abrupt change in subject and rather personal question startling him. “I—”

“Would you have asked your Padawan to accompany you here if you’d been put in charge of negotiations instead?”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Do you think it simply a coincidence the two of you were scheduled to arrive on my planet exactly ten hours before a festivity that only happens once every five hundred and some-odd cycles begins?”

“I can assure you I was not privy the t—”

“Why is the girl here?”

He… he doesn’t understand. It’s like she’s trying to have four conversations with him at once. He’s getting whiplash. “s’Zerthia.”

“Obi-Wan. Come now, don’t be daft.” She goes back to picking at her fingernails, clearly done with her interrogation for the time being. “She’s here because she is a thousand times more prepared to participate in the Sh’inzith than you are, of course.”

Obi-Wan blinks. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means the Council knew full well what the terms of this negotiation would be,” the Queen shrugs. “Though you may not be too familiar with Jedi-s’Ziscari interplanetary relations, I can assure you we have openly voiced our offense to their denial of our invitations multiple times. We still send them, of course, as is tradition. We have for a few centuries at least. A formal alliance would obviously require some act of rectification on the Council’s behalf, so therefore the only logical assumption to be made is that the girl was chosen for this mission specifically with that in mind. She likely didn’t take an oath of celibacy or something of t—”

“All Jedi take oaths of celibacy,” Obi-Wan interjects with a startlingly unfamiliar edge to his voice, clearly warning her not to continue on in this direction.

”Oh, apologies; I misspoke,” she clarifies. “She probably didn’t take an oath of celibacy seriously, or something of the sort.”

“Mind yourself, s’Zerthia,” he warns her. “I care not of your position nor our history, you will not speak of my protégé that way—”

“Oh, she’s your protégé now?” She grins, amusement flashing in her eyes. “I see. Because we both have been referring to her as your Padawan up until the moment someone other than you decided to insult her, so I wasn’t sure. Forgive me.”

Obi-Wan flushes and opens his mouth once, twice. He is quite honestly speechless at how his… long-time acquaintance is so truly gifted at creating sentences that somehow manage to turn themselves into icy daggers in midair, so instead, he takes a different approach. “E-Even… even if you were slightly correct with that… a-absolutely baseless accusation, it makes no sense,” he reasons desperately, still trying to find some way out of all this. “Breaking an oath of celibacy in her youth does not at all mean she’d be any more likely to lie with a s’Ziscari to complete a diplomatic mis—”

“No,” the Queen agrees, “it means she’d be more likely to lie with a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan stops dead.

She laughs, a soft tinkle of a sound, taking in the underlying shock of his demeanor. “By all their faults, the Council is not stupid.” She almost sounds… impressed. ��Think, Obi-Wan. Pair the Greatest Negotiator in the Order with his newly ordained Knight? The one young enough to not have the strict pillars of your cult of a religion so hopelessly cemented into her mindset? The one who so very clearly considers you to be far more than a mentor to her? The Council knew you’d be incredibly reluctant to bed anyone, let alone a stranger from the Uncharted Regions, but they also knew of our history as friends—if anyone in the Order was in a position to make the deal with me, it was you, so if anyone in the Order was in a position to therefore… persuade you to follow through with the conditions of said deal, it was her. To gain ten thousand more Force sensitives and win a galactic war, all your Council had to do was shove two of their most agreeable Generals into bed with one another. Beautifully executed, Machiavellian at its core. Stars. I knew politics suited the Jedi, but this is just…”

Obi-Wan feels his chest sinking deeper and deeper by the second as she kisses her fingers animatedly.

“…Masterful,” s’Zerthia finishes, turning to smile widely at him, positively delighted in her demeanor. “I do say, I may have met my match in your superiors, Obi-Wan. Perhaps they shall make better allies than I’d originally assumed. If nothing else, this little display of cunning and manipulation gives me faith that perhaps the Republic isn’t so completely doomed after all.”

“Do you truly think they’d be so cruel?” He finds himself asking quietly after a moment.

“These are times of war, old friend,” she tilts her head with as much solemn comfort in her voice as she can reasonably provide. “They knew the terms, and they knew you wouldn’t agree if you knew them in advance. This was the only way. And honestly, should a… well, let’s face it, a rather attractive coupling be all that stands between the galaxy and total destruction, I’d say that may just be a fair price to pay. My only lament thus far is your rather timid demeanor. You two would’ve made for a crowd favorite.”

The Queen’s assertion startles him so much that Obi-Wan outright defaults back to skeptical pragmatism instead of entertaining elaborate and incredibly far-fetched conspiracy theories. “Yes, yes, s’Zerthia, but—but this whole entire scheme hinges on the completely incorrect assumption that she and I would actually be willing… willing to…” He can’t even finish the sentence.

“How old are you, Obi-Wan?” She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at him, thoroughly unimpressed with his sudden lack of articulation. “We are of similar age, correct? Are you outright incapable of saying the word ‘fuck’?”

“Quit being foul,” he snaps. “It suits your personality, not your tongue.”

“So quick-witted in conversation for someone so incredibly dim-witted in practice,” she muses, as if this entire thing is incredibly entertaining to her. “Do you really not see the way she looks at you?”

“She respects me,” Obi-Wan declares meaningfully. “She’s loyal. She thinks much higher of me than I deserve. She’d stand alone in the face of an army if it pleased me and she’d stand tall—”

“That’s not the only position she’d assume to please you,” the Queen mutters under her breath, pausing to give him a sweet little smile as Obi-Wan burns a hole through her with his glare. “The only variable remaining is your willingness to please her. After all, the offer to lie with a s’Ziscari instead will always be up for the both of your considerations, as is the ability to walk away entirely at any time of course. I’m assuming the Council was relying on the fact that you’d pitch an absolute fit after being informed her involvement was required—which, naturally, you did. And then they gambled on the answer to a question you’ve yet to ask yourself.” She leans forward and tilts her head at him, lacing her manicured fingers together. “Perhaps it’s not a matter of how willing you are to sleep with your Padawan to save the galaxy from complete and total annihilation, Master Kenobi, but simply a matter of whether or not the clueless little thing will want it bad enough to be able to convince you to do it. This—this is a real negotiation for her now.”

“s’Zerthia—” Obi-Wan sputters, “—I—She—I’ve traversed her consciousness more than anyone in the entire galaxy, and not once has she ever even hinted at the possibility that she—”

“And can you blame her? My, the scandal it would cause!” The Queen presses the back of her hand to her forehead and collapses dramatically back into her throne. “A Jedi Knight secretly harboring feelings for her Master? In my good temple? Shame! Shame! Sha—!”

“You think you know more of my successor than I?” Obi-Wan interrupts sharply, somehow more irritated now at the insinuation than he’d been the entire conversation. “The youngling I raised? The one I handpicked to take my place in the Order, you think you know more of her heart than I?”

“Yes.” s’Zerthia answers him simply, straightening up on her throne and abandoning all theatrics. “Because you did not see her face when you called her Padawan. I did. And I also happen to know far better than most that hiding the truth from nosy Force sensitive authoritarians is most easily accomplished by controlling one’s energy signature. Jedi, s’Ziscari, it matters not the culture—you lot spend far too much effort reading into the Force than simply looking someone in their eyes to learn the truth. Look her in the eyes next time, Master Kenobi. Then you will understand.”

***

You’re furious.

The Jedi are not meant to feel fury. But you are a Jedi, and by the Maker, do you feel it.

“Padawan?” You hiss, pacing the length of your bedchamber with clenched fists, trying to control the volume of your voice so desperately that the words come out shaky and slurred. “Padawan? Is that what he thinks of me? That I’m still a youngling?!”

You haven’t been this upset since you were a small child. And the thought stops you dead in your tracks.

You are a General. You are a Consular. You are a Knight.

Regardless of what he may believe.

So you climb up onto your unnecessarily large bed, crawling the incredibly soft fur blanket of an animal you’ve never seen before to sit yourself in the very center of the mattress, crossing your legs. Though it takes you longer than it has in years, you’re finally able to relax your breathing and clear your mind, slipping into a deep meditative state.

You don’t know how long you stay in that position, nor do you really care to. But when your Force signature feels the slightest brush of your Master’s, likely just looking for your location within the palace, you’re a bit too late in slamming your mental barriers up in response. You know he still senses the reciprocal shove he gave you earlier, the shocking feeling of being practically hurled out of someone’s mind with unprecedented ferocity. But he also knows where you are now.

So, like you’re a youngling at the Academy again, you just pretend to meditate. Like an actual child, you close your eyes and focus on just sitting still. You shouldn’t be responding this way, you tell yourself. Restraining your emotional response has been hammered into you for decades—keeping calm when you’re upset is your default, it’s how you’ve lived your entire adult life. Why can you not seem to accomplish it now?

What… what is this? This toxic, absolutely dreadful emotion? It's hard placing them sometimes when you were taught from infancy to just will them away instead of processing them. It’s not fury, not anymore. It isn’t sadness, either. You’ve been sad—you’ve been sad for two years straight, and it feels nothing like this.

You’re throwing a tantrum, you realize. That’s what this must be. You’re reverting back to your childhood, back to when you felt discounted and disapproved of by nearly everyone around you. You haven’t felt this way in years, not since you met Master Kenobi. This is hurt. Just pure, irrational, emotional pain, and it’s manifesting itself in truly ugly ways.

You can feel his signature glow just marginally brighter in the Force as your Master steadily approaches. You take slow breaths, trying to rearrange yourself into something at least mildly composed and tranquil, but it feels almost impossible. So instead, you just try to ignore the past few hours and think back on all the things your Master used to tell you when you were like this, this raging turmoil of emotions overtaking you and causing you to lash out.

You are a Consular, child, he’d say, and if you focus, you can practically hear the musical cadence of his calm, comforting voice. A peacekeeper. A dove. When faced with a locked door, what must you always do?

Master Kenobi’s knuckles rap on the entrance to your quarters quietly, and you blink your eyes open, taking another deep breath before replying. “It’s open.”

The door opens and he takes a few steps inside the room, stopping immediately when he lifts his head up and sees you sitting on your bed.

You both stare at each other in silence for way too long, and you’re not… really sure why. You’re obviously just waiting for him to say something, take the lead in this conversation since he was clearly a better fit to take the lead on this mission, but he just looks at you. For an eternity, he looks at you. Completely blank.

He suddenly jerks his spine straight and breaks eye contact with you, coughing and flicking bright blue eyes around the space as if he’s just noticing it. “Ah, I… Apologies, this is the wrong room. I thought… my quarters are—I must confer with the Council. Please, excuse me.”

And then he turns around and leaves.

You blink a few times, wide-eyed and completely bewildered as the door slides shut behind his billowing cloak.

He… he knocked on the door to his own quarters? And then… and then he waited for you to call him in?

What in Maker’s name is going on?

***

“This is unbelievable,” Obi-Wan sighs, and the hologram of Master Windu rubs his blue flickering temples in slow circles, looking equally as exasperated as Obi-Wan sounds. “Did you know the Ritual was to take place tonight?”

“The Council had no idea,” the fellow Guardian murmurs, and something pulls tight in Obi-Wan’s chest, remembering the Queen’s assertion that the s’Ziscari continue to send invitations to the Council every year. Perhaps… perhaps there was some sort of an oversight, he thinks, due to the Clone Wars taking precedence for the Order. “Intel told us she’d be off-planet for at least another week.”

Well now, that doesn’t make much sense, not if the Ritual is to begin soon. None of what Master Windu has said throughout the conversation has made any sense at all regarding the situation. Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan thought he’d feel better after speaking to another member of the Council, not more uncertain.

“What does Master Yoda think of all this?” He eventually tries, but the holographic projection of Master Windu sighs and tilts his head regretfully, his upper body flickering and waving with intermittent static.

“Master Yoda is currently dispatched to Rugosa to convince King Katuunko to allow the Republic to build a base in Toydarian territory,” he replies solemnly, and Obi-Wan… needs to meditate. Yes. Meditation sounds like a phenomenal idea. “Are you certain there is no more room for negotiating?”

“An ultimatum was given,” Obi-Wan says shortly. “These are the terms.”

Master Windu takes quite a while before responding, but when he does, he speaks calmly and with purpose, addressing him with a formal opinion. “Then the Council will leave this matter up to the discretions of you and your former Padawan, Master Kenobi. This mission designation has hereby been elevated to the highest level of classified and your subsequent choices need not be reported, nor will they affect either of your places in the Order. May the Force guide you and be with you both through these uncertain times.”

The transmission is cut and Obi-Wan feels his insides twist.

He collapses onto his bed and groans quietly, burying his face in his hands and finding it easier to just conceal his Force signature altogether than attempt to mask the anxiety and crushing pressure he feels threatening to overwhelm him.

This is not good. This is, in fact, very much a disaster. This is a mess. This is far worse than anything he could’ve possibly imagined when he was first assigned to this mission.

Obi-Wan slowly rakes all ten of his fingers down the sides of his beard, lifting his chin and then letting them drag all the way down his throat, and the quiet scratchy sound it makes mixes in with another longer, even more exhausted groan.

Maker. First things first, he needs to apologize to you and explain the situation. Neither one of those things will be easy to accomplish, but in the grand scheme, they’ll be far simpler than anything else facing him.

He… he takes a second to think about you, about the awful way he unintentionally disrespected you earlier. Stars—he handled this terribly. He was caught off guard and he owes you an explanation, but he’s at a complete loss as to how to go about it.

And why… Why must you have been sitting on your bed? Staring up at him silently, waiting for him atop the very place he’s just been given permission to… to…

Obi-Wan shakes his head and clamps his eyes shut, rubbing them with a bit too much vigor to be from tiredness and stress alone.�� He should meditate. He should meditate, let his mind break free of the nerves and sudden change of events, but he doesn’t have time to even begin unscrambling the chaos of his thoughts. It’s getting late, and he has an obligation to tell you about the situation as soon as possible, to give you as much time as he can to process the decision facing you before the clock runs out.

He’s dreading this. He’s absolutely dreading it, but it needs to be done.

***

After your Master leaves, less than a half hour passes before you hear another knock on the door.

By then, you’re just sitting there. Sitting there, empty. This is good, really. Truly, this is a good thing. A flat emotional state is what you should always strive for, but… nothing about it feels like peace, really. No, this just feels… grey. Desaturated. Dull.

“It’s open,” you call once again, and Master Kenobi quietly enters your chambers. This time you don’t look at him, though. You don’t really… feel the need to, especially from the way his signature is still just barely presenting itself to you, still so guarded and cautious around you when he’s never been this way before.

Your Master comes to a stop right in front of the edge of the mattress, and stands there for a few moments in silence. You just blink down at the mattress and wait, undisturbed, until you hear him heave a long, heavy sigh, before spinning around and unceremoniously sinking down to the floor at the foot of the bed.

Something about it breaks through your blank, almost dissociative state. Your eyebrows narrow just slightly where your gaze is pinned to the fur covering the mattress, hearing him sigh heavily once more out of your line of sight, but it’s enough to urge you to crawl forward until you can see him sitting on the floor at the foot of the mattress, bent over on himself, his head buried in his hands. You’ve never seen your Master look so… vulnerable before. So small—not in all the years you’ve known each other. His energy is so concealed that you’re just barely able to sense anything besides the mere presence of his signature, but he’s clearly distraught with just as much emotion you were struggling with earlier, and suddenly…

Suddenly a calmness sweeps through you. A gentle sort of kindness fills your soul, slowly flooding your energy with color once again at the sight of someone who’s usually so composed struggling so openly in front of you.

Carefully, you lower yourself down until you’re seated on the floor next to him, your back pressed up against the side of the mattress as he continues to hide his face from you. You stay there, not touching him, not saying anything, but just radiating a steady tranquility through the room from the very center of your being, anchoring him through his storm until it clears.

The sun goes down through the window before either of you speak. Your Master eventually drops his hands from his face and takes a deep breath, choosing to break the silence first.

“Before I begin,” he finally says, his shoulders still uncharacteristically tight and full of tension, even though his voice is soft. “I must… I must sincerely apologize to you. This type of subject matter makes me extraordinarily uncomfortable and I took that out on you, and it was absolutely unacceptable behavior on my behalf. Unfortunately, I can offer you no explanation that wouldn't count as an excuse for something that was completely inexcusable.”

“I understand,” you reassure him, just as quietly, but then quickly correct yourself. “Well, no—I don’t. I don’t understand, but. Judging from your demeanor, I can only assume things have become… a bit more complicated.”

Your Master takes another full, deep inhale. “Yes, that’s…” he empties his lungs of air with a huff, amused but in a way that’s not really amused. “That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

“Do you…” You blink at the floor, still keeping your voice and energy as gentle as possible. “Just—before… before you begin… Do you truly think of me as your Padawan still?”

“No,” he answers firmly. Immediately, and with less hesitation than anything he’s said so far. “I do not.”

You nod, the finality in his tone leading you to believe that’s the end of his sentence, but then he eventually lowers his voice and continues.

“But sometimes, I…” Your Master sounds conflicted, like he’s not sure he should be saying this aloud. He still hasn’t looked at you. “I find myself… wishing you were. That we could go back to those days, the days before the war. Before fighting armies, and leading them… and now recruiting them. The happiest and most fulfilling days of my life were spent with you by my side, young one. I am not telling you this in an attempt to justify or defend my actions in any way, I am telling you this simply because I don’t want an egregious misunderstanding of this magnitude to continue to fester between us when it can be addressed right here and now. In the face of incredible discomfort, I selfishly reverted the terms of our relationship back to what they were two years ago—not because I subconsciously think of you as my Padawan still or that I somehow haven’t recognized your unprecedented list of accomplishments as a Knight—but because you, the former title, and the nature of the relationship it entails were the only things familiar to me when everything else around was so incredibly and uncomfortably foreign. I humbly beg your forgiveness for ever allowing you to spend a single second of your time thinking differently, never mind hours of it.”

You blink, startled by the sudden articulation and sincerity of the apology. “I—it’s… it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Master Kenobi softly counters, “but your forgiveness is greatly appreciated, no matter how undeserved.”

You smile at him. It’s one of those gentle, sad smiles—the kind of smile that would feel fake if it wasn’t for the comfort you’re trying to provide with it. Carefully, you place a hand on the bend of his knee. “Do you have a place you’d like to start, or would it be easier for you if I asked specific questions?”

He looks at you. Finally. For the first time, his clear blue eyes rise to meet yours and he looks… grateful. “Ask. Please. That would be so much better.”

“A ritual begins tonight,” you say after a moment, studying his handsome facial features for some kind of confirmation of the information you’ve managed to piece together, but then your Master abruptly breaks eye contact with you and lowers his gaze once more. “Yet the Sentinels historically choose not to partake. Why?”

“Because… the Ritual… contains proceedings that stand in direct opposition to the values and teachings of the Jedi,” he explains to the floor. “It goes against the core pillars of our religion to even spectate. The Uncharted Regions are… different. They follow neither the laws nor the customs of the Republic. It was decided long ago to politely decline their invitations, though we offered many times to meet during another time of the year. The Council had no idea the Queen would take this much offense.”

You have to ask. It’s important for you to know, but his rather vague explanation serves to peak your trepidation just as much as it does your curiosity. “…What is…” Maker, you’ve gone unbelievably quiet. “What is the Ritual, Master?”

Obi-Wan goes just as quiet, looking down at his hands as they fiddle idly in his lap. “Ah. Yes. That. Well, the—th-the Ritual is, uh. Uh—”

You blink softly at him and his abrupt loss of articulation, trying to rearrange your expression to be encouraging without appearing too eager.

He suddenly cuts himself off and looks up at you, pinning you with an ocean-deep blue gaze once more. “It’s a celebration of fertility.”

You blink once more at him, this time quite stupidly.

“People are encouraged to be intimate with each other. Openly. Shameless displays of fornication between two consenting adults are commonplace in almost every conceivable forum, said to permanently connect the s’Ziscari to one another through the Force—which is why they usually project throughout the act. In fact, they even have a gathering here at the palace capital, an ‘opening ceremony’ of sorts where people… perform. It’s debauchery disguised as a holiday.”

You… for some reason, the fact that he stares so intently at you while he says it makes your reaction marginally subtler. He gives away no emotion as he takes in how your mouth has formed a soft O shape, how a solemn understanding seems to flood through you. Of course he’d have incredible trouble with something like this. And somehow it’s only then that you fully forgive him for his previous mishaps and mistakes on this mission. You understand now, you get it.

“Ah. Okay. And… and in exchange for the s’Ziscari’s assistance in the Clone Wars, they want us to… what, exactly?” Maker, why is your throat so dry?

“They’ve presented the ultimatum of either walking away from the deal entirely or partaking from the privacy of these chambers,” he answers. “Together.”

Okay, so your reaction is a bit more pronounced this time.

Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second, all the breath in your lungs whooshing out at once. Maker, it’s like he punched you in the chest. Muscle memory alone allows you to almost completely muffle the burst of shock that radiates through the Force, but your face is still a dead giveaway.

Is this… is this a trial? Are you hallucinating? Perhaps a vision, if it wasn’t so beyond ludicrous or had any basis in reality whatsoever. How many vaguely similar scenarios have you imagined throughout the duration of Obi-Wan’s tutelage? And yet never has one been so incredibly creative. Or elaborate.

And then, the thought suddenly hits you.

Oh. Oh, no, this is dangerous.

It’s one thing to harbor a dark, hidden crush on your Master for years, something you refuse to even let yourself think about most of the time. It’s one thing to learn how to bury your needs deep down and refuse to let them see the light of day, to learn how to build a mental fortress around a dirty, terrible secret from your youth and guard it with a saber and matching ferocity. This is the way of the Jedi.

It’s another thing entirely to have it offered to you on a silver platter. To be given just a sample of Darkness, knowing you’ll never have anything close to it ever again.

***

Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s studied your face this closely in his entire life.

It feels almost… unnatural, how meticulously he’s trying to read your expressions. Outwardly, you don’t appear to be anything more than surprised, really. Not horrified at the idea, just… stunned.

“What did you tell them?” You eventually ask him.

“That I’d need to discuss it with the Council first,” Obi-Wan answers carefully, “and then that I’d need to discuss it with you. And I’d make a decision by midnight, when the Ritual is to begin.”

And—there. He sees it. Your Force signature continues to radiate a gentle calmness outwards, unwavering and unbothered in its beautiful gradient of pale greens and chartreuses and golds, brilliantly contrasting with the cool blues and periwinkles of Obi-Wan’s own signature, but there’s a flash of… something in your eyes, and he sees it for maybe a split second before it’s gone completely.

What did he say? What did he say? He tries quickly to remember. That he’d need to discuss it with the Council first, and then that he’d need to…

Obi-Wan sighs, instantly realizing his mistake. He both openly admitted and proved to valuing the opinion of the Council over yours. He valued the collective opinion of a group of Jedi tens of thousands of light years away who put you in the middle of this ghastly situation more than your opinion. You. The only other person directly involved with this absolute shipwreck of a negotiation, even though you never asked to be. The person whose opinion on such a delicate situation should’ve mattered the most.

Stars, s’Zerthia was right. Has he always been this blind?

“Though… though now I realize that was incredibly dismissive of me.” Obi-Wan’s head drops and his hand comes up to cover and rub at his eyes, feeling halfway stuck between amused at his endless list of mistakes and miserable at how they’ve affected you. “I’ve done absolutely nothing right on this mission so far, young one. And you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. The Queen of the s’Ziscari said you’re likely the best the Order has to offer and I’m very quickly beginning to see her point.”

You jerk back comically. “She said that?”

He peeks an eye open at you through his fingers, watching you look at him like he’s grown two heads. “…Yes?”

“And not as an insult to the rest of the Jedi?”

Obi-Wan drags his hand down his beard, trying to hold the corners of his mouth down, but it does nothing to stop the small smile that begins to peek through. So he doesn’t try to hide it. He just smiles at you, exasperated but so incredibly fond, shaking his head meaningfully. You sit there and stare at him with your mouth hanging open, completely discombobulated, and Obi-Wan actually begins to chuckle quietly to himself, marveling at how your reaction to the praise practically doubles its sentiment.

You’re the only one who’s been able to make him truly laugh in the past two years. You did it despite his wild discomfort concerning the unfortunate situation the two of you have found yourselves in. You did it despite the foreign territory, the foreign government, the foreign planet, the foreign customs, and the foreign subject matter. And you did it all entirely unprompted, despite everything he’s done to wrong you.

“The lady in the big chair? The one with the fingernails?” You lift your hand up and wiggle your fingers, both looking and sounding like a droid in need of a hard reboot. “The fingernail lady, she said this?”

“Why is that so surprising to you?” Obi-Wan asks with a gentle grin, leaning back to rest his shoulder blades against the bed, his muscles considerably less tense than they were even just two minutes ago.

“Because I don’t—? People don’t—??” You wave your hands around uselessly. “I’m not used to… that.”

“To what?” He prompts, still not removing his attention from your face.

“High praise? I mean—I spent years being told that I was quite possibly the worst of the Jedi,” you laugh awkwardly, and then you change the subject too quickly, like you’re attempting to fill the silence before it can be read into too much. “Not to mention she looked positively delighted when I was dismissed.”

There it is again, he thinks, your eyes once more betraying your signature, tone, and countenance. He only allows himself a beat to silently vow to himself to consciously voice his recognition of your dedication and achievements more often. It’s just… with the right ratio of patience and prompting, he always thought you were such a brilliant student. Obi-Wan is unable to recall the exact moment as a teacher he began to recognize any positive trait you exhibited in his presence as simply part of your hidden, untapped given character instead of a very purposeful mindset you had to actively work to embody. Perhaps the true reason he’s so skeptical about s’Zerthia’s assertion that you care more for him than you let on is because he cannot possibly fathom why. Not when it feels like he’s spent years by your side and is only somehow only just now seeing you.

“Ah, yes, well,” Obi-Wan says, easily glossing over his quiet moment of contemplation without arousing any suspicion, “the Queen is arguably obsessed with seeing how much torture a person can endure without actually having any physical pain inflicted upon them. She gets bored, see. Not many visitors to the Uncharted Regions. She likes to play games with her guests whenever they do arrive.”

You quirk a brow at him. “Then shouldn’t she have revelled in my suffering instead of defending me because of it?”

“I’d say she’s entirely capable of doing both, especially considering just how torturous it was for me to sit there and be reminded of all the many different ways this has been so terribly unfair to you,” he admits softly. “She paid you the compliment as a direct commendation for enduring such mistreatment and still leaving the walls of her palace standing.”

Your expression goes blank again, and Maker, this is more difficult than he thought it’d be. It’s a legitimate challenge to gauge your emotional state when you’ve so clearly mastered your control over your energy signature, to a degree of which Obi-Wan was almost entirely unaware before today.

“You’re sure this is the only way?” You eventually ask. “We either do this together or we go back empty-handed? That’s it? No other options?”

Obi-Wan takes exactly zero seconds to consider the implication behind his answer before confirming your assertion with a solemn nod. “No other options. I’m sorry, young one.”

Later, he’ll reason he refused to present the Queen’s first suggestion to you because he couldn’t agree to the terms, even if you could. It would be of no use for you to share your bed with a s’Ziscari when he was incapable or unwilling to do the same. Yes, that makes… logical sense, he supposes. Right now he just has far too many things on his mind to contemplate it, and the sudden reminder of the situation he’s in causes his heart to start beating faster in his chest.

“Okay. Well…” You look uncertain, your eyebrows furrowing slightly even as your energy continues to glow soft and undisturbed from the center of your being. “Well, what are—what are your… concerns? Is there anything I could do to make this easier for you?”

Because Obi-Wan has absolutely no clue how to answer that question, he just keeps quiet. He supposes it shouldn’t be so surprising that the Uncharted Regions feature so much… uncharted territory. He truly doesn’t know how to go about this; upon explanation of the situation, he had hoped you’d supply a firm no so that the burden of choice was taken away from him. He doesn’t want to offend you, but at the same time, the more you’re not directly protesting against the idea, the faster his heart begins to pound in terror at the realization that… breaking a sacred vow he’s honored his entire life is quickly becoming a very likely probability.

And also… why? Why are you able to be so… calm about this? Why are you not panicking and struggling with this decision the same way he is? When s’Zerthia first suggested you’ve already broken your oath of celibacy, Obi-Wan didn’t want to believe it, yet here you are—asking him if there’s anything you can do to make this easier for him when both of you should be having a crisis about this hypothetical. Are virgins typically so considerate? Is he just being over-dramatic about this? Is this just a manifestation of the serene hue of your saber reaffirming itself? Is this just your cool head prevailing when the one person you’ve spent years looking to for guidance is clearly on the verge of spiraling?

Why? Why aren’t you protesting more?

“Are we actually going to do this?” You ask after a moment, and Obi-Wan unintentionally cringes. Good Maker above, he truly doesn’t mean to. It has almost nothing to do with you—in fact, he can only assume you're genuinely trying your best to adapt to the unfortunate twist of events, and you’re actually managing to be somewhat successful where Obi-Wan is just hopelessly, miserably failing. You must be just trying to maintain some sort of base foundation for his turbulent mental state, but—but then he sees another flash of emotion in your eyes at the way he flinches away from the question.

He opens his mouth to respond—to apologize, or… stars, something, but then you supply a quick reassurance instead. “I won’t—I won’t take offense, if you need me to, you know,” you shrug, very much avoiding his gaze and your voice suddenly sounding incredibly small. “I don’t know. Not make any sounds? Or hide my face? Or… something?”

“You’re…” Obi-Wan’s mind, previously struggling with far too many chaotic, rapid-fire thoughts, suddenly can’t seem to conjure a single one of them. “You’re… serious?”

“It’s not a big deal—” you quickly tell him, “—either way, we don’t have to make it a big deal. I mean, I wouldn’t want it to be… It doesn’t have to be… terrible for you, or anything.”

Maker, is that what you think? That this isn’t a ‘big deal’? He stares at you, the word you used resonating with him. Terrible. On one hand, of course it’s terrible—the whole thing is terrible, it’s something out of an ancient Jedi parable he was told as a youngling, about the sins of passion leading to the Dark Side. On the other hand, he knows you can’t possibly mean it like that, and… you’re somehow managing to interpret this conflict all wrong. Asking him if he needs you to hide your face?

He eventually shakes his head just slightly. “I… No. No, young one, I will not…” he clears his throat, “I will not… require such a thing.”

Though neither of you say anything for quite a long time after that, the loud knock on the door still feels like it’s interrupting a crucial moment.

You quickly call that it’s open, and Obi-Wan turns his head to see the door swing forward and two s’Ziscari in thin black robes, standing in the hallway. A man and a woman.

His heart suddenly thunders against his ribcage and he scrambles to remember the hour. It can’t be midnight yet, no, he needs more time—

The male s’Ziscari says something in his native tongue, and the woman calmly translates to Basic. “Her Majesty the Queen formally requests your presence in the great hall for dinner and the start of the festivities.”

“Respectfully,” you nod at the guard while Obi-Wan struggles to regain himself, “if it pleases her Majesty, Master Kenobi and I would prefer to eat in our quarters tonight, as we are still discussing the nature of our potential involvement in the festivities.”

The woman repeats back your polite and much appreciated response to the guard, and he looks between you two, before clearing his throat and saying something that sounds remarkably similar to his first sentence. The translator turns back to you both. “Her Majesty formally and… firmly requests your presence in the great hall for dinner and the start of the festivities.”

When you don’t respond, Obi-Wan suddenly realizes you’re waiting for him to speak.

“Very well,” he eventually sighs, reminding himself that you both are still guests on this planet. “We shall be there momentarily.”

Regardless of the language barrier, the guard appears to understand the sentiment of his response through the Force, not needing a translation. He says something and then turns to leave as the woman walks into the room, revealing a black bundle of fabric from behind her back to drape along one of the side tables. “Zashir is currently placing your ceremonial robes in your quarters, General Kenobi. If there will be nothing else?”

Maker, his what? Obi-Wan’s pulse stutters. “I’m sure that—that won’t be necessary, my lady—”

“It will be,” she nods shortly. “If there will be nothing else.”

And then she spins around and walks out without bothering to wait for an answer. You blink at the closed door as Obi-Wan drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose once more, so far beyond stressed concerning how tragically the events of this cursed mission are unfolding that he almost wants to laugh.

“Something tells me the s’Ziscari don’t like the Jedi too much,” you offer after a moment of silence.

“Nonsense,” he counters, lifting his head and sighing helplessly, apparently reverting to sarcasm when everything else he knows is all but ripped away from him. “Wherever could you have gathered that?”

Obi-Wan eventually moves to struggle up to his feet—struggle, being the key word, if only to maintain some essence of behavioral uniformity throughout these past few hours—when he suddenly feels your hand on his elbow.

He glances down at you, your soft features and gentle eyes blinking up at him in his half-standing position next to you.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” you remind him quietly. “Either way. Not a big deal.”

It’s strange. He knows your primary intent is to put his mind at ease, but everything you’ve been saying just seems… too disconnected. Good people are dying as you speak—civilians, children, innocents, you both know this, and yet…

Perhaps… perhaps Obi-Wan is simply just too emotional right now, too chaotic. He’s certainly not being fair to you. He realizes he’s responding negatively no matter how you’re attempting to go about reassuring him, and though he recognizes it, it’s more difficult than it’s ever been to reign in his mental state.

He clears his throat. “The Queen has assured us that we are free to decline her offer and walk away at any time. Her only stipulation is that we’ll have until midnight to… i-initiate the…”

Stars. Initiate the what? Is this a self-destruct sequence? It may as well be, Obi-Wan thinks, but you nod your understanding and rise to your feet nonetheless, far more gracefully than he does.

“Well,” you sigh, walking over to the side table and pulling the black robe off of it, turning to face him and balling the silky fabric in your hands awkwardly. “Uh. I guess. Fate of the galaxy awaits, and all.”

And then he sees you wince, your subtle call-back to the beginning of this mission landing flat and clearly not contrasting well with your previous assertion to him that this is no big deal, but… for some reason the mistake and subsequent display of self-consciousness makes Obi-Wan relax just marginally. Even if you’re not necessarily panicking, at least you’re still clearly nervous, and that fact alone is more reassuring than anything anyone has said to him since this disaster first started.

“Yes,” he murmurs with a companionable, albeit hesitant smile, patting your shoulder just once before moving to leave. “The… the fate of the galaxy.”

Stars. He’s… well.

Fucked, isn’t he?

#obi-wan kenobi x you #Obi-wan Kenobi X Reader #obi-wan X reader #obi-wan x you #fanfic #self insert #no-droids

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pink-purplesunset · 3 years ago

Link

A light cannot exist without shadow.

Before the history that people like you and I know, Gods walked the Earth like common man. Virgin lands laid untouched and unbroken, waters ran clear and free of debris. Gods had a much simpler view on life. Many things as well as what happened to mere mortals, left them unbothered. Because of this, they then chose to leave the land, returning to the sky. In their wake they left their children to rule Earth, to keep it from ending in chaos.

There were two sides both ruled by family blood, one of light, the other of dark. The first born, named Jin, came to be known as a being of darkness, an evil no one had seen before. Soon many others who shared that same deep iniquity began to follow him, morphing into what the people called Dreadlings. They took a form stuck between light and dark, eventually forming the largest army of men and women on the planet. With this power Jin ruled the planet and for many years all people knew was darkness.

Years later, his sister gracefully named Nabi, was born. She radiated light, love and all that is good and had come into the world as a bright beacon for many. Her union onto Earth had been celebrated, a prophecy had been filled giving many the courage to stand up to the darkness that had overtaken the land. Nabi was quickly labeled their savior, and thrust into the role of Earth's Guardian.

Contradictory to might you may think, both sides united as one.

With a small army Nabi confronted her brother, her charms and purity quickly talking him down from his horrid reign. From that day both siblings remained close and confided in each other to rule to planet as two instead of one. Peace was to remain on both sides for the remainder of their immortal lives, both making agreements to never harm one another.

Many years later is where this story begins.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On an ordinary day, one with warm winds and feathery skies, a hummed song hangs in the air, coming from a figure that bathes in a waterfall nearby. The area is secluded on each side by natural rocks and tall pine trees, a field of colorful wild flowers blanketing the surrounding area.

Nabi runs her fingers through silvery locks, sighing in ecstasy when the cold-water leaves goosebumps on her skin in contrast to the warm sun. She was used to days like this, with birds chirping in her ear and the smell of wild mint in the air.

Every day was almost completely the same for her and had been since her descend onto Earth.

She would be awoken by one of her chambermaids, they would help her into a morning steam, feed her, brush her hair and adorn her in clothes and jewelry that were made by the God Plutus, a regular gift she would receive from her family to praise her for getting along with her brother. Then she would be whisked off to play the role of mediator and politician, listening to the complaints and opinions of the people, an event the Primary Gods had suggested to keep the people happy, only to then be ushered into the Chapel to be broadcasted across the world giving the morning prayers. Something enforced by the clergy so that the Primary Gods would not be forgotten. By noon, she was off to some lectures which gave her more insight on how the common man lived, giving her a looks at which areas of the world needed her healing the most.

She lived this life everyday without stray. Until recently.

She, her brother and their armies, where the only being on Earth that could manipulate reality. Nabi could control elements, weather, the human body and much more. Her brother could do the same but in opposite effects. She found herself free time under the mask of ability training.

A few hours before dusk she would visit the stable under disguise and gallop off on her favorite friesian outside the kingdom walls to a place she only knew. Here she could be herself, do what she wanted and imagine a life where she was normal. A life where she would be able to find a love, have kids and a simple job before coming home for the night to a family.

This became her new normal.

Gradually her brother began to find out, only giving her a mild scolding before focusing on the many tasks that encompassed a a kingdom. Eventually as she would sneak out more and was caught, the scolding became punishment.

There was many rules amongst her life and one of them was never letting someone outside the inner walls of the palace to see her appearance. She was a goddess of purity, anyone who started to lust after her could taint her aura, eventually turning her into a being like her brother. The Primary Gods demanded balance, she was to never be tainted or it would bring the end to her and her brother.

But Nabi had a rebellious soul. She would continue to sneak out, no matter what her brother threatened.

Nabi sighed in delight once again as the water left small pools on her body, smiling when she noticed a curious bystander near the entrance to her secluded area. She knew him well, a soldier sided with the light and a fierce warrior she had watched from the sidelines for some time now. He had been drawn in by the sweet sound of her voice before, something he could not resist. He had visited her often within the past months, giving her something, someone, to look forward to.

She knew he could not see much of her as the waterfall did well to give her a natural veil, all to be seen was her hair, as it twinkled like stars whenever the light caught it. She watched as he stared in wonder, still oblivious to her own. She abruptly stopped the humming and stepped out of the running water allowing her eyes to peer into his own, which now were splayed wide with fear.

It was absolute law never to approach or see the Guardian unless given clearance, offenders would face the wrath of Jin aka death.

Before he could run, Nabi let out a small chuckle making him stop in his tracks. She held eye contact with him, not bothering to dress in her robes before she walked forward.

He had seen her like this before.

"You came to see me again." She smiled.

Not believing his senses the man remained frozen. Nabi made her way directly in front of him, in all her glory. She continued to smile, trying to fill the man with ease.

"You are Jimin correct?" Her features remained soft and her eyes twinkled. "You should really try and hide yourself more, I catch you being here everytime." He continued to gape at her, not sure of how to react. "It's nice to meet you again." She added with a grin, her hand glided from her side to grab his.

Jimin gulped and continued to stare at her flawless skin.

"I- I did not mean to oppose on you Guardian."

He then diverted his eyes down, not mustering the courage to bring his hand away from hers.

With a small laugh Nabi pulled him closer to her. Her unoccupied hand came up and began stroking the man's hair. Causing Jimin to hold his breath.

"It's alright." She laughs. "you being here tends to make my day." She hugged him a little closer, always eager for a warm embrace. "Besides... I happen to know that you like being here too."

Within her embrace she allows the memories she had taken from him to flow back. With a small gasp Jimin brings his eyes back to hers.

Nabi laughs at the familiar reaction.

"Please stay." She whispers once she recognizes the familiar lust that settles in his eyes.

Jimin lets out the breath he was holding and pushes away from her in shock.

"Am I not to be punished?!" He spoke loudly. Causing Nabi's smile to slip. "Isn't this breaking the law?!

Putting back on her smiley mask, she puts both hands over the man's mouth. She could never get used to his reaction, even after experiencing it many times.

"My brother is not here and you side with me. Fear nothing."

She takes her hands away and wraps one around his wrist dragging him backwards with her into the water.

"Come now."

Nabi frowns when he is not looking as she is running behind schedule now and her guards will soon come looking for her.

Jimin does nothing but comply, hushed by her words and newly acquired memories serving him well. When both are fully under the roaring waterfall, he smiles at the small invisible bubble protecting them from the heavy water above. He eyes Nabi from head to toe before capturing her lips in his. She smiles at him in childish wonderment before diving back into him for more. His hands begin to move over her body, ghosting over her nipples to pull a moan from her. He bites her lip as he smiles although it begins to fall.

"Please don't take these memories away from me again." He asks in a pleading whisper.

He looks into her eyes and can tell she's hiding from him.

From yards away both of them can hear the footfalls of horses.

"I'm afraid we must part now." She breathes out, distancing herself but catching his hands in hers once again. "Please visit again, I really miss you when you're gone."

A sadness overtakes Jimin's face but is quickly replaced with panic as Nabi places her hand on his forehead and wipes the memories of their meeting from his mind. She places him gently on the dry moss below them, her magic still protecting the area from the water above.

With one final look she once again leaves the waterfall and dresses in time for her guards to appear through the trees. One dressed in gold ornate armor, displaying her own insignia, the other made up in an armor of volcanic rock that somehow still glows red hot.

"You know the entire palace begins to panic in your absence." States the one in gold. He looks to his side where Jin's soldier stands. "Please do not force me out here with one of the Dreadlings again."

Nabi smiles and begins to walk towards the two.

"Where would the kingdom be without you playing my babysitter Hobi?" She allows them to place her veil over her head and help her onto her horse. "Although I do agree that my brother did not have to send one of his own." She squints at the heat radiating off the man as she looks at him. "The fresh air must feel like poison to you V."

The dark soldier remains stoic and leaves to mount his own horse with no reply.

"Always a man of many words." Remarks Hobi as they all set off towards the palace.

The ride takes them down the steep mountainside, through a forest of large cedars and along the edge of the wall that surrounds the kingdom. They tactfully stop at a spot on the northside of the wall, where Nabi is able to manipulate some loose rock and allow a gap big enough for them to walk through with their horses.

"How will your brother feel knowing you have left the walls again?" V finally speaks up once they are inside.

Nabi just smiles and closes the wall behind them.

"Why must you threaten me with this same line every time you're forced to fetch me? We both know you don't plan on telling him. "

V sighs and continues to peer forwards, knowing too that she speaks the truth. After a few more minutes sulking he again speaks up.

"You rely too much on the false relationship you've created for us in your head. You know who I remain loyal to."

Nabi giggles and shakes off the remark.

"Ok, Ok Mr. IHateFriendshipandLove. I will believe your words from now on until proven otherwise." She rides up closer to him and whispers "I'll tell the chefs to serve japchae in the commissary tonight." He shivers from their closeness while with a wink she makes her way away from him and towards Hobi.

After follows a few minutes of silence with the exception of chuckles she and Hobi share in their own conversation. V then clears his throat, edging his horse on to get closer to the two. He makes sure to make eye contact with Nabi.

"Although I do not appreciate the endearment of friendship, I will gladly accept the food."

He then hurries his horse forward.

Behind him, Nabi and Hobi share another knowing look and a small laugh as they continue to the gate of the palace. It is a massive structure, half white, half black marble, with gold welded gates connecting it's center. On all sides it is guarded by a mix of gold and black clade soldiers.

"May the dark bring forth the light!" All the soldiers shout when they identify her and draw the gate upwards.

Entering, Nabi breaks off from her two escorts, turning in her saddle to address the two men.

"You guys can head back to the barracks, I can take it from here."

Hobi gives her a deliberate glare.

"Promise to appear before your brother as soon as possible so he does not kill us both and NO more adventures today." He makes sure to point at her to add emphasis.

Nabi rolls her eyes. "I would never allow him to do such a thing." Hobi opens his mouth ready to retort. "-But I promise to see him to save you both from his nagging."

"Thank you, milady." Hobi jeers with a silly bow, still on his horse. "Now stay out of trouble and I shall see you later after dinner." He gives a big wave and follows V towards the side of the palace where workers and military are housed.

"Let's go Lucent." She pats her horse's shoulder and gives him a small squeeze to continue to the stable she and Jin shared.

Like usual, the overly decorated palace yards were occupied by the gardeners that kept it looking clean and the pious followers that would used the gardens as a place to pray. Regardless of who they were, when they noticed Nabi, they would drop what they were doing to pay respect to her. Something she did not always enjoy. Finally making her way towards the royal wing and the stables that connected to it, she was met by her stable hand Yoongi with is arms crossed.

"Overstayed your time outside again I see." He uncrossed his arms and grabbed her horse by the bridle. "I should have known something was up when Lucent was gone from his stall again this morning." He gave a small smile while petting the horse on his nose. He looked up to Nabi "Do you want me to put him away for you?"

Nabi dismounted and gave Lucent a big hug around his neck.

"Yes, thank you. You're once again a lifesaver Yoongi." She let go of the horse and handed the reins over to him. "I'm unfortunately late to a meeting to humor my brother right now, as it seems everyone in the palace knows I was outside again."

"You're not exactly secretive about it anymore." Yoongi states.

Nabi gives him a cheeky smile. Yoongi clears his throat and begins to take care of the horse. "Sorry Guardian, I'll just be on my way."

He walks away and glances behind him to see Nabi gathering her long robes and hurriedly walking up the many steps that led to the entrance of the colossal palace.

Nabi could hear Yoongi's small laugh from behind her as she went, making her smile.

Many of the palace workers that recognized her would too stop what they were doing to bow, she would do her best to do the same with her hurried pace. Not even bothering to change out of her normal robes, a somewhat dull look compared to her usual attire to help her blend in, as she ran to find the door to her brother's room.

Stepping inside, she was met with a brotherless room. She wrapped her arms around herself, needing a source of comfort to prepare her for the talk she was about to get. There was nothing dark and scary about the place, but it still caused a cold chill to run down her back and the hairs on her arms raise. The room was very well kept considering Jin did not let any workers into the room or around his belongings. As she walked further in, the corner of the room drew Nabi's attention where a large canvas sat, the first few details of a panting started. There was a deep emotion attached to it, something dark and consuming, as well as many other feelings she was unable to be explain, it was all lost to her. On the painting, all she could make out was a figure in gold armor, the face all too familiar.

"Do you like it?" Jin whispered out of nowhere making her jump.

"Brother." She breathes out, spinning to face him, holding her heart. "I was just admiring what you've started."

Jin faces the painting but looks towards Nabi out of the corner of his eye.

"I needed something to do when I cannot sleep. My dreams have not been kind recently."

One of Jin's individual traits was seeing the future in his dreams.

"I told you to come find me when you are troubled." Nabi worries over him and places a hand on his forearm.

Jin places his hand over her own.

"It is but a small issue for the time being, the dreams change daily. You know I'd come to you if it were anything important."

Nabi looks to her brother as he further studies the mostly empty canvas. The bad feelings inside her grow worse.

"I sense something growing, it radiates around the room. It makes me sick to my stomach." She barely speaks out loud.

Jin shows no further emotion but she can tell he fakes a smile as he turns to her again.

"I doubt it has anything to do with the otherworldly. I shall send one of your maidens to get you a medicine. Go rest and try not to venture too far from the walls again."

Nabi froze, hoping to skip the scolding today.

"I'm sorry-"

Jin raises a hand to stop her.

"I sent another to watch you. A little birdy had told me V has been less than useful lately."

Nabi tries to show no fear in her features but couldn't withhold her good nature.

"You didn't hurt him, did you?"

Jin looks to the ground with a small laugh but his eyes snap to her full of rigidness.

"My soldiers should be none of your concern sister."

A very uncommon emotion for Nabi started to rear its head. She clenched her fists to her side, nails digging into her palms.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" She breathes out trying to calm herself. "Do I not rule this kingdom by your side? Are we not equals?" She steps further into his space. "Tell me if he's hurt so I can help him."

Jin closes the gap between them, capturing her chin between his fingers.

"You know better than to speak to me that way. Know your place girl and do not test me."

She pushes away from his grasp but does not retreat.

"Know my place?! You are nothing without me." She growls.

Jin looked to her with a raised brow, a smirk growing, he breaks the tension with loud claps.

"Now this is a side of you I've rarely seen, let's hope your holy followers in the palace have not heard." He crosses his arms, his right hand playing with his chin in thought. "Although I quite like this side of you." His sickening smile grows.

Nabi comes back to reality quickly, a little shocked herself.

"I-I'm sorry brother." She holds her hands close to her chest. Panic setting her pulse ablaze. "It's this room it makes me...on edge. I do not understand these emotions I'm feeling."

Jin gives her a dismissive gesture, Nabi could not help but feel as though he had meant this meeting to go this way. Like he had expected her to act in such a way.

"Apology accepted." He grabs her by the shoulders and aims her towards the door. "Leave me and get some rest. I'll help the cooks make your favorite soup for dinner."

Nabi turns to hug her brother, not used to small spats with him.

"I love you brother."

Jin lets out a small sigh but answers back.

"As do I sister."

She did not feel any emotion behind the words.

He gently pulls her off himself and walks her to his door. Nabi shows herself out as he closes the door behind her. She catches her lip in her teeth trying to understand the interaction that happened minutes ago, her mind drawing a blank. She can count on one hand the amount of times she has felt anger before, and each has left her with a sense of amnesia. Her soul was not made to house such an emotion. She was created to do and spread good, not to wish harm among others.

Unlike her brother, Nabi is closer in comparison to those who are considered a normal person. Some say she has not reached her full potential yet; she believes she was made that way for a reason. To further her knowing of empathy among the humans, something she cannot rule without.

A hand reaches out to grab her arm. Startling her once again into reality. She did not know how long she had been standing outside her brother's door.

"Guardian." One of her maids, Sara, greets her. "I was told you are not feeling well. Allow me to lead you to your suite."

Nabi just nods. Slipping back into her mind. She contemplates the occurrences in her life, those that had led her into small fits of anger. The first occurrence being when she was a child and a follower had offered her a small poodle as a gift. Later in the day another child had tried to play with it, resulting in the kid crying in the dirt with a bloody nose. The other big occurrence being over a tear in her favorite dress, where she was then being rushed away from a fire, she had started over the bush that had torn it. Today's incident was nowhere near the worse, but it had been a good five years since she had been lost away in such blackness.

Numbly she finally realizes that the sun has set, and she has been tucked into her oversized bed. Sara places a tray full of fruits and the soup her brother had made on her lap.

"You brother said there's leftovers in the kitchen must you want more. I'll be right outside if you need anything more of me."

Nabi gives her a small smile and begins to pick at the fruit on her tray. Usually being her favorite thing to eat, the soup her brother had made seeps off the smell of rotting flesh, quickly making her throw up everything she had eaten that day.

"My dear." Sara runs to her side, starting to clean up the mess. "Are you feeling that ill Guardian?"

She begins to feel her head for signs of fever, while drawing Nabi up from her soiled bed.

"Please sit." She sets Nabi down on an overstuffed couch. "I'll make another bath for you."

Her consciousness fades in and out, finally laying way to a dreamland.

She is once again in her favorite place. The water roars above her but she is not alone. A familiar figure stands in her embrace and warms her soul. With such a perfect scene, she is surprised to find tears covering her cheeks. A deep ache resonates through her chest, she looks down so see a black liquid staining her skin and a hole where her heart should be. Without a warning the man brushes the tears from her face, then brushes back small strands of hair. He captures her cheeks in both hands before kissing her. He smells of earth and tastes of mint. Her heart begins to thrum happily, quicker and quicker as the kiss develops into one of shared tongues and quiet sighs. The ache in her chest also grows. She breaks the kiss to looks down upon herself again, seeing cracks splintering over her skin like cracked stone. It is realized then what this dream is trying to tell her, the thing that would continue to bring on these dark occurrences in her life. If she continued on her path, Love would surely be the best and worst thing to ever happen to her.

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mdccanon · 3 years ago

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The task has fallen on me to make this post.

It is okay to disagree with T'Challa.

It's okay to feel his positive attitude was taken too far when he suggested Nebula and Thanos have a salvageable relationship and should seek therapy.

It's okay to notice that T'Challa didn't know that he was a kidnapping victim when he said that to Nebula. (It's not okay to act like there is a difference between what Yondu did and what Thanos did just because you like like Yondu more. It's okay to forgive one but not the other, but it's not okay to not have the self-awareness to understand why.)

It's okay to disagree with T'Challa forgiving Yondu. It is okay to acknowledge that if a version of him is raised under Yondu, his understanding of right and wrong are going to be skewed towards whatever keeps him mentally having a positive opinion of his captain -- that's how Stockholm Syndrome works -- which is why Star-Lord T'Challa has a much more forgiving attitude towards common criminals than Prince T'Challa.

It's okay to disagree with the overall thematic narrative of the Guardians part of the MCU which is that life is always going to be terrible towards you, so you might as well roll with the punches and find happiness where you can. You're allowed to insist that YOU don't have to find ways to get along with people who have been cruel to you or you don't have to become proud of the things that used to hurt you. But if you are going to disagree that much, be uncomfortable that much, then you might want to walk away from the one part of the MCU narrative that is literally about criminals and morally black-gray characters and go back to a part of the MCU that has a more morally black/white dichotomy.

And if someone calls you a hypocrite for it, using some logic along the lines of "Well, Luke saw good in Darth Vader and that series is a masterpiece and you said that you like Star Wars come, so what is your big deal about not forgiving an alternate universe Thanos?" You can calmly point out to them that The Return of the Jedi did not come out during the formative years of your life, but the movie where Thanos regularly abused Nebula did. You do not have to forgive Thanos or what to see Nebula forgive Thanos when you've seen the abuse firsthand and it emotionally impacted you.

You can also add that Lucas conveniently cuts the story short through Redemption Equals Death and has never attempted to write a "reconciled relationship" between a Galactic enforcer and his rebel children. Imagine a conversation between Darth Vader and Leia where she's supposed to work towards forgiving the man who was part of the group that blew up her planet?

It's okay to disagree with T'Challa and feel that his "all loving hero" schtick goes too far. In fact it's often a common weakness for the all-loving hero to not fully appreciate the situations he's being santimonious about.

T'Challa is not omnipresent nor omnipotent.

It's okay to point out that in his story The Avengers, Thor, Hela, and all of Asgard were destroyed.

It's okay to respect that the MCU gives its characters distinctive perspectives outside of the usual Superman / Batman dichotomy of all loving hero and brooding antihero, but also being annoyed that the MCU likes their stories overall upbeat and conveniently tied up in a happy ending bow. They want complex characters but they don't actually want complex Game of Thrones endings, well, outside of Civil War and Infinity War. They want to express Thor's depression but they still want it to be funny. They want to right about racism, sexism, and the fight for equality, but they still wanted to end on a Awww Moment like "Isaiah is happy that he got a statue!" They want to write about the abuse and trauma of Bucky Barnes losing his sense of self... But they still want him to be called The Winter Soldier.

It's okay to sometimes want these stories to be more than action-packed modern pulp fiction. It's okay to be grateful for the characters that they create but not want them to end on a happy note.

And, as always, remember: It's okay to disagree with T'Challa.

#star lord t'challa #ravager thanos #marvel's what if #what if...?#loki series #the infinity saga #avengers infinity war #guardians of the galaxy #mcu nebula #yondu udonta

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lore-of-the-silvereyes-rwby · 4 years ago

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Ironwood Summary

Here we are at last the final conclusion of this long character analysis series, for now. This is mostly going to be my own opinion of the character based on the research I did for the analysis. As well as some ideas of what may happen to the character in future volumes and overall standing of what the character was always meant to be and represent in the rwby narrative. Also keep in mind that this is only an analysis of Ironwood’s character pre Volume 8 so there won’t be any spoilers used in this analysis or summary

(Before we begin i want to thank @spacecapart for his art to be used in this summary as i feel this piece summarizes how i feel about Ironwood)

When I started researching and writing on July 31st 2020 for Ironwood and the months that followed I feel like I have gained a better understanding of what exactly Ironwood’s character was meant to be while making sure my overall opinion of him wasn’t biased but honest and neutral.

For the most part Ironwood’s life was just sad because, well it was never really his to begin with, since he pretty much had no say in it. Based on what I saw and learned about him with the help of additional lore as well as the current story Ironwood was just a tool and a plot device in the narrative.

He started as a tool for Mantle(pre Atlas) which planted the seeds that made him this cold inhuman person that we see at present due to its old toxic ideologies of imperialism and militarism combined with a Nietzsche's philosophy that survives and thrives through Ironwood once he become a de facto king when Atlas became an official kingdom.

Then he became a tool for Oz to protect and safeguard the current status quo without benefiting from it. Though it was with good intentions Ironwood couldn’t help but feel insulted that he was being restricted and kept in check by someone who does not share his belief or ideals of what he considers right even though they weren't his beliefs or the best to begin with.

Finally after all was said and done he became a tool for the very enemy that he swore to fight and defend against. Due to his toxic upbringing in Atlas and his bitter resentment for Oz he tried to take matters in his own hands only for it to backfire immensely into the events that we see in the show. As I Stated in “The Hero that was never meant to be” Ironwood was more or less the most prominent catalyst for all of the events and conflicts in the show that Salem took advantage of and prospered from simply due to Ironwood’s elitist and violent mindset.

All of this just contributes to Ironwood being a plot device since that he’s essentially just a philosophical mouthpiece for Atlas as the show has somewhat made it clear that he is basically the physical embodiment of Atlas if it were a person with both a voice and need to survive. Which wouldn’t be so bad if Atlas wasn’t the Remnant equivalent of a fasciest imperialist dystopia. Most of Ironwood’s character flaws mostly stem from the fact that his is simply the product of his origins and refusing to change or find a compromise for the better.

Another thing that I believe should be taken into consideration is his overall effect in the plot. Added by how the narrative has been structured with its main conflict I think it's safe to assume that no matter what, Ironwood was always a character that was set to fail ever since his introduction. This is mostly due to the fact that most if not all of his power comes from control and authority over others. As well as his lack of actual experience when it comes to war and conflict.

As I stated in I am power with my own estimate of Ironwood’s age(47-50) based on his rank’s promotion requirements he has at least 30 years of experience from both his huntsmen and military career: 34 if we were to count his academy days of training. Now you're probably asking; “If he has that many years of experience in his career, then why are you saying he has none?” Well it is quite simple based on 2 factors; his professions and the time that he was born in.

At present he is both Headmaster of Atlas academy and the Atlas equivalent of the joint chiefs of staff of the Military. I think it's logical to assume that Ironwood gained the status of Headmaster first and General later due the needs of Oz. Given the importance of the relics hidden in the academies it would be a pragmatic choice for Oz to ensure that there was always a guardian and supervisor over the vaults as well as training the worlds next gen huntsmen(the agreed upon nuclear deterrent).

Since his profession shifted from field combat to school administration upon becoming headmaster most if not all of Ironwood’s career from this point on saw very little combat opportunities and would soon be filled with politics once he became General further diminishing his combat skills. Also since Generals are the face of the military they mostly handle diplomatic and public affairs as well as deal with civilian contractors to ensure the military has the resources and gear needed to sustain itself.

This means that Ironwood went from fare soldier, to desk jockey, to financial benefactor throughout the entirety of his 30 year long career. But the two thirds of his later career basically had no relevant or beneficial experience that would be suited for the war that he had been preparing a long time for. Ironwood’s lack of practical experience is also more damaging when you realize that the very little he did have also wouldn’t be of much help in the first place as well.

This is mostly due to the fact that Ironwood was born at the beginning of the high golden age of peace and prosperity for Mantle/Atlas and all of the concerning conflicts happening at least 5 years before the show’s start very late in his career at an estimated age of 45, with the white fang terrorists groups targeting SDC assets that he wanted for war.

Also his career at that point most likely focused on policing and enforcing Atlasian laws rather than doing actual combat and even then he was trained to fight grimm instead of human combatants and even if he had to fight people they most likely are that of combat inexperienced and petty criminals that wouldn’t actually put up that much of a challenge and even then most of the fighting was done by disposable robots that he can command with the press of a button.

Overall Ironwood was really unprepared to even fight anyone in general, let alone wage a war against Salem. Even if he had powered up that army to the maximum it really wouldn’t solve anything. Ever since the first episode of the series the message was clear; You're not going to win with just strength and power alone, but with acts of mercy and honesty. As well as just enjoying the simple things in life and just simply living life rather than just surviving. After all this time Ironwood forgot to live life and be satisfied with what he had. Because of this he’s just going to keep on pushing the limit until he loses everything that he has and drag everyone else with him. Simply because he wouldn’t admit to himself that he has no idea about what to do or accept that he wasn’t the most important piece on the board.

Which sadly brings me to the very likely truth that it is guaranteed that Ironwood’s part and time in the story is coming to an end and his death is drawing near. This has been foreshadowed in the beginning of volume 6 where the true plot and crisis of the story had basically made Atlas and by extension Ironwood irrelevant to the story when it's been made clear they can’t just simply kill Salem and win with brute force as he had hoped. Because of that Ironwood was no longer important to the story as they show and fandom have hyped him up to be. Even if he still had an actual role in the plot I’m afraid to say that Ironwood’s story (even if it wasn’t that much) has already been told and judging by the direction he is going by it’s only going to get worse for his character (moraly wise) to the point that his death may be a blessing in disguise for remnant.

To start we need to look at the essential core concepts that make up Ironwood’s character. If we remove all of his actions and focus on his archetypes we get a character that is A) Half robot, B) the de facto leader of an inefficient military(let's be honest it's just a glorified security force for rich douchebags.) C) A school principal and D) someone who essentially hails from what can be considered the most evil and inhuman kingdom of his world that values power and is placed into a story and conflict where none of those things even matter given what we know about the true stakes and consequences of the plot and this is essentially all that we even know about him in relation to the story.

Which brings me to this point that in my opinion he wasn’t much of a character to begin with. This is mostly due to the fact that we really don’t know anything about him besides the summarized 4 points from the last section. We don’t know anything about him like how he became involved in the plot, how old he is, when and what caused him to be a cyber, does he have anyone outside of work or any family that he cares about and more importantly why does he fight in the first place and what motivates him to do so and what does he hope to gain? These details to me are important as to give depth to a character as to better understand why they are the way they are. Otherwise they are either a philosophical mouthpiece or a living ideological caricature. As I stated before in Ironwood’s case he is just that for Atlas, just a simple tool that it can use for whatever it needs.

Which also brings up another subject towards his contributions to the plot; What exactly can he do and was he really even that important to begin with? As I stated before Ironwood really doesn’t have much to offer besides the Military which has been proven to be useless and unneeded. But if it was to be needed that doesn’t automatically mean Ironwood should be the one leading it. For example should he be removed from power and replaced and the heroes really need the military wouldn’t it be simple just to involve the new commander and chief or appoint someone they can trust to ally with them. So yeah the military part as well as the academy are what give an individual like Ironwood any relevance but that doesn't automatically mean they’re that important or crucial to begin with.

Simply put Ironwood has always been a character in the wrong genre. Had he been placed in any other circumstance he may have had a point and could have succeeded but in the case of his story he doesn’t have one. Ever since his debut he has always been this source of contradictions and antagonism and contrast when it comes to how the world and characters have been set. Due to this Ironwood has always been this source of escalation and conflict as he only follows his own beliefs and tries to force others to comply with them. As well as the truth that he really has no idea of what to do since he was never really prepared to handle anything like this and added by the fact that he won’t admit or consider the possibility that he is not that needed or important. If he continues on with this type of thinking it's only going to warrant his end as simply put by Oscar he really is just as dangerous as Salem.

Before I explain his overall purpose and status in the Narrative I want to go over several ideas for what may be next for Ironwood throughout the rest of the series which will be explained further by the reasoning I will use in the narrative part.

Fate and status for Volume 8 and the rest of the series

Death

I think it's safe to say that Death flags have been hovering over Ironwood for a while or at least since Volume 7. But is it certain? Most likey. I say it’s near mostly due to my belief that his story has essentially been told and he really doesn’t have anything left to contribute to the plot at this point. The impact of his death whether it will leave a positive or negative impact remains uncertain. But the way of his death to me is certain; he’s going to die by the hands of another character(specifically a hero). I know most people would have hoped for a heroic sacrifice or a redemption by death but I don’t exactly see Ironwood doing such things. (Which I’ll explain in the next 2 bullet points)

If it hasn’t been made clear Ironwood has made more enemies than allies simply due to his inability to compromise or let go of his Atlasian ideals and ego. As well as his refusal to accept the fact that he really isn’t that important or necessary in this conflict or at least in the way he wanted to be. If he further descends into his own little world Ironwood is going to cause more problems and do more damage that can never be undone and the only way to stop it would be if he was out of the picture. Because of this Ironwood is likely to die in V8 or by the end of the Atlas arc but it is also possible that he may die at another point later in the series.

Redemption Arc

The chances for Ironwood’s redemption are slim but they’re there, but probably not in the usual way that everyone expects to happen. To help clarify the possibility of redemption we will be using the trifecta structure of redemption arcs. This includes; How the character sees himself, how they see the world, and the stakes and how they change over time. As well as the Scale and Values of his motivation. To help better understand let us take a look at Ironwood’s motivations and goals from V2 and how they contrast and differ from V7 Ironwood.

Volume 2 Ironwood’s motivations upon first glance are simple; stop the threat and ensure stability and security. However if you watch closely there is an ulterior motive. From this we can determine the true Values of his goals and the Scale of what he is willing to do to achieve them and they go as such;

His values as of V2 are security via large Military foundations and amassing complete control and influence over forign nations while promoting the agendas of Atlas imperialism.(similar to the Galactic empire in its early years from Star Wars) With the scale showing that he is willing to go to such lengths as propaganda and political manipulation and betraying allies to get what he wants(the greatest example of this being subverting control from Ozpin)

From this we know that Ironwood sees himself as this perfect savior that can do no wrong and should be the one in charge. While his views of the world being that everything is below him unless they match those of Atlas. With the stakes at the time being the possibility of losing imperial expansion and the threat of domination from a superior force that could shatter the foundations of his ideology and culture.

While Volume 7 Ironwood’s motivations being; whatever it takes to preserve his perfect and ideal society even if it means sacrificing everything else before his valued culture is destroyed.

The values of this Ironwood definitely differ from previous versions of the character. As V7 Ironwood’s motivations have shifted from saving lives and defending them from Salem to preserving the very little bastion of control and authority that he has over Atlas. With the scale showing that he is willing to turn on allies and go as far as to abandon a whole heavily populated city and potentially the rest of the world in order to preserve the one thing that he has complete and unconditional control over.

Because of this a lot of Ironwood’s views have changed by the end of V7.

Due to his streak of recent failures his views of himself changed from being the perfect leader that he thought he was, to accepting reality that he isn’t said leader and is prone to failure. However because of that thinking he no longer feels that he should hold himself to that set standard anymore and do what he thinks is needed to get his desired results. Which leads to the fact that he still views himself as the one that should be in charge but this time he does not feel compelled to be fair or considerate of either allies or people.

His views of the world really haven’t changed as much. He is just more honest, open and direct about his views by V7’s end where it's pretty clear that he values his military industrial complex that is Atlas over people's lives regardless of their affiliation.(It should be noted that Mantle is still apart of the Kingdom of Atlas as a whole so consider the fact that he is abandoning the part of it he deems is an acceptable loss without even trying to save it)

But the greatest and significant of changes for Ironwood in the plot are the stakes. Prior to being told the truth about Salem’s immortality he honestly thought that he could win and kill her and be free to pursue whatever task he could set his mind to now that she was gone. After being told and with the clear indication that his power(Atlas) was at risk he essentially is doing what raven did; cut his losses and settle with what he has and run. As such the stakes for Ironwood at this point are to preserve the very little power and control that he has currently at his disposal and sacrifice and do whatever he can’t to maintain it even if it means letting the rest of the world die or be under Salem's control.

This is just speculation but Ironwood’s chances for redemption are pretty slim but not impossible. But the key start and major factors to make that redemption possible is for him to yield power and let go of Atlas. As I stated before, Ironwood relies heavily on his control over Atlas as he believes it to be the only means to maintain and sustain a war as well as the only way of enforcing his authority. To reiterate Ironwood true power and relevance to the story is his complete and unchallenged command over the Kingdom of Atlas and at the risk of sounding cliche; “All who obtain power are afraid to lose it even a hero” If there is to be any hope of defeating Salem and or maintaining peace in Remnant it can not happen with Ironwood being in power. Which may be more difficult than it seems which leads us to the possibility that he may not be redeemed and should he live past the Salem conflict with this type of thinking.

A New Enemy

For a character to be redeemed the character needs to want change for better but given his personality and recent events Ironwood at this point doesn’t feel or believe that he should change as he now has an ends justify the means mentality with the belief that he is this grand savior believing his way is the only way. Because of this it is very likely that he may stay an antagonist throughout the remainder of the series and possibly long after the main conflict.

The Third Faction; Okay I think it's a safe bet to say that no matter what Atlas was always going to be an antagonistic force that was being set up as early as V1. And unfortunately for Ironwood he ended up being the face and voice of said force that was there before he was ever given a name or a design.

Because of this setup it is possible that Atlas under Ironwood will become its own faction that may try to counter salem but at the same time will possibly sabotage the allies aka the main heroes and the rest of remnant since Ironwood’s paranoia has increased to the point that he doesn’t trust anyone anymore and most likely will reject any offer of aid or promise of an alliance since Ironwood believes his in own hype that much that he will eventually become a problem that has to be stopped which will possibly lead to the end of Atlas. Which brings us to what might happen to the character post Salem and Atlas.

Post Salem Insurgency; This is speculation but it's possible that after Salem is defeated and Atlas is destroyed he would continue to be a threat for the rest of Remnant as he will be forced to answer for war crimes and step down from power with the possibility that he may never obtain it again.

Given what we know of his personality Ironwood isn’t the type of guy to yield power or think he did anything wrong due to his ends justify the means montra. As such in the years following Salem's defeat and the possibility that Atlas may no longer exist or at the very least no longer subservient to Ironwood’s authority its most likely that he might end up in charge of a paramilitary consisting of the very few soldiers that are still loyal to him and start raiding and terrorizing settlements, cities and kingdoms all over remnant just to rebuild his military complex and infrastructure as a means to reclaim the status and power that he was stripped up.

How and why any of this would happen if it ever does is debatable but should it come to be Ironwood is going to need to compensate in order to survive if he becomes a legitimate threat which brings us to a very likely scenario based on his original inspiration

Full Cyber

Given what happened near the end of V7 and recent V8 concept renders combined with the Tin-man inspiration I do believe that there is a very likely scenario that Ironwood will be more machine than man at some point in the series assuming he doesn’t die yet. This is pretty much a given scenario due to his favoritism for machines than people and his new found ideology that humanity is weakness now it is very likely when given the chance that Ironwood will willingly become full cybernetic(Possibly to the point of just simply being a brain in a new metal body)

While this isn’t exactly an ideal outcome for the character but at the same time this would actually make Ironwood a credible threat as he would now be able to enforce his authority on his own now without relying on others to do it for him. Based on the research from the I am power post Ironwood is relatively a very weak character in comparison to a majority of other characters that we have seen so far and this is especially true when compared to the villains and main heroes. One key aspect to remember is that Remnant didn’t need the military only Ironwood did because on his own he’s screwed no matter what the situation.

Ironwood relies to heavily on his Army as it is the only thing that gives him some ambiance of a fighting chance but ultimately he is very ill suited to lead and manage said army that when you think of it are possibly full of people that are probably more capable than him as well as able to back up and defend their position of power on their own. Whereas Ironwood can not if he were to be overthrown by the military. In other words a fully cyberized Ironwood would actually be beneficial for him as it would make him a formidable threat beyond just simply being the guy who has the world's only military. Depending on what kind of enhancements he can get he would at least be on par with characters like Ruby Qrow and Yang and at the very best on the level of pre maiden Penny. Because as he is right now Ironwood would surely die if he were to face any character that is not within his capabilities. But this is my theory and observations but until we see more Ironwood’s best bet is going full cyber.

Role in the narrative & what we can learn from Ironwood

To start I think it's pretty clear that Ironwood in narrative is just a foil for most of the characters in the show. Especially with greater comparisons and emphasis on these 3 characters; Ozpin Ruby & Salem. While at the same time he is also the character representation that embodies Atlas the most and as such much about what we know and learned about Atlas is mostly due to Ironwood’s actions as he is the culmination and development of Atlasian culture. Unfortunately though this as far as his character was ever going to go. Which makes it all the more tragic and sad when you think about the role that he was supposed to serve.

We will first be breaking down each Foil comparison between Ironwood and the 3 prominent characters to plot as to better under his place in the narrative.

Ozpin

Of all the characters that exist in the RWBY story I do believe that Ironwood tried to emulate and be his own version of Ozpin(or any past incarnation). However unlike Ozpin Ironwood is biased, lacks actual experience and above all takes shortcuts to get faster results at the expense of others. I know that this mostly stems from good intentions but what exactly qualifies Ironwood to even think that he should be the one in charge to handle this Salem conflict. This is one of the greatest problems that is addressed in the show about Ironwood. He really believes that it's his destiny to lead by replacing Ozpin and win.

But I ask again; What exactly can Ironwood do that would qualify him to even be worthy to take up Ozpin’s task?

That's just it really, there is nothing about him to warrant such a thing. When it comes to the foils between the 2 it's about being this Big Good character that should lead and the themes of Grey morality that R.T. has tried to implement into the show. But when it comes down to it Ozpin is the true Big Good while Ironwood was simply a pretender. Ironwood has always been a narrowed focused character that cares about the conflict itself instead of the people that are caught in the crossfire. And unlike Ozpin who has based all of his decisions and plans from experience and human nature, Ironwood had based his for a need to simply be right and in control.

In short Ironwood had wanted to be the next Oz as he believed he was more suited to do what Ozpin couldn’t even though he lacked the skills, experience, and power to do so which brings us to the next foil.

Ruby Rose

This might be stretching a bit but when it comes to the plot there is no greater foil between characters than who is the real hero of the story. In this case is the hero of the series Ironwood or Ruby? To help answer this inquiry we need to know what exactly a hero is. Webster's dictionary defines a hero as a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent, endowed with great strength or ability.

While other sources would say what qualifies A hero can be as simple as a person that saves lives and stuff, but a hero can be anyone that does something they have fear of but are brave enough to still do something. Bravery is usually the biggest trait of any hero. This person has usually overcomes huge obstacles to survive or to rescue others.

A hero is selfless, a genuinely good person, and someone gets the undivided attention of all of us and causes change.

A hero takes action to help others at considerable risk to themselves, however, if that action also helps themselves, then they are not a hero because they are acting out of self-interest. Courage is admirable, but unless it involves risk or sacrifice in order to help others, then it isn't heroism.

So in short the true hero of the series is actually Ruby not Ironwood or any other character in the series. Not because she is one of the main characters or because this is a story from her perspective but because she has the ideal and pragmatic skills and abilities needed to handle the current situation of the plot as well as doing what Ironwood has failed to do himself confront fear and be brave. As I stated in paranoia over reason most if not all of his choices have been based on fear rather than actual logic, reason, or bravery. Which is further highlighted by facts discussed in I am power that Ironwood is really nothing without the military and doesn’t stand a chance on his own.

This is indefinitely a stark contrast to ruby as she has proven since her introduction to be capable of handling the threat of Salem as she has the talents skills abilities power and above all the spark that inspires others that compels them to do great things for the right reasons which Ironwood failed to do as all of his action have had a certain goal that would only benefit a certain few with him being the one who would benefit the most. This is mostly due to how the 2 have responded and chose to handle the situation.

When it comes down to it the main plot is defeating monsters that dominate the world who happen to have a leader controlling them. Remember the whole reason why Salem is even a credible threat is because she can control said monsters and the first premise before she came on screen for the first time was learning how to fight grimm. This is something that Ruby was training and preparing for since she was a kid with the added bonus of having the powers needed to handle the situation with ease while Ironwood has only been preparing for a war with other people rather than monsters and crush rebellions rather than being a guardian peacekeeper that Oz meant for him to be.

Because of this Ironwood has contributed more to the problem more so than Ruby did as his actions were done in favor of Atlas and his own self interests were as Ruby makes honest mistakes out of ignorance and optimism. Which brings me to the next foil that Ironwood shares more qualities with than anyone else

Salem

I know I'm going to get a lot of heat for this but if you think about it Ironwood is basically a syfy dictator version of Salem’s fantasy dark lord. Face value it doesn’t seem likely but given what we know about their current lore, history, personally, and world building these two can be twins to some extent. The examples are as followed;

They’re both headstrong and blunt individuals who go too far in their endeavors when simple and easier solutions were present

They’re both isolated however Salem is isolated by circumstance and force while Ironwood is isolated by choice and paranoia which is ironically the results of their cold upbringing and history

They both lead organizations with questionable intentions that border on dark and immoral with goals that are based on self entitlement rather than rightfully justified or earned

And to top it off they essentially command armies of soulless killing machines

From these examples we have plenty of foils between the two with them being pride, isolation, tragedy, authority and probably the most important foil in regards to the plot War & Conflict. However when it comes down to it Ironwood is on the short end of these foils when compared to Salem.

In terms of tragedy these two have let their past misfortunes dictate and influence their decisions resulting in a sense of entitlement that they have been wronged now the world has to compensate them for things to be right. For Salem she had a cruel upbringing for unknown reasons and life being unfairly cruel while Ironwood was lifely forced into servitude and was never really himself as he wanted to be. Salem’s tragedies are the result of grief and dealing with forces that she couldn’t comprehend. While Ironwood’s is the result of unchecked ambition and ignorance.

Similar to Oz, Salem has more experience being a leader that can exert their authority and will over others while Ironwood lacks the experience and therefore can’t do the same. The Grimm under Salem’s command are more of an oppressed hivemind that she leads with little to no resistance unlike her human subordinates. Thus Salem has more direct control and authority over those she commands and has the abilities necessary to keep them in line with her goals. While the people under Ironwood’s authority have a voice and mind of their own that don’t align with his ideas. Due to this he isn’t much of a respected leader as he thought he was. Because of this Ironwood is mostly kept in power by rules and regulations with everyone blindly following suit.

As for war Ironwood was without a doubt unprepared for it. This is mostly due to 4 reasons;

He had no idea of what he was doing

His opponents are of better a quality than anything he can make or round up

He was preparing for the wrong war that should never have come to pass.

He was to prideful and sure of himself that nothing can go wrong

When it comes to the 1st reason Ironwood was more or less a pseudo soldier in a time where militaries are pretty much obsolete. This is because militaries are used as power projection of a nation and convey the message to another nation to not cross them. Due to the timing there was no real reason or excuse to justify having a military during a point in time where people are more interested in developing a culture and living life rather than fighting in needless conflicts. As such there was no practical reason, competition, or threat to justify Ironwood’s demands for a large military when he came to power or ensure that it was of a better quality than whatever hypothetical enemy that he would face.

Salem on the other hand has had experience commanding armies before and probably has instigated several wars and conflicts prior to the founding of the current 4 kingdoms thus Salem would have at least accumulated centuries to millenniums of war experience that surpass Ironwood’s brief 30 years of service in the Atlas military. Given that Salem was already a crafty and manipulative person during a time when gods were still around, she most likely would have seen the mistakes and flaws that Ironwood has made and exploited them.

Leading into the 2nd reason Ironwood was pretty much in command of a terrible military. As stated in the 1st reason there was no real threat or competition that encouraged those in power besides Ironwood to remilterze. As well as the current military most likely being filled with people who don’t want to fight a war and most likely enlisted for economic reasons. Because of this and his paranoia Ironwood had to find a surrogate army to prepare for his war that in his mind could happen at any time. However this resulted in cheaply made Androids that can be assembled fast for quick deployment. Due to this Ironwood traded quality for quantity as not only was no one going to fight in his war but believed war was on its way soon. Out of misplaced desperation Ironwood hastily assembled a low quality army that never stood a chance.

In comparison to Salem’s main military force there aren’t that many differences. However the Grimm are slightly a better quality than what the Atlas military has to offer. This is mostly due to the fact that the Grimm are a semi sapient species that are capable of learning and adapting as well as possessing some level of self preservation with individual grimm being around longer than most of their kind becoming even more deadlier than them. While the androids that Atlas uses aren’t as they were made to be cheap and disposable and are mostly effective in large numbers.

The 3rd reason for why Salem is doing well during this conflict with Ironwood is mostly due to the General preparing for the wrong type of war than the war that he is actually fighting in. After all is said and done Ironwood has solely been preparing for a war with other people rather than for monsters. This is because the Atlas military before Ironwood took charge wasn’t meant to fight a war. Not all militaries are formed or created to defend the people. Atlas is the type of military that serves only in favor of the best interest of the state of government rather than the people.

Because of this Ironwood had spread misery and divided the people turning them into enemies. Salem would later take advantage of this division that Ironwood created as he was more focused preparing for war than managing the welfare of his citizens. This is speculation but most if not all of the weapons like penny and the Atlesian knights were solely made to fight human opponents as opposed to the grimm that Salem commanded. This is because Ironwood feared and distrusted people more than the monsters he fought.

The 4th and final reason why Ironwood never stood a chance is due to the fact that he believed in his own hype more than he should have. From key dialogues to certain character interactions and in universe lore Ironwood has always presented himself as this towering figure with unlimited power; A god among men so to speak. This shows us that ultimately Ironwood’s ego and pride have been inflated to the point that his overall common sense is non-existent. This is further explored and shown in the control tactics that he uses specifically these ones; Strength and Intimidation in Numbers;

Some aggressors like to dominate a situation by having a number of associates or friends present to support their position. The superior numbers alone may constitute an intimidating presence. They can also back each other up and challenge an individual in turn during a proceeding. In addition, they may also put pressure on a person to make a decision before they're ready. At worst, the strength in numbers tactic may be used for direct or indirect bullying or harassment.

Ironwood's overall strategy is simply sowing fear and doubt into an enemy that he doesn’t understand with large and unnecessary shows of power wasting resources to cover a wide variety of unknown enemies that pose a threat to him regardless if they are with Salem or not. This is best seen with the thousands to millions of cheaply made androids that are only effective in large numbers and the one ship of the line that was too big to be suited for warfare as they function as more of a forward operating base with their great size giving them the intimidation factor without other supporting fleet vessels like frigates or corvettes.(FYI by my count from V6 ep13 there were at least 41 of those ships hovering above Atlas doing nothing)

This is even confirmed by Ironwood in V3 ep3 where he claims this to be the case with this line of dialogue;

“The people of Vale needed someone to protect them, someone who would act. When they look to the sky and see my fleet, they feel safe, and our enemies will feel our strength.”

This sort of tactic would probably have been useful if it was applied in a conventional warfare plot with people being his opponent as this is a real life tactic used in militaries and the navy especially in the modern era. The problem however is that the plot isn’t about conventional warfare nor is it a battle between people but with monsters where these tactics are meaningless to them. These tactics are ineffective when compared to Salem’s psychological hit & run terror tactic being used in a setting like RWBY’s are quite effective and more useful than anything Ironwood can come up with. Even though they rely on opportunity and time to become a practical threat the end result is a huge payoff to the one who applied them with that being Salem.

To sum it up when it comes to the foils of war between these 2 characters all you really need is the right tactic, strategy or plan and everything falls into place regardless of whether you have an army or a handful of misfits all it takes is careful thought and patience something of which Ironwood has shown to be lacking.

In conclusion what we learn from these foils are Leadership, Heroism, and War and how no matter what Ironwood was always on the short end of these traits and was never going to reach his ideal scenario for each of these ideas as he had set high expectations that were well above his capabilities and now he’s paying the price.

The Atlas Meta Narrative’s influence on Ironwood

Based on my research and what I have stated before; the greatest source of Ironwood’s flaws and antagonism is largely due to the influences of his home kingdom; Atlas.

Just like Ironwood Atlas is also a foil setting and culture to the other kingdoms and the rest of Remnant. The reasoning for this is best explored in the established lore and other expanded material. To help better understand, here is a brief summarized history and development of the Kingdom of Atlas;

Before Atlas came to be it first started as Mantle who began as a group of desperate people trying to survive. Taking advantage of the cold climate of Solitas they were safe from the Grimm and had an unknown amount of time to develop both their technology and culture without restraint or interference. Eventually this progress was stalled due to a Grimm incident in Mantle that forced the current leaders of the kingdom to make radical and unnecessary regulations that suppress basic human emotions and rights instead of putting the effort to protect the people.

When the Great war started Mantle joined only to ensure that its like minded imperialist ally Mistral would supply them the resources needed to survive. Because of this and the extreme measures they enforced on their citizens to control them prior to the war Mantle was most likely considered the most evilest faction during the war. When the war came to an end with Mantle suffering an embarrassing defeat it led to an age of cultural segregation and discrimination upon Mantle in the post war era.

Following the war Mantle entered an age of isolation and economic depression due to distrust and suspicion from the other kingdoms as they would only view them as this inherently evil and tyrannical force that can’t be trusted. Because of this the lingering scar of the toxic ideology of pre-war Mantle survived and is echoed in its spiritual successor; Atlas where it continued what Mantle couldn’t survive and thrive under the same core ideology that they had 80 years ago when they were still Mantle with only minor changes made to prevent the other kingdoms to intervene and possibly destroy their so called perfect culture.

After they lost a scar had remained and an echo was created that still lingers to the present. Due to cause and effect Atlas at its core was developed to be this amoral conservative xenophobic dystopia that was being led by corrupt individuals that were in pursuit of their own self-interests rather than serving their citizens and were kept in power by blind followers that couldn’t see their real intentions. As a result Atlas became a culture of exploitation, expansion, repression, and subjugation for the well being of the political entity that is the state at the expense of its people and others.

In relation to Ironwood as I stated before is a byproduct of this system and is simply one of a long line of blind followers that eventually supplanted the leadership and chose to continue the machine that is Atlas and replaced cogs needed to keep it running as he was once forced to do throughout his life because he doesn’t know of anything else.

Because of this upbringing and the history of his origins Ironwood was more or less viewed as indifferent in the eyes of his own people and evil in the eyes of others. Leading to a clash of beliefs within Ironwood that resulted in conflicts with others and the main meta narrative theme that we were meant to learn from him; The essence of Being.

The Essence of Being

Essence is defined as the core nature or most important qualities of a person or thing. Essentially the narrative lesson that we can learn from Ironwood is the age old lesson that has been echoed from R.T. longest running series but with a more individual focus. That's right, Ironwood's journey and arc in the story is an inverse and modification of the classic RVB question; “Do you ever wonder why we're Here.”

But in the case of Ironwood it's more focused on an individual person asking and the age old question of Why am I here and what is my purpose and how do they justify and understand it.

As I stated before Ironwood was simply the wrong character in a different genre from a writing and story perspective. But in universe from the perspective of Ironwood it's simply a matter of him asking; “Why am I alive and here, and why am I this instead of that in a world like this?” At some point everyone questions the reality and circumstances of their situation and it's probably common questioning on a world, setting, and reality like Remnant. For Ironwood it’s possible that he’s asked these questions more than anyone. As for the reasons why he would question his existence go as follow;

Why was I born in Atlas?

How do I prove I'm good when others think I’m evil by proxy?

Why I’m I so weak when compared to more skilled & powerful people?

Why was I made to be reliant on others that can’t rely on themselves?

I’m I respected only for the rank or the man?

Does anyone really care about me or I’m I being used by sycophants?

Will anyone care when I’m gone?

Why won’t anyone give me a chance?

How do I justify and understand the reasons why I'm here?

Does any of this matter in the end?

The core of Ironwood’s journey, actions, motives, and story wasn’t about saving the world, the balance of grey morality of people, or even the preservation of a certain culture, but instead is about cementing a legacy to escape the harsh reality that everything we do will eventually be undone. It's such a freighting thing to fall but is even more freighting is to admit it

In a way Ironwood's story is somewhat relevant to this line from Monty Oum in regards to immortality; “The goal isn't to live on forever; it's to make something that does.” CRWBY has even stated that Ironwood is a forward thinking individual/ A dreamer if you would. Because of this Ironwood was more focused on where he was heading rather than focus on where he was and what he was doing Causing a lot of problems to happen and escalating events to the point that we see them in the shows present. This oversight and negligence is because he continued to believe that, like everything else in his life, it would be righted by the sheer force of his will.

But sadly he is just only one man put on the world for a brief moment of time that is rather minuscule and insignificant on a cosmic and meta level. Everything changes and legacies are either forgotten or are repeated. In the end time and death are the ultimate victors as they undo everything and the cycle repeats itself for better or worse and individuals like Ironwood are just caught in the middle repeating and doing the same thing that has probably already happened and will probably happen again. All it takes is just a matter of time.

My Thoughts and conclusion

For the most part I was pretty much cautious when it came to the character and felt that he was more or less a side character trying to be a main one. The problem with that however in my thoughts is that well he doesn’t really have much to go on to warrant such a status. As well as how the plot has been structured Ironwood was never going to get what he wants. He may have had good intentions but at the end of the day he is only human with his own wants and needs.

Overall I do feel that his part in the story is over. Mostly because he tried to take the lead of it. Meta understanding aside Ironwood’s time is coming to an end and I hate to say it but it probably would be for the best. Not just everyone else in the show but for himself as well. As I stated Ironwood’s life is Sad because well it never was really his to begin with. It's illogical because he was ill equipped to be a part of the setting that he was in. His death is more than guaranteed because he has nothing left to contribute to the story that can’t be done by anyone else. At this point with the overall message of death in the show it would be mercy and relief for Ironwood as Death is not the worst thing that can happen to you.

I still hold hope though as I’ve come to understand and see why people are fascinated by his character. But for that hope to be possible Ironwood has to let go of Atlas as it has been the main source of conflict between him and everyone else.

Well that's it I’m done for now as this is an analysis of Pre V8 Ironwood and maybe after V8 I may add more research of V8 Ironwood and see how much i got right in the initial analysis. After doing this I hope to do an analysis on Qrow Branwen and other RWBY characters hopefully in a much shorter amount of time as opposed to the months it took me to do Ironwood.(then again this was my first character analysis) Until then be on the lookout for additional bonus content for Ironwood such as;

Character comparisons from fiction

Character comparisons IRL

How you can fight & Kill Ironwood

A more indepth look of his new cybernetics

What Ironwood should have done

His relationship with other characters

The possibility of an Ironwood spin-off

That's all for now. Let me know what you think and thank you all who helped made this analysis possible.

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