#somehow i feel like knowing that orpheus existed

[panaceatthedisco]

Still thinking about how Edwin would feel if he knew that Orpheus and Eurydice weren't just a story.

Like, Orpheus was a real man who went to the Underworld to save the love of his life; he walked down the same stairs as Charles.

Edwin was standing were Eurydice was when he pulled Charles to face him

[kefiteria]

Denial: As If It Were a Choice

Azul Ashengrotto x Reader

tags: fluff, inspired by azul 2024 bday card voiceline

summary: Azul was in complete denial. Your genuine interest and honesty about pursuing him romantically left him utterly confused. A date at the local fair? This had to be some kind of love scam—or worse, an elaborate mlm scheme. Right?

“How wonderful love is. It creates so many problems for folks that they have to come to someone like ME for help.”

Hypocrisy at its finest. Even Daedalus, the master craftsman, would laugh himself into the sun at the tangled mess Azul had just stepped into. Even Orpheus, after failing to retrieve Eurydice, would pat Azul on the back and say, “That’s rough, buddy.”

Because he, Azul Ashengrotto, was supposed to be the schemer. The one who spotted every loophole, exploited every weakness, and ensured that no deal was ever made against his favor.

And yet—

“You’re working hard as always, Azul!”

Azul flinched. He had been so engrossed in reviewing contracts that he hadn’t even noticed you enter.

“How did you—? Who let you—? How did you get in here?!” he snapped, immediately sitting up straight.

“Oh! Jade said I could just enter.” you replied, smiling like you hadn't just shattered every security protocol Azul had in place.

Feeling the betrayal seep into his bones, he knew those damn eels had sold him out. But before he could even begin plotting revenge, you spoke again—

Completely derailed his entire existence.

“I'm pursuing you!”

Azul instantly short-circuited. His brain did the mental equivalent of a blue screen.

“You’re WHAT?!”

“Romantically!” You clasped your hands together, beaming like this was normal human behavior. “That’s why I’m inviting you to the fair this weekend. Oh! They have fried chicken, by the way! I know you like it.”

Azul’s eye twitched violently. What— what was this?

A love scam? An elaborate multi-level marketing scheme? Some previously undiscovered pyramid scheme where he was the target instead of the orchestrator?!

No—NO. That wasn’t possible. He would have noticed the signs. The recruitment tactics. The suspiciously friendly invitations.

… Wait.

Was this one of those forbidden love spells he had always been so careful to avoid?!

Or worse.

Had someone abused a loophole in a contract he hadn’t accounted for?

His hands flew to his coat, patting his pockets as if a cursed contract would fall out. Did someone sell his own heart to this absolute menace in front of him?!

Is this how it feels to be scammed! IS THIS HOW HIS CLIENTS FELT?! Azul folded his arms, narrowing his eyes at you like you had just offered him a fraudulent stock investment.

“What’s your angle?” he demanded.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“This—” He waved a hand wildly between the two of you. “—This business transaction—!”

“Confession.”

“—This confession transaction—”

“Just confession.”

“—This blatant attempt at fraud—!”

You tilted your head. “It’s not fraud? I just like you. That’s it!”

He now felt something deep within his soul fracture.

“You’re too honest.” he muttered, rubbing his temple as if trying to ward off the migraine of the century.

“Yep!” You nodded enthusiastically. “Gotta make a good foundation, y’know?”

Azul’s soul nearly exited his body. A good foundation.

A GOOD FOUNDATION.

WHAT WAS THIS, A BUSINESS MERGER?!

WHAT SORT OF ADVANCED EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION TECHNIQUE WAS THIS?!?!

“This isn't how romance works.” Azul hissed, as if saying it aloud would somehow reverse time. “Where’s the fine print? The hidden agenda? The careful deception?!”

You blinked. “Oh! I mean, consent is cool! And so are choices! You can totally reject the date if you don’t want to. No pressure! Just lemme know once you’re done thinking, okay?”

“Done thinking—” He exhaled sharply, gripping his desk as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. “You—you expect me to think about this?!”

“Well, yeah! Big decisions need proper thinking time!”

BIG DECISIONS.

Azul can feel a second overblot forming, all from this nonsense.

You gave him a cheerful little wave. “Alright, see you tomorrow, Azul! Take your time!”

He sat there, paralyzed, as you exited like you hadn’t just tossed his entire worldview into some deepest trench. This had to be some kind of conspiracy. It had to be.

There was no way someone would just walk into his office, declare their romantic pursuit, and leave. So he just stared at the contract on his desk. The ink had smudged from how hard he had been gripping his pen.

His hand was shaking because the horrifying, gut-wrenching truth was—

You were being completely serious.

Azul had absolutely not come to this fair for a date.

Absolutely. Not.

This was market research. Yes, that’s all it was. He was simply here to observe seasonal trends, analyze consumer behavior, and assess potential menu additions for the Mostro Lounge.

The fact that you had invited him was purely incidental. The fact that he had dressed well was merely a reflection of his natural sophistication. The fact that he had spent far too long thinking about what to say to you was… irrelevant.

This was a professional outing. Nothing more.

At least, that was what he kept repeating to himself, right until the moment he saw you waving at him, beaming with an enthusiasm so bright it made him squint.

“Azul! You really came!”

Your excitement was unreasonably infectious, and before he could even formulate a proper response, you were already standing in front of him, looking genuinely happy to see him. He cleared his throat, adjusting his gloves as if the motion alone could help him regain his composure.

“I had business to attend to.” he said smoothly.

You raised your eyebrow, questioning his reply. “At a fair?”

“Yes.” he replied without hesitation. “As an entrepreneur, it's only natural to study popular market trends and analyze consumer interests.”

“Right, right, of course.” you nodded, completely unfazed. “Well, thank you for accepting my invitation!”

Azul froze like those fishes in the mostro lounge freezer in the kitchen. No. No, no, no—

He had, in fact, accepted your invitation. Which, by definition, meant— THIS WAS A DATE.

A headache bloomed in his temples as realization hit him like a tidal wave. He had been so focused on maintaining a logical excuse for being here that he had overlooked the most crucial detail: he had willingly agreed to spend time with you outside any contractual obligation.

This wasn’t a negotiation. This wasn’t a business meeting. There was no deal to be made.

So why was he here?

His thoughts were spiraling so quickly that he barely noticed you taking his hand and tugging him forward. “Come on! No pressure, let's just walk around and enjoy the fair, okay?”

No pressure? No pressure?! Azul wanted to scream. What kind of business tactic was this? You were just walking in, completely unarmed, with no ulterior motives? What kind of hidden agenda was this?

He had spent years mastering the art of deception, yet here you were, casually obliterating his defenses with nothing but pure, unfiltered sincerity. It was unnatural. Suspicious, even.

The fair was lively, bustling with chatter and laughter, but Azul was beginning to wonder if he had made a critical mistake in coming along. Everything had been manageable so far—mildly inconvenient, sure, but manageable—until you suddenly stopped in your tracks, eyes lighting up like you had just found buried treasure.

“Oh! A mushroom stall!”

Azul’s stomach dropped.

You practically skipped over, marveling at the selection of freshly foraged mushrooms, mushroom skewers, mushroom pies, and— Azul's blood ran cold—wild mushroom soup.

Why? Why did it have to be mushrooms?

Of all things, why did it have to be Jade’s most beloved fungi, the very ingredient Azul and Floyd had fought so hard to exile from the Monstro Lounge?

Before he could even think of an escape route, you turned to him, eyes shining.

“Want to try?”

Azul had never regretted a decision faster in his entire life.

Mushrooms. He hated mushrooms.

Not just in a casual, mild dislike way—no. This was a deep-rooted, visceral loathing forged from years of being subjected to Jade’s endless, borderline cultish enthusiasm for fungi.

Jade had force-fed him so many varieties, ranted about textures, aroma, umami, and gods-knew-what-else that Azul had developed a knee-jerk reaction to the mere sight of mushrooms. It was to the point that he had banned them from the Monstro Lounge entirely.

So when you enthusiastically ordered a bowl of mushroom soup, took a careful sip, but— your damn smile. Blasphemy!

Not just any smile. That smile. The one that made Azul’s mind go blank for a second too long, the one that messed with his judgment in ways he refused to acknowledge.

He should’ve just said no. He should’ve walked away.

Instead—

“Right…" Azul found himself saying. WHY? WHY WAS HE LIKE THIS.

You beamed at him like he had just agreed to some sacred pact of mushroom enlightenment. “See! It’s amazing, right? Fresh mushrooms have a way better depth of flavor!"

No. He did not see. There was no flavor except suffering.

Though somehow, Azul was now holding a spoon.

He stared at the soup like it contained his entire downfall. The rich, earthy scent mocked him, reminding him of every terrible mushroom-related experience Jade had ever inflicted upon him.

With the grace of a man walking to his execution, Azul lifted the spoon to his lips and took a sip.

… It was tolerable. Barely.

But before he could think better of it, before he could stop himself from digging his own grave even deeper—

“It’s good.” he said. Lies. Deception. Betrayal—his own betrayal.

And then, Jade’s voice echoed in his head.

“Oh? It seems you’re finally appreciating mushrooms, Azul. How delightful.”

A chill ran down his spine. He nearly dropped the spoon. He had to get out of here and need a palate cleanser after this.

As the two of you continued strolling, who had been quietly observing—suddenly tilted your head. “Are you tired from all that walking? I think merfolk might feel slightly weird after walking too much on two legs.”

This was an ambush!

He immediately straightened his posture, adjusting his glasses with practiced ease. “A businessman must always be prepared to handle different environments. This is hardly enough to affect me.”

Before you could press further, he quickly redirected the conversation by gesturing toward a woodcarver’s stall. “Look at that craftsmanship. A fine display of artisanal skill.”

Your attention shifted as you spotted a pair of octopus-shaped keychains carved from driftwood, complete with tiny pearls embedded in their tentacles. Your eyes sparkled with excitement as you grabbed them. “Azul! Matching keychains!”

Azul internally winced. How many times had he convinced love struck customers to buy exactly this kind of sentimental nonsense at Mostro Lounge? This was an absurdly cliché romantic gesture.

Nevertheless, his fingers moved on their own, smoothly retrieving his wallet and paying for them before he even processed what he was doing. “Wait. What?”

Why did he do that so naturally? Where was his resistance? This was a scam. A love scam. Brand new tactics!

Meanwhile, you simply smiled brightly at him. “Now we match! Thanks, Azul!”

Azul sighed, rubbing his temple. Too late to back out now.

To make matters worse, you suddenly turned toward a food stall and, without hesitation, bought a portion of fried chicken—with your own money. You returned with an eager grin, handing him a bag. “Here! Since I mentioned this when I invited you, it’d be unfair if I didn’t fulfil it!”

His pride was hurting. Both as a businessman and as a man in general. He was the one who should be paying. He was always the one in control of deals. Yet, here you were, giving him something so happily, without any ulterior motive.

“… Thank you.” he said, taking a bite. “Damn it, it was delicious.” he thought to himself.

The next stop was an exotic animal stall, where vibrant birds, fluffy rodents, and even small reptiles were displayed. Azul found himself absentmindedly discussing the market value of rare creatures.

“These birds—while striking—are often smuggled illegally, making them highly valuable in underground auctions.” he remarked, adjusting his glasses. “Of course, with the right contacts, their worth could—”

He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed your expression. You were simply chuckling, utterly amused.

“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“You sound like a merchant debating rare treasure, but you mean well.” you replied with a knowing smile. “It’s kind of charming.”

Azul felt his face heat up. This was dangerous. This definitely a scam. A perfectly crafted, terrifyingly effective love scam. And the worst part? He had willingly walked into it.

As time passes, the sky had begun its slow descent into dusk, painting the fairgrounds in warm hues of gold and violet. Lanterns flickered to life, their soft glow reflecting in Azul’s glasses as he found himself still by your side, a realization that should have alarmed him more than it did.

You turned to him, expression bright despite the long day. “Did you have fun today?”

Fun? That wasn’t something he usually factored into his outings. Business, market research, calculated investments—those were justifications. But fun? He was supposed to be scrutinizing every stall, noting trends, mentally categorizing what could benefit Mostro Lounge.

Hypocrisy shines through, here he was, hands full of a wooden keychain, the lingering taste of fried chicken on his tongue, and an entire afternoon that had somehow slipped away.

Before he could even conjure up a proper response, you smiled, cutting through his internal debate with infuriating ease. “Thank you for spending time with me! I appreciate it a lot. Can I invite you again?”

Azul’s breath hitched? No, perhaps hyperventilating at this point. His instinct screamed at him to analyze, to look for the loophole, the hidden terms of this ‘invitation.’

But his mind betrayed him, replaying the way you had laughed at his muttered grumbling over mushrooms, the way you had beamed when handing him the fried chicken, the way you had listened—actually listened—to his ramblings about exotic animals instead of brushing them off.

He should have walked away. He should have redirected, refused, twisted the situation in his favor.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, adjusting his glasses as he spoke.

“... No.”

The way your face faltered for a second almost made him smirk. Almost.

“Come to Mostro Lounge next Tuesday.” he continued, clearing his throat. “11 PM, after closing.” His fingers ghosted over the keychain you had chosen for him. A ridiculous, hand-carved octopus that he had somehow ended up paying for. “It’s… late for dinner, but I want it to be just us.”

It wasn’t an agreement. It wasn’t an answer for the confession. Just yet.

But the way your eyes lit up made him feel like he had already lost.

[fnzktn]

this love

eurydice!hanni x orpheus!reader

synopsis: to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them.

includes: ANGST WITH HAPPY ENDING, major character deaths, greek mythology inspired, canon divergence

word count: 10.8k

the first time she reaches for your hand, it is midmorning in a clearing soaked with sunlight. the kind of light that doesn’t burn — only glows, as if the world has been dipped in honey. it clings to the grasses, to the bark of the old trees, to the dark hem of her dress where it spills over the wildflowers. the wind carries nothing but warmth. even the birdsong sounds drowsy.

your lyre rests across your lap, untouched. the last note you played still hums somewhere in the air, tucked beneath the breeze, not quite ready to leave.

and then she finds your hand.

not with ceremony. not even with intent. just—quietly. slowly. as if she’s always been doing it. her fingers slip between yours, cool and sure, and you don’t move.

you forget the lyre entirely.

beside you, hanni exhales, long and soft. her body shifts against the grass, one leg curled under her, the other stretched into the sun. she leans back until her head brushes your thigh, just enough to let you feel the weight of her. it is the smallest pressure — but somehow it steadies you more than melody ever has.

her eyes are closed. not in sleep, but in peace.

you don’t speak. not yet. there’s no need.

everything in this moment is still. not frozen — not lifeless — just full. like the earth has taken a long, gentle breath and forgotten to let it go. and in this held breath, you exist together.

you can smell the wild mint crushed under her sleeve. can hear the lazy hum of bees somewhere deeper in the meadow. can count each slow rise and fall of her chest as the minutes pass unbothered. you do not remember the last time you felt the world this quiet.

she turns her face slightly, cheek pressing into your leg. her lips part, like she might say something — then stop.

another long breath.

then, finally: “you’re not playing.”

you don’t answer right away. your thumb brushes her knuckles, tracing the soft dip between each joint. the lyre waits — patient, expectant — but your hands are hers now.

“no one’s listening,” you murmur.

at that, her mouth quirks. one eye opens, just barely, lashes catching the light like dust.

“i am.”

you look down. and there she is — not lit by the sun, but holding it. her gaze soft, her skin warm, her hair tangled with petals and leaves. she is all the things the gods try to create when they sculpt grace into form — but never quite manage. she’s too real for them. too small in her beauty. too mortal. and that’s why she matters.

you smile, though something in your chest aches with it. “i know.”

she closes her eyes again. “then play.”

you do.

not for the gods. not for the muses. not for anything that will echo through marble halls or bloodline ballads.

you play for this day. for the weight of her hand in yours. for the way the light turns her into something timeless. for the stillness before the first leaf falls. for a world that is, for now, untouched by endings.

you do not know — not yet — that this is the last golden summer.

only that she is here.

and that she is listening.

morning comes gently in the woods. it does not push or stir. it only seeps, slow and pale, into the folds of your blanket and the curve of her neck where her hair has fallen loose. the birds begin first — not in song, but in soft calls, as if checking to see if the sky has remembered its place. the light, when it arrives, touches everything carefully. like it’s afraid to wake you.

you are already half-awake. not quite risen, but not dreaming either. somewhere in between — in the hush that comes only when she is still beside you, one hand resting across your chest, her thumb twitching faintly with whatever thought she carries in sleep. you don’t dare move yet. you don’t even blink. this, you’ve learned, is the best part of the day.

you turn your head slightly and watch her breathe.

the hem of her dress is tangled around her thighs, dirt-smudged from yesterday’s wandering. there’s a leaf caught in her hair. a line of sun stretches across her collarbone. her lips are parted just enough to show the soft pink inside — not a smile, not yet — but close.

you close your eyes again and breathe her in. wild thyme, pine sap, skin warmed by sleep. this is what home smells like now. not temples, not altars. just her.

“you’re awake,” she whispers, so quietly you might have missed it.

you open your eyes again. she’s looking at you — only barely. her lashes still low, her voice still wrapped in the edge of a dream.

“so are you.”

she shifts, stretching one arm above her head. her hand brushes the leaves overhead and sends a few tumbling down, catching in her hair. she wrinkles her nose at the tickle, but doesn’t move to fix it.

“do you ever think the sky forgets us out here?” she asks, voice hoarse with morning.

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“we’ve been out here so long,” she murmurs, curling into you again. “no cities. no people. just you. just trees. i think maybe the gods lost track.”

you smile. “good.”

she hums, satisfied. and for a while, that’s enough.

the stream near the hill runs clear and soft, fed by some spring neither of you have ever tried to find. it’s enough to know it’s always there, singing softly to itself, pooling between the stones like it has all the time in the world.

she kneels at the edge, sleeves rolled to her elbows, splashing water across her cheeks. droplets cling to her lashes. you sit a little ways off, tuning your lyre. she doesn’t look at you, but you feel her smile when you hum a note that rings too sharp.

“that one’s not in the song,” she calls out.

“that’s because i’m making a new one.”

“a bad one?”

you laugh. “a perfect one. for someone who keeps interrupting me.”

she flicks water at you over her shoulder. it catches the light like silver. you pretend to be wounded. she pretends to believe you. the stream laughs for you both.

later, you braid her hair. she sits between your knees on the grass, shoulders bare, back warm against your legs. her head tilts slightly to the side as your fingers work, tugging strands into place, weaving in a sprig of rosemary she picked from the ridge.

“when you play for the gods,” she says, “do they ever listen like i do?”

you pause, fingers still halfway through the braid. “they listen because they want something. you listen because you don’t.”

she glances up. you’re not sure if she’s smiling — but her eyes are soft, and they hold you like they did the very first time. she turns back forward. you keep braiding.

you walk back through the tall grass slowly. the path winds, but neither of you follow it properly. she veers off toward a fig tree and climbs it barefoot, laughing when the bark scrapes her knee. you follow, reluctantly — not because you don’t want to, but because you’d rather stay and watch her in the sunlight a little longer.

“catch,” she calls. the fig lands in your hands, heavy and purple and sweet. she doesn’t toss the second one. she climbs down, steps up close, and presses it to your lips herself.

“is it ripe?” she asks, already knowing.

you nod, chewing slowly. “almost too ripe.”

she grins, purple juice on her fingers. “i like things just before they fall apart.”

the sun is low when you finally lie down again, shoulder to shoulder in the grass, the sky above you streaked with orange and lavender. a breeze runs across the field and sets the stems whispering. her hand finds your chest again. her thumb moves in small, steady circles just over your heartbeat.

“i hope we never leave here,” she says.

you don’t hesitate. “we won’t.”

and you mean it. because right now, there is nothing beyond this. no thrones. no flames. no serpents in the grass. only the hush of the field and the shape of her against you, like the world has been carved around her.

she hums again, the same soft tune from earlier — the one that has no words. the one you’ll remember later, long after you stop playing.

you close your eyes.

and she stays.

the sea finds you by accident.

you weren’t headed anywhere. there was no map, no path. just her hand in yours and the way the sunlight moved through the trees as if inviting you forward. the forest thinned. the hills sloped downward. and then the sound came — not thunder, not storm — just the long hush of the tide breathing in.

you crested a small rise, and there it was.

flat and shining. endless and soft. not the kind of sea meant for ships, but the kind meant for secrets. for footprints in wet sand that no one will follow. for girls with salt in their hair and boys with songs in their hands.

she was the first to run.

not fast — just far enough that her laughter could reach you before her shadow did. her shoes forgotten somewhere behind her, her dress catching the breeze like it wanted to take flight. she left you with your lyre and your breath caught in your throat.

“come on,” she called, grinning back at you. “the world’s waiting.”

“for what?”

“for you to stop being old.”

you raised your eyebrows. “i’m not old.”

“you sound like someone’s grandfather.” she was already at the water’s edge, letting the surf pull at her ankles. “hurry up before i die waiting.”

you set your lyre down on a flat stone, tucked safely under your outer cloak. and then you followed her.

the sand gave easily under your steps — cool beneath the surface, warm at the top. she was dancing now, stepping just ahead of the waves as they rolled in and out, chasing the foam like a child who didn’t know the gods were watching.

she spun once, arms out. her hair whipped across her cheek. you caught the sound of her laughter before you caught up to her.

“you look ridiculous,” she said when you stopped beside her, panting lightly. “what kind of poet trips on her own feet?”

“the kind who carries your shoes.”

she looked down. you were still holding them. two thin leather sandals, dangling from your fingertips like an offering.

“did i ask you to?”

“no.”

“then it was your choice.”

you stared at her.

she smirked, took one shoe, and tossed it into the sea.

“hanni.”

“what?” she shrugged. “now you don’t have to carry both.”

you opened your mouth to argue — then stopped. she was already walking away again, barefoot in the tide, waves touching her ankles like they knew her name.

you followed, of course. always. the sun hung low in the sky, the world turning golden again, shadows long across the shore. you talked about nothing — and that was the best part. the gods, the stars, the things that mattered to other people didn’t belong out here. just the way the sea kept sighing. just the way her hand kept brushing yours.

eventually, you found a patch of driftwood and dry grass to sit in. she tucked her knees to her chest. you sat cross-legged beside her, the wind pulling gently at your cloak. your lyre waited quietly behind you, but she didn’t ask for music. not this time.

“do you remember,” she said after a while, “when we first met?”

you did. of course you did. but you asked, “which part?”

she was quiet a moment, thoughtful.

“not the formal part. not when you bowed and tried to look clever.” her eyes slid toward you. “the moment before that. when you saw me, and didn’t think i was looking.”

you swallowed. “you were weaving flowers into your braid.”

“yes.”

“i thought you looked like you belonged to spring.”

“i remember.”

her voice was soft now, almost lost beneath the wind.

“you looked at me like you’d seen the end of a song and hadn’t figured out how it ended.”

you smiled. “and you looked at me like you already knew.”

she reached out, then. not for your hand — but for your face. her fingers traced the line of your jaw, slow and sure. her thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. it wasn’t a kiss yet, but it was close. the kind of closeness that lives in quiet space. the kind that doesn’t need to ask.

“you’re always looking at me like that,” she said.

“like what?”

“like you’re afraid if you stop, i’ll disappear.”

you didn’t answer.

she leaned in.

her lips touched yours like something sacred — not urgent, not asking. just there. warm and dry and familiar. you kissed her back with your eyes closed, the sea murmuring behind you, the wind curling through her hair. and when you parted, she didn’t pull away. she stayed. forehead to forehead. breath to breath.

“you don’t have to look so hard,” she whispered. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you nodded.

but still — you looked.

the sun was falling. you lay side by side in the dune grass, her head tucked against your shoulder, one hand resting on your chest. the breeze had cooled. the gulls had grown quiet. only the tide kept moving, endlessly reaching and retreating, as if the world couldn’t quite decide whether to keep breathing.

you turned your head to look at her.

she was asleep.

you closed your eyes, too.

and somewhere beyond the horizon, the gods did not speak.

the morning stretches long above the tree line, light slipping through the leaves like water poured from a high place. there’s something different in the air today, but it’s so slight you almost miss it. a chill in the breeze that doesn't belong. a rhythm in the birdsong that falters once, then resumes. not enough to trouble you. not enough to break the shape of a golden day. only enough to make you pause, just briefly, before following hanni down the narrow deer trail past the creek.

she’s a few steps ahead, her back to you, humming as she goes. her dress gathers the burrs from the tall grass, her fingertips trail along the reeds, and when she walks through the light that filters between the pines, you think—maybe for the first time—that there’s no point writing songs anymore. not when the sun already falls across her shoulders like a chorus.

she glances over her shoulder, eyes squinting at the brightness, the corner of her mouth tugging into a smile. “you’re slow today.”

you don’t answer right away. your hand tightens slightly around the strap of your lyre. you think to say something like i’m watching you, or you’re the one who keeps stopping to touch every flower, but none of it feels necessary. you return her smile, and that’s enough.

she steps over a low patch of ferns, gestures with her chin. “i think we’re near the poppy field.”

“you’ve been saying that since the orchard.”

“and i’ll keep saying it until we get there,” she says, her voice light, easy. “that way it’ll be true.”

you shake your head, but there’s fondness in it, and she can hear it. she disappears around a bend where the path dips, and your gaze follows the place her feet last touched the earth.

by the time you reach her again, she’s crouched low at the edge of a small clearing, resting on the balls of her feet, her dress pooling around her like water. she doesn’t look at you. she’s staring across the field, and when she speaks, her voice has changed.

“look.”

you stop beside her and follow her gaze.

a young deer stands just beyond the treeline, its flank dappled with early summer light, ears twitching. it blinks, legs taut, alert, one hoof hovering above the ground as if it hasn’t decided yet whether to trust the stillness around it.

neither of you move.

you hear her breath catch very quietly beside you, almost a laugh, and when the deer suddenly bounds away into the trees, she leans forward like she wants to chase it.

your hand catches her arm without thinking. “don’t.”

she looks back, and there’s a brief flash of mischief in her eyes. “you think i’d actually outrun it?”

“no. i think you’d try.”

she tilts her head, studying you. you don’t let go of her arm until her weight settles again.

a pause. then she speaks, softer this time. “we should keep going. the field’s not far.”

you nod, though something in your chest is tight and you don’t know why. she takes your hand and rises, brushing off the back of her skirt as she moves ahead again.

you glance once more in the direction the deer fled. the woods are still. a single crow lets out a call above the canopy and disappears into the wind.

you keep walking.

she hums again — a tuneless little thing, made of nothing. your lyre sways softly on your back with each step. the trail narrows as the grass thickens. she lifts the hem of her dress to step between roots, her bare feet silent over the moss.

you stop again a little while later in a second clearing, the light pouring down thick and golden from above. hanni lowers herself to the ground without asking, stretching out on her stomach to braid wildflowers into a ring. you sit beside her, cross-legged, brushing off the leaves that cling to your cloak. your lyre rests across your knees, untouched. you pluck one note. then another. the melody doesn’t take shape — you don’t force it. it’s just something to fill the space between her voice and the wind.

after a while she asks, “can i braid your hair?”

you raise your head. “why?”

“because it’s long,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows. “and you always look like a mess.”

you roll your eyes, but you set the lyre down. she moves behind you and gathers your hair with both hands, pulling it into a loose tie at the base of your neck, then dividing it too unevenly. her fingers are rougher than they mean to be. one of them catches a small knot and pulls a little too hard.

“ow.”

“sorry,” she says, but she’s laughing.

you sit still and let her keep going. a few petals fall from her lap and catch in the weave of your cloak. the wind picks up slightly, and you hear it move through the clearing — not loud, but with intent. like something arriving. or passing by.

she slows behind you.

“what was that?” you ask.

“what?”

you turn your head slightly, and she looks up.

her hands fall from your hair. she stands.

you follow her gaze — but there’s nothing. only the tall grass swaying gently. only the trees. only the shadow of a wing passing once above the treetops.

“probably a fox,” she says after a moment.

you want to believe her.

you rise, brushing your palms together. “come on,” she says, voice brighter again. “we’ll see the poppies before sunset if we hurry.”

she starts forward through the grass.

you reach down and sling your lyre back over your shoulder. you step forward.

you see it too late.

a shape coiled at the edge of the path, half-shadowed beneath a clump of yellow blooms — too still, too low, sun-warmed and resting. its body a whisper against the earth. your lips part to call out, to warn, but it’s already—

she cries out.

just once. her hand jerks out for yours and finds it, then falls away.

you’re at her side before you realize it.

she’s stumbling. her balance gone. her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open — not in pain, but confusion. her breath comes too quick. her dress gathers around her knees as she folds downward into the grass.

you kneel, catch her by the waist, steady her. “hanni,” you say. her name tastes wrong in your mouth. “hanni, what—”

you see the mark.

small. near the ankle. two dots, no blood. the skin around it already greying, blooming out like ink in water.

your pulse spikes.

“it bit me,” she whispers. “i didn’t see—”

you press your hand over the wound, hard. her body jolts slightly, not from pain — from surprise. she looks down at you, her face already paler than it was moments ago. “you’re shaking,” she says.

you don’t answer. your hand tightens. the world narrows. you think: she’s dying.

your breath quickens. your vision edges. your hands are not fast enough. the poison is already working, creeping up the softness of her leg, stealing warmth with every beat.

she tries to reach for you again, but her fingers falter halfway.

her voice is barely there. “it’s okay—”

you don’t let her finish.

you press your forehead to hers. her skin is cool. cooler than it should be.

you whisper her name again. and again. as if the sound might hold her in place.

she blinks slowly. the whites of her eyes are wet. she breathes in—but not deeply enough.

and then—

she exhales.

and she does not inhale again.

her eyes close.

her mouth goes slack.

your arms stay around her for a long time.

long enough for the wind to still.

long enough for the light to soften into the first blue of twilight.

long enough that the birds no longer call.

you do not scream. you do not pray. you do not sing.

you stay.

you hold her.

until the forest forgets it ever had her.

the earth does not mourn with you.

it does not darken. it does not scream. it does not send down rain. the trees stay upright. the flowers stay open. the breeze moves through the grass as it always has, like it does not care who has died here.

your hands stay locked around her. one curled under her back, the other holding the wrist that no longer pulses. you haven’t moved. not since the moment she fell still.

you are still waiting for her to breathe again.

her weight has changed in your arms—not heavier, not lighter. just different. like something essential has been poured out of her, and what remains is only shape. she is still warm. but you know that warmth is no longer hers.

you lean your forehead against hers. your mouth finds the place beneath her ear where you once pressed kisses when she couldn’t sleep. your fingers slip through her hair and come away tangled in small leaves. she would have laughed at that. she would have called you a forest.

your voice breaks, not into words, but into breath. just her name, shaped in your chest but never released. it sits behind your teeth. it dissolves before it can rise.

a bee hums lazily nearby. you glance toward it. it circles once, lands on her foot, rests there for a moment like she’s still part of the living world—and then it flies away.

you watch it go.

and then you look back at her.

the braid she tied for you earlier has fallen loose. the wildflowers she tucked into your cloak are crushed beneath you both now. her hands lie open, palms to the sky, as if waiting to receive something.

but nothing comes.

nothing comes.

the light grows longer. it stretches in soft gold across her face, catching on her lashes, warming the curve of her cheek. for a moment, she looks like she’s only sleeping.

but she is too quiet. too still. the kind of stillness the world does not fix.

you lower her slowly into the grass.

your knees sink into the earth as you do, and your hands linger in her sleeves, in the folds of her dress, in the strands of hair that cling to your fingers as you try, uselessly, to smooth them away. the dirt presses into your palms. your shadow covers her. and still, she does not stir.

your lips part. and you almost say it.

please.

you almost say it like prayer.

but no one would hear you.

not here.

not anymore.

the sun has begun to dip, pulling the blue down with it, the sky softening into shades of pearl and rose. the clearing glows one last time before the light breaks apart for good. the snake is long gone. the trees do not remember. but you do.

you cannot leave her here on top of the grass.

not where the night air will come to take what little warmth remains. not where the wind will shift her braid loose, or the dew will gather in her lashes. not where animals might wander by and think she belongs to the forest now.

she doesn’t.

she belongs to you.

your hands move without thought, only need. the ground is soft beneath the poppies nearby—rich earth, thick with roots. you find a hollow between two stones and begin to dig. your fingers claw through clay, pulling it back in slow handfuls, not caring how your nails split, how your wrists ache, how the soil stains your sleeves.

you do not measure depth. you only stop when your arms grow weak and the hollow seems to cradle more than it threatens.

you return to her.

you lift her the way you might have lifted her on a lazy afternoon—one arm beneath her knees, the other around her shoulders. she fits against you like she always did. only this time she doesn’t tuck her face into your neck. she doesn’t whisper some foolish thing like don’t drop me or i’m heavier than i look. she doesn’t hum. she doesn’t laugh.

she just rests.

you lower her gently, as if she might wake from the jostling. you smooth her hair back. you place her hands over her chest. for a long moment, you do nothing but look. her eyes are closed. her lips parted slightly. she looks almost ready to speak again.

you kneel there beside her for longer than you should.

but time has left you, hasn’t it?

there is no rhythm in your body. only the sound of your blood rushing against your ears. only the memory of her voice pressed into every space between your ribs.

when the last of the light begins to bleed from the sky, you gather the wildflowers she liked. the ones she always stopped for. soft white, dusky pink, purple so deep it looks like bruised dusk. you thread them gently into her braid, tucking the stems beneath the woven strands, just like she used to do.

you whisper her name, once, as you place the final bloom.

and then you bury her.

handful by handful.

with every bit of earth you return to the hollow, your arms grow heavier. not from the weight of the dirt—but from the finality. this is the last gift you will give her. not a song. not a kiss. not a promise.

just this.

to cover her gently.

to keep her from the cold.

to make sure the world doesn’t forget where she lay.

when you’re finished, you sit beside the fresh mound, legs folded, palms pressed flat to the soil. the grass around you shivers. the sky is a thousand colors now, but you cannot lift your eyes.

your lyre waits somewhere behind you. untouched. silent.

you do not reach for it.

not yet.

you lean forward slowly, and press your forehead to the earth above her.

not as goodbye.

you aren’t ready for that.

you only want to feel some part of her again.

even if it’s just the ground.

you don’t remember sleeping. you don’t remember lying down beside her grave. but when your eyes open, the light has shifted and the sky above you is gray with morning. your cloak is damp with dew, your arms numb from where you curled beside her, and your throat aches from silence. not the peaceful kind. not the kind she used to share with you in soft hours when words weren’t needed. this silence feels hollowed out. like something has been scooped from inside you and left behind nothing.

the first thing you feel is absence.

not just hers. your own. you do not feel like someone who still belongs to the world. you sit up slowly, hand still resting on the mound of earth beside you. the wildflowers you laid there are slightly crushed now, their petals bent from where your shoulder pressed against them in sleep. your fingers skim across them, careful, reverent, as if touching them could bring her back. they’re already browning at the edges. you trace the shape of one stalk, and think—this too will return to the soil.

you close your eyes and try to hear her voice. try to summon even a whisper, the echo of her laughter, the way she used to draw out your name when she wanted something. you try to hum, to recreate the melody she teased you about for never finishing. the one she said was missing something. the one you both knew was hers.

your mouth opens.

but no sound comes.

your voice catches in your chest and disappears. you feel it fold in on itself like a page being turned too quickly. you don’t try again. you just press your palm to the soil one more time, then brace yourself against it to stand.

the weight of your lyre against your back is familiar. too familiar. it used to comfort you. it used to mean something. now it just feels like a wound. an empty frame for a voice that no longer knows what to say.

you begin walking. not toward home. you wouldn’t know how to return even if you tried. home, if it ever existed, is beneath your feet now—quiet and breathless, held in the earth that you shaped with your own hands. there is no home without her. no doorway you want to enter. no bed you wish to lie in.

and so you go forward.

you walk into the forest.

you don’t eat that day. you don’t speak. you don’t play. you don’t touch your lyre once. it stays strapped to your back like a burden you’ve earned. you sleep beneath a tree with roots like reaching fingers, and dream of nothing. when you wake, the sky is dim and bleeding at the edges. your limbs are stiff from sleeping on stone. your knuckles are sore from how tightly you’d clenched your hands in the dark. you walk again.

days pass. or maybe it’s just the same day, repeating itself over and over. you follow rivers downstream and don’t stop when they vanish into mist. you stare into firelight you didn’t build. you listen for footsteps that don’t come. the song doesn’t return to your lips, not fully. but her name circles your chest like something trapped, like a bird beating its wings against the ribs that once housed joy.

you begin seeing her in the corners of things. a shadow tucked behind a curtain of reeds. the shape of her foot pressing briefly into a patch of soft moss. the glint of her hair in a pool of rainwater. you don’t chase them. you don’t speak aloud. you know she’s gone.

but she won’t stay gone.

not from your memory. not from your fingertips. not from your music.

the first time you play again, it’s not on purpose.

you’ve found your way to a lake—still and silver, its surface a perfect mirror of the sky above. the wind here moves gently, as though not wanting to disturb anything too sacred. the air smells like stone and morning. you sit at the edge and place your lyre across your knees, not to use it. just to have it.

and then—your finger brushes a string.

a single note escapes. small. brittle. but not wrong. it hangs there, not echoing, not asking. just being. you wait. then you press another. then another. a third. they do not form a melody. not yet. but they begin to.

you are not writing a new song. you are remembering an old one. her song. the one you never finished. the one she said didn’t sound quite right without her in it. and somehow, even broken, it feels like she’s there again, hovering just beyond the last note. like if you played it just a little more clearly, she’d step out from the woods and finish it for you.

you don’t cry when you sing. not at first. you sing slowly, haltingly. her name once. then again. not loudly. just enough to test whether the sound still belongs to your mouth.

it does.

your voice trembles, but it sings. and the song, for the first time since her last breath, does not fall apart.

you sing the shape of her laughter. the weight of her hand against your chest. the cold of her ankles in the river and the way she looked at the moon like it was her oldest friend. you sing the way she smiled after catching her breath. you sing the last time she turned to look at you.

and something inside you decides this cannot be the end.

you don’t name it yet. not a plan. not a vow. but something deeper. like a string being pulled. like gravity, but downward—not into grief, but toward her.

you do not decide to descend. not all at once. there is no god in the sky who appears to give you a path. no voice from the riverbank telling you what must be done. you just rise.

you walk farther.

and the world begins to change.

the birds stop singing. the leaves hang lower. the trees grow older, bark thick and gnarled with time. the air becomes still, cool, silent in a way that is no longer peaceful, but expectant. when you look back, there is no trail behind you. when you look forward, the sky begins to darken even in daylight. there is the scent of ash on the wind. the road becomes stone. the world narrows to one single direction.

and ahead of you, though you do not see it yet, the gates of the underworld wait.

it begins, not with a door, not with a threshold, but with the air. something you can’t name has changed. you only notice it after your second or third step beyond the last of the trees—those tall ones, brittle with age, silent witnesses to your grief. the wind no longer stirs their limbs. the hush that follows isn’t just quiet—it’s heavy. it settles on your shoulders, dense and invisible, as if the world itself is holding its breath.

you glance back, only once. not from fear. not regret. just to see if the world is still there. already the forest looks altered, as though it exists behind glass. faded. stretched thin like a memory. your footsteps leave no mark. you cannot hear them anymore. the earth beneath you is too smooth, too cold, too old. and yet, you keep walking.

no one told you the descent would feel like this. no spiral stair, no great cracking in the land. no trembling earth or howling gate. it feels like a road. a path. a quiet one. the kind you’ve taken before, on slow walks with her by your side. except now your hand is empty, and the air is wrong. and everything behind you has stopped mattering.

you begin to lose things. not suddenly. not in a way you can point to. just slowly. the warmth from your fingertips. the colors of her favorite flowers. the way your name used to sound when she whispered it before sleep. things fall away in pieces, quiet and unnoticed, and you let them. all that remains is the weight of your lyre and the way her name clings to your ribs like breath that won’t leave.

you don’t know how long you’ve been walking when you see the river. it doesn’t announce itself. it waits. still, flat, too dark for reflection. it stretches far beyond what your eyes can follow, wide and endless, black as memory. no mist rises from it. no current stirs it. it just exists—patient, ancient, cold.

you approach slowly. the stone beneath your feet smooths out until even texture disappears. the wind, which hadn’t been moving for hours, disappears entirely. the silence thickens. your boots meet the edge of the river, and you stop.

you’ve heard the stories. the styx. the unpassable crossing. the boundary no mortal should reach. but standing here now, it feels less like a myth and more like the most certain thing in the world. it isn’t frightening. it’s just… final.

the boat appears before you notice it coming. long, narrow, shaped like it was carved out of night itself. and within it, standing tall and unmoving, is the ferryman. his shape is vague. his face is hidden beneath a hood. but it doesn’t matter. it isn’t him you’re here for.

his hand extends. waiting.

you have nothing to offer him. no coin, no token, no name heavy enough to command passage. the gods do not know you. and yet you step forward, slowly, your lyre sliding from your shoulder into your hands. you do not speak. you do not beg. you let your fingers press into the strings.

the first note is faint, almost brittle. it hovers in the air like a question. the second follows, steadier. the third finds weight. and then—your voice. low, unsteady, rough with silence.

you do not explain. you do not plead. you only sing.

you sing of her laughter in the poppy fields. of the warmth in her palms, and the softness in the space between her brows when she slept. you sing the sound she made when she was trying not to cry. the hush of the earth when you lowered her into it. the ache of her absence. the breaking of the world around her shape. you sing what love becomes when it’s left alone.

your voice does not echo. this place does not allow echoes. your song dies into the stillness as soon as it’s sung. but it’s heard. you feel that.

the ferryman lowers his hand.

you step forward.

you do not ask if this means yes.

you do not speak at all.

you climb into the boat.

it rocks slightly beneath your weight, then settles. you sit near the edge, your lyre resting in your lap, your gaze fixed on the horizonless dark ahead. no oar touches the water. no hands steer. and still, the boat moves.

the river accepts you.

no wind accompanies your passage. no sound trails behind. the water does not ripple. it simply parts, and you are carried forward. behind you, the world has vanished. ahead of you, the underworld begins to rise—unseen, unnamed, waiting.

the boat stops moving before you notice. there is no sound, no shift in weight, no voice telling you to rise. just a silence so complete it no longer feels like absence. it feels like arrival.

you open your eyes and find yourself at the far bank. the shore is made of stone — not jagged, not rough, just flat and cold and endless, like the mouth of a cave that has forgotten how to echo. you step onto it slowly, the soles of your feet pressing into something too old to resist. above you, the sky is still gray, still empty, but heavier now. like something watching.

your fingers grip the lyre more tightly than before.

not out of fear.

but to remember who you are.

you walk forward.

no one tells you where to go. no one stands waiting with a torch or a riddle. the path is not marked, but it is clear — a long, wide passage cut through the stillness, stretching far beyond where your eyes can follow. and though it looks solid, unmoving, it hums beneath your boots with something faint. not sound. not music. just time. time layered so thick it has settled into the ground like dust.

you do not speak. the air here doesn’t seem to allow it. your breath stays in your mouth. your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear, and even that grows dim the deeper you go.

the world tightens.

stone arches rise overhead — not carved, not built. they exist. like ribs. like memory. like someone shaped this space by reaching into the earth and pulling. you walk beneath them. slowly. reverently. your spine stays straight, your hands steady. the closer you get, the more it feels like your grief has shape. not just weight. not just ache. but form. a thing that walks with you, just behind your shoulder, not quite a shadow.

and then, without fanfare, without gates or guards or declarations, you arrive.

the throne room.

you don’t know how you know, only that there is no farther to go.

the ceiling rises high above you, cut from a single sheet of stone so dark it seems wet. there are no flames, no light. but the air glows faintly with something goldless. it isn’t warm. it just allows you to see. not everything. only what matters.

two thrones. massive. unornamented. ancient.

and they sit upon them as if they have always been there.

hades, still as death, still as what he is. tall, angular, unreadable. his hands rest on his knees. his eyes are deep, dark, not cruel — only final. he does not blink. he does not lean forward. he watches you the way the ocean watches a falling star: curious, but unmoved.

persephone is beside him. and she is the first living thing you’ve seen in days. her gaze meets yours gently, and there is something in her expression that you don’t understand. not pity. not approval. just recognition. like she knows something about the ache you carry. like she’s carried it too.

they do not speak.

they wait.

so you raise your lyre.

your voice comes out rough. softer than it should be. but you do not stop. you play.

and you sing.

you sing her name the way she used to whisper it into your collarbone, laughing because no one else could hear. you sing the shape of her absence — not just that she is gone, but the exact places she used to be. her spot beside you at the fire. her hands over yours when you fumbled with your strings. her weight when she leaned into your shoulder and said, quietly, “don’t stop playing.”

you sing the moment you knew you couldn’t save her.

the way she fell — not dramatically, not like the songs — but softly, like the wind had stolen her balance, and time refused to give it back.

you sing the color that left her cheeks, and how you tried to warm her hands even when you knew.

you sing her funeral — the flowers she loved, the soil you turned with trembling fingers, the silence that followed every time you tried to call her back.

you sing the days you wandered. the hunger. the hollow. the hours that passed without meaning. the way her voice stayed lodged in your throat, unable to come out.

you sing not because you hope they will be moved — but because you must.

because there is no world left in which you are not singing for her.

your voice breaks near the end. you keep going.

you keep going.

until finally, you stop.

not because you’ve said everything.

but because there is nothing else in you left to give.

the room holds still.

and then — hades does not speak.

it is persephone who rises.

she steps forward, slowly. each step quiet, deliberate, soundless against the stone. when she stands before you, she says nothing at first. she just looks at you — the whole of you — like she is listening to a second song still playing in the silence.

and then she speaks.

her voice is not loud. it does not echo. it simply exists. the kind of voice that does not ask to be heard, only is.

she tells you you may take her.

you may bring her back.

but only if you do not look at her until you are both beyond the gate.

not once.

not even a glance.

you nod. your voice is gone. but you understand.

you would carry her silence if it meant carrying her home.

they part the path for you.

and then — she is behind you.

you do not turn.

but you know.

you feel it instantly.

like the breath you didn’t know you were holding finally returns. the weight of her presence is unmistakable. her steps are soft, but you would know them even in another life. she follows without speaking. without reaching for you. and still — her closeness wraps around you like warmth returning to the world.

you begin the ascent.

one step. then another.

your hands are steady.

your eyes fixed forward.

you do not look.

because to love her is not to test fate.

it is to trust her voice behind you.

to carry her name in your chest like a heartbeat.

to believe, for the first time in all your wandering, that you are no longer alone.

you walk.

the path winds upward, though there is no breeze, no sky, no change in light. nothing but the faint pressure of her behind you. each step is careful. measured. your hand stays clenched around the neck of your lyre like an anchor. your eyes stay forward. your feet move not because you trust, but because you must. because this is the only way out. because they told you: do not turn. do not doubt. walk until you see the light. only then may you look.

and so you do.

your heart doesn’t understand. it pounds harder with each step, pressing against your ribs like it’s trying to remind you she’s real. that she’s there. that the girl you sang back from death is following behind you, quiet and breathing. that this silence is a gift, not a warning.

but your mind—it wanders.

the silence is too wide. too deep. she doesn’t speak. of course she doesn’t. the rules are clear. but her silence feels like distance. it grows louder than memory. and memory, cruel thing that it is, begins to fail you. was she truly there, when the gods agreed? did you see her eyes, or did you only dream them? did you feel her presence just now, or do you only want to feel it?

your throat tightens.

you think about her hands. the warmth of them in yours. the way she used to curl her fingers into your coat when she was cold. the way she brushed your hair back without asking. the way she leaned into you without thinking. you try to feel her now, behind you. not the image. not the hope. the truth of her.

but it isn’t enough.

because you are human.

and humans were not built for love without proof.

you tell yourself she’s there. over and over. but belief alone begins to falter. belief can’t answer the aching question that grows inside your chest like a scream: what if she isn’t?

what if the gods lied?

what if they changed their minds?

what if the silence behind you is only your own echo, and the weight you feel is only longing, and the girl you walked into death to save is still cold beneath the earth?

what if you already lost her, and you’re walking alone?

your steps falter.

your breath catches.

you tighten your grip around the lyre so hard your knuckles burn. you clench your jaw, stare harder ahead, beg yourself to just keep walking. you’re close. you must be close. the air feels thinner now. lighter, even. the path is beginning to rise gently beneath your feet.

but then— you hear it.

the faintest stumble. not a cry. not a fall. just the sound of her boot scuffing against the stone.

and in that instant, everything inside you shatters.

you try to hold. try to reason. try to say it’s fine. it was nothing. you tell yourself that silence is not absence. that faith means walking forward even when the heart doubts. that trust is what love demands.

but love— real love— does not sit quietly inside rules.

real love turns.

because you remember the way she used to call your name when she laughed. you remember how she pressed her nose to your shoulder when she couldn’t sleep. you remember how she asked, just once, not to be left behind. and though you promised her, though you promised the gods, there is something deeper than vows.

love does not walk forward forever with closed eyes.

love looks.

even when it must not. even when it’s not safe. even when it will cost everything.

so you do.

you turn.

slowly. painfully. like gravity is fighting you, like the entire underworld is trying to hold your chin forward.

and there she is.

real.

alive.

herself.

her lips part like she wants to speak but already knows it’s too late. her eyes find yours, and they do not blame you. they only understand. they see you. the way they always did. and her expression—gentle, broken, full of knowing—says it all.

you turned because you love her.

and that is the cruelest part.

because love is what damned you.

not failure. not disobedience. not weakness.

just love.

pure and terrible and full.

your hand reaches for her, too late. her arm lifts, almost meeting yours.

but she’s already dissolving.

not violently.

not with a scream.

but quietly. slowly. the way snow disappears when touched. the way light fades at the edge of night.

and then she’s gone.

completely.

her warmth ripped from the air. her shadow from the stone. the silence returns, but now it is hollow. now it echoes.

your knees buckle. your lyre slips from your hands. the strings let out a single broken note before silencing for good.

you press your hands to the ground where she last stood, as if you can press her memory into the stone. as if you can carve her back into the world with touch alone.

but nothing answers.

no voice. no gods. no mercy.

only absence.

only the weight of having loved her enough to look.

and that— that is why she is gone.

your hands stay where she was.

they don’t move.

you don’t know how long it’s been. minutes. hours. maybe longer. time doesn’t move here, not really. it loops. folds. slips between your fingers like water you were never meant to hold.

your knees hurt, but you barely notice. the cold from the stone floor seeps into your skin, your bones, your breath. and still, you don’t move. because standing would mean accepting. walking would mean letting go. and you are not ready. not yet.

your fingers curl against the stone. it is too smooth. too indifferent. it gives you nothing. not warmth. not echo. not even dust to cling to. there is no mark of her here. no sign that she stood just in front of you, breathing, living, looking at you like she knew. like she forgave you.

and maybe that’s the hardest part.

she didn’t reach out in blame.

she didn’t vanish in fear.

she looked at you with understanding. as if she always knew you would turn. as if she expected it. as if she loved you enough to be broken by it, and still chose to be near.

and you— you didn’t fail her.

you loved her.

you loved her the only way you knew how: completely. blindly. without calculation. you walked into the underworld for her. sang for her. begged nothing, offered everything. and in the end, when her silence stretched too long, when her footsteps faltered, when fear dug its claws into your chest—

you turned.

because what is love if not that?

you were not strong enough to walk away from her without seeing her one last time. not because you doubted her. but because the ache of her absence was louder than the promise of her return.

the gods made a rule.

you broke it.

but what they will never understand is that to love someone is to look.

even when it costs everything.

especially when it does.

you don’t cry. not yet. not loudly. your chest stays clenched too tight for it. your grief lives in the silence between heartbeats. in the echo of her almost-touch. in the way your fingers twitch when you remember the softness of her voice.

you stay on your knees.

your body remembers the shape of her standing there.

your skin remembers her nearness.

your bones remember hope.

and now they remember how it was taken.

not by cruelty.

not by fate.

but by love.

and the way love can’t bear to walk blindly.

you stay in the world longer than you should. not because you believe it will give her back, and not because anything in you has truly survived, but because breath still moves in and out of your lungs, and your body still remembers how to walk.

the days stretch around you like fog, indistinct and without shape. you no longer speak. you no longer sing. your hands stay wrapped around your lyre out of habit, not devotion. not even grief — just absence. you do not notice the sun when it rises, nor the seasons as they shift. you eat only enough to not fall. you sleep only when your body forgets how to stay awake. the world continues around you, but it no longer belongs to you. it hasn’t since she vanished.

you wander. you don't settle anywhere for long. towns pass behind you. fields. forests. rivers that remind you of her hair. orchards that smell like the fruit she once bit into and offered to you first. you avoid the places where people gather, but they still find you.

word spreads. people begin to say your name again — not as a woman, but as a myth. the one who entered the underworld. the one who played so beautifully the gods gave her back what death had taken. the one who lost her again. they say it like a story. not like a truth.

when they approach you, it is always the same. they ask you to play. they speak of miracles. they smile like they expect your hands to lift, your voice to return, the heavens to open. they don’t understand that there is no music left in you. that it died with her. that your voice was never yours to begin with — it lived in the way she looked at you, the way she listened.

they call you quiet now. cold. strange. they whisper that the gift has left you. that you must have angered the gods. that something inside you soured. they do not know her name. they do not know what you carried out of the underworld and what you had to bury in silence when it slipped through your hands again.

one night, near the edge of a clearing, you find yourself caught among them. it happens slowly at first — a festival, loud and burning, unfamiliar faces. someone recognizes you. someone speaks your name too loud. the crowd turns. they ask again, as always, for a song. they beg. they praise. they plead. you say nothing. your fingers stay still on the neck of the lyre. your gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the firelight, where even her memory is quiet.

your silence offends them.

you watch their awe turn. the wonder in their eyes turns to insult, then to rage. they shout. they accuse you of pride, of cruelty, of wasting what the gods gave you. they circle closer. and still, you do not speak. not out of defiance, but because there is nothing left to give. you are not a poet anymore. you are not a story. you are only what remains after grief.

when the first stone hits you, it doesn’t hurt.

your body registers it, but your mind is somewhere else — perhaps in the orchard, or beside the river, or in the curve of her name before you ever lost her. they strike you again. again. branches. fists. you do not lift your hands to defend yourself. you do not beg them to stop. you barely even move. the lyre falls. something cracks. the world grows sharp and blurry at once. you hear their voices rising, not in victory, but in chaos — like they don’t understand what they’ve done, even as they do it.

when it’s over, you’re no longer whole. not in body. not in memory. not in story.

your name becomes something whispered again. not in praise, not in mourning, but in caution. your lyre is tossed into the river. your voice is gone. there are no songs left behind. no last words. only the silence of someone who loved too much and could no longer live in a world that kept moving without her.

you do not feel death coming. it arrives like the rest of everything lately — slowly, quietly, like sleep at the edge of exhaustion. your breath leaves your lungs the same way her fingers slipped from yours. there is no peace. only stillness. and when you open your eyes again, the world has changed.

there is no sun. no sound. no sky. only stone beneath your feet, and a darkness that does not frighten you. it wraps around your shoulders gently. familiar. not cold — just quiet. like memory. like the place where her voice used to live.

you begin to walk.

your feet know the path, even if your mind doesn’t. you recognize the weight of the underworld — not the one you crossed in life, but the true one, the final one. no bargaining now. no lyre in hand. no gods to listen. only what comes after. you walk slowly, with no urgency. there is no fear. you are not here to ask. you are not here to save.

you are only here because there is nothing left of you in the world above.

you don’t know how long it takes. there is no time here. only footsteps, and silence, and the memory of what you lost. and then, just as you begin to wonder if even death is too far away from her—

you see her.

not as shadow. not as dream. not as some softened echo of who she was. she is standing there, beside the same river, in the same place where you turned and lost her. only this time, when your eyes find hers, she doesn’t vanish. she smiles — small, soft, not sad. like she’s been waiting. like she always knew you would come.

you stop walking.

for the first time since you lost her, your hands stop shaking.

you do not ask if this is real. you do not speak. you do not need to. you only walk forward until her hands reach yours, and then you let them. her fingers wrap around your wrists. your forehead leans into her shoulder. your breath steadies. she is solid. she is warm. even here.

and this time, when you look at her — you do not lose her.

there’s no time here. not in the way the world used to keep it. no sunrise to count the hours by, no nightfall to press a boundary around the day. there’s no need to measure anything anymore. the passing of time is felt only in her laughter, the way it still rings through you like a melody you never forgot. in the softness of her fingers lacing through yours. in the way your breath settles each time you remember she’s really here.

you don’t count the days now. you don’t have to.

she’s always beside you.

you spend long hours by the river — not that river, not the one that took her, but another, calmer one. its banks are wide and still, lined with cool stone and soft, pale moss.

she likes to braid the small white flowers that grow near its edge. sometimes she rests them on your head without a word, adjusting them with the careful focus of someone fixing a painting. when you glance at her in question, she only smiles.

“makes you look less like a ghost,” she teases.

“we’re both ghosts,” you remind her.

“speak for yourself,” she grins. “i’ve never felt more alive.”

and maybe she’s right. because even here — after everything, after death, after grief — you feel her. not like memory, not like echo. like breath. like closeness. like the answer to every song you once wrote without knowing what you were asking for.

you kiss often, but not like you’re trying to prove anything. not like something is ending. it’s just what love feels like here. quiet. steady. the brush of her thumb along your jaw. the small, content sound she makes when she leans into you. the way she still fits against your side like she always did. some nights she murmurs your name between kisses, like she needs to remind herself of the shape of it. you whisper hers back like a promise. no one here is keeping track. there’s no need.

you lie in the grass near the river. you talk.

sometimes it’s about things she remembers — a tree she used to climb in her childhood, the sound of birds in the orchard, the way you used to hum under your breath when you thought no one could hear. sometimes it’s sillier — like the time you tried to protect her from the rain with your lyre and ended up soaking and furious when it cracked.

“you cried like the gods had personally betrayed you,” she laughs.

“and you called me dramatic.”

“you were dramatic. but,” she adds, tapping your nose, “i kissed you anyway.”

“of course you did,” you say, smiling. “you always did.”

and then, quieter, you ask her: “do you ever think about that day? the last one? the road?”

her smile softens. her hand finds yours, fingers brushing slow against your palm. “i do.”

you nod once, but your eyes lower.

“hey.” her voice is a little firmer now. “look at me.”

you do.

and she says, gently but without hesitation, “i would’ve turned too.”

you freeze. her thumb sweeps softly over your wrist.

“if it had been me walking out first,” she says, “if the gods told me not to look back, and you weren’t saying anything — if i couldn’t feel you behind me — i wouldn’t have made it either.”

you swallow hard. you’re not crying. not here. not now. but something inside you loosens.

“you didn’t lose me because you turned,” she whispers. “you turned because you loved me.”

you rest your forehead against hers. neither of you speaks for a while. there’s nothing more to say. she’s here. you’re here. and this time, there’s no road between you.

you fall asleep together near the river’s edge, your hand tangled in hers, her head tucked under your chin. and when you wake, she’s still there. watching you. brushing her thumb over the curve of your cheek.

“you always wake up like you’re afraid,” she murmurs.

“some part of me still thinks i’m going to lose you again,” you admit.

her eyes soften. she leans in to kiss your temple. “then some part of you needs to catch up.”

and slowly, gently, it does.

you begin to hum again, some days. not like before — no audience, no gods to persuade, no grief to soothe. just small melodies, easy and unformed. hanni sometimes hums along. other times she curls against your side and listens, her eyes fluttering closed like it’s the only music she’s ever needed.

you dream again. not of loss. not of endings. you dream of her hand in yours. of fig trees. of laughter. of stars overhead — the ones she still draws in the sky with her finger when you lie in the grass and pretend to name constellations.

you ask her once if she’d still choose this. even after everything.

“i already did,” she says. “you don’t have to ask.”

and that’s it.

there are no more questions now. no more silence to fill. just two voices, speaking softly in the dark. just her fingers brushing your cheek. just your hand resting over her heart, and hers over yours.

you once turned and lost her. but now, when you turn to look — she’s still there. she always will be.

and this time, you don’t have to walk away.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Kanej - Orpheus & Eurydice AU

Hi lovelies, this is the third time trying to upload this so hopefully it works this time (and sorry to everyone who got tagged in posts that didn’t work properly and/or didn’t exist by the time you saw the notification), I am so incredibly excited to tell you that the first two chapters of my new Kanej fic “Somehow, Through the Storm” will be released on tumblr and AO3 THIS MONDAY (16th Sept)

This is a Hadestown-inspired take on an Orpheus and Eurydice reimagining, casting Kaz and Inej as our main characters. It will be a kanej centric fic but feature all of the crows, as well as aspects of wesper and helnik relationships, set in an alternate version of the Grishaverse with an adapted magic system. I’m so excited and I may or may not have gone a teensy bit overboard so with that in mind and with three days to go, please enjoy this trailer I made for the story!!

All songs are from the Broadway cast studio recording of Hadestown and the medley was made by me :)

Tagging everyone who has expressed interest but please don’t feel pressured:

@lunarthecorvus @marielaure @multi-fandom-bi @igotthisaccountunderduress @thelibraryofalexandriastillburns @devoted-people-hater @spraypaintstainonawhitewall

If anyone would like to be tagged when I post the chapters please let me know, and for people who are tagged in this I will not automatically assume that you want to be tagged again so if you’re still interested let me know I don’t want to be annoying and tag you in stuff you’re not interested in

[mumms-the-word]

Illithid Souls - Part 2

The Case Studies: Tav/Durge and Orpheus

In Part 1, I went over some of the basics of what a soul normally is, where souls go after death, and whether mind flayers have souls. I ultimately ended up saying that most humanoids have apostolic souls (souls that deities recognize as being capable of divine worship), while mind flayers have some other kind of soul, one that isn't recognizable by deities or devils. This is why Jergal and Mystra and so on think that illithid don’t have souls. When a humanoid with an apostolic soul turns into a mind flayer, their soul is either ejected and moves on to the Fugue Plane, or their soul is transformed into a non-apostolic soul (depending on what you want to believe).

But the problem is, that's normal lore, and BG3 has made things a little strange by imbuing all the tadpoles that infect our characters with Netherese magic. And that, friends, makes the BG3 mind flayers different.

This post is going to look at some interesting context from the game for the Emperor, Tav/Durge and Orpheus. (It got pretty long so I'm moving Karlach and Gale to a third post.) We're going to figure out whether the rules about mind flayers and souls change now that there's Netherese magic involved. The ultimate answer is yes, but how? And is it consistent?

(Spoiler: it isn't, but you can use this lore to come up with your own theories and ideas)

Let's take another deep dive! Buckle up, and don't worry, I have a short summary at the bottom.

The Case of the Emperor

I'm actually not going to linger too long on the Emperor because for many reasons he breaks the lore. If he's Balduran and a mind flayer, he shouldn't have lived as long as he says he's lived. Not only that, his memory is allegedly flawless when the lore states he shouldn't remember any of his previous life (there are other inconsistencies too, but that's a different post). However, I do want to touch on a couple of things.

The Emperor both is and isn't our baseline for how a mind flayer normally exists. He should be a normal lore-accurate mind flayer (though a rogue one), because he wasn't infected with a Netherese-touched tadpole. But he's a Special Mind Flayer instead, for reasons we don't entirely understand (again, he generally breaks the lore). Perhaps this is because of his brush with Gortash and the other Chosen of the Dead Three, or perhaps he just somehow has a strong enough personality that when he broke free of an elder brain's compulsion a lot of his memories came back to him. Who knows?

But regardless, a few conversations with him reinforce the idea that mind flayers typically aren't completely soulless. At the very least, they still contain memories (he has his memories of his time as Balduran), intelligence (he's a schemer, that's for sure), and personality/emotions:

Emperor: You think that mind flayers are soulless husks who feel nothing. Belynne thought the same at first. You are wrong. Feeling is vital to the pursuit of anyone's goals. Even a mind flayer's. Like you, mind flayers know fear. Like you, we crave recognition. But unlike you, unlike the others of my kind, I am no slave to either. My end is and has always been freedom.

We can quibble about whether or not he's manipulating the player here, but his words are generally true. As discussed in part 1, mind flayers are not soulless husks. When they're enthralled, they might be more devoid of independent thinking, but they have emotions/feelings and can create memories. They just might have a smaller range of emotion than humanoids do (thus his reference to "not being a slave" to fear or desire) and their memories might not be entirely their own (more on that with Karlach in part 3).

Regardless, the Emperor is our leading authority for what it's like to be a mind flayer, so we're sort of forced to trust him when we ask him to explain what full ceremorphosis is about to do to us, especially because its his Supreme Tadpole that is about to change us.

Player: What would happen to me? Emperor: You would be altered in mind, body, and soul beyond all recognition.

So this is interesting. Altered in mind and body, that's a given. Altered in soul, though...what does that mean?

Remember in Part 1 where I offered two theories about what happens to the original soul of someone undergoing ceremorphosis? Theory 1: they just die and the soul moves on to the Fugue Plane, and the mind flayer gets a new illithid soul from...somewhere. Theory 2: The soul transforms and remains tethered to the mind flayer body, different than it was before (potentially unrecognizable as the original soul, but some elements of the original may remain).

The Emperor's words suggest more of theory 2 here. But is that, in fact, what happens when we become illithid? Well...let's find out.

The Case of Tav and Durge (or most Origin runs)

When you do turn into a mind flayer, the narrative typically focuses on how powerful you feel. Your mind and body feel as though they are one and you are also desperately hungry. There isn't much in the Narrator's dialogue or your dialogue with your friends to suggest that your soul has been completely obliterated, though.

In fact, there's an interesting moment that happens if you turn into a mind flayer without the Emperor there and go up to Orpheus still in his cage. The way I accomplished this was to ask to change into a mind flayer so the Emperor would give me the Supreme Tadpole, then I said I would change later, then stopped the Emperor from consuming Orpheus so he would leave. Then I used the Supreme Tadpole to turn into a mind flayer and went to examine Orpheus.

Narrator: *His eyes are unseeing, his voice silenced. But even with his mind caged, you can feel his power. You can almost taste the fluid beneath his scalp, cushioning that sweet, dense brain, and the power within it. You are hungry.* Lae'zel: I see that look, I know that look. Don't you dare. Player: [Wisdom Check] Cling to your former nature. Quash your hunger. This is not who you are. Narrator: *Your mind and body whine with disappointment. But your soul lets out a gentle thrum of relief.*

I find this fascinating for a couple of reasons. One, the check I chose (there are two, the second is a strength check) meant reaching out to a "former" nature and reminding myself (or my Tav's self) that this is not who she is. When I succeeded, my Tav's mind and body protested, but her soul was filled with relief.

So she has a soul! And it seems to be her own soul, but perhaps transformed. So this sort of supports theory 2, that perhaps when humanoids turn into mind flayers, their soul is altered. This could also just be a quirk specific to those infected with a Netherese tadpole, or even further, someone who transformed using the Emperor's Supreme Tadpole.

Because here's the thing. When Tav/Durge, Orpheus, Companion!Karlach, or any Origin character transforms into a mind flayer using the Supreme Tadpole, they become a special mind flayer. This is mostly due to the Netherese magic, which adds some weird and undefined changes to the whole mind flayer thing. I'm going to use "I guess it's the Netherese magic/Supreme Tadpole" as a scapegoat this entire post because I don't know what else to point to to explain how these guys are just Different Than Your Average Mind Flayer, so be prepared for that. But at the very least, we know something's different.

In fact the Narrator literally says you're probably different than the average mind flayer after you defeat the Netherbrain!

Narrator: *You are a mind flayer, the very thing you sought to eradicate. Whatever self you still possess is quickly ebbing away. Your friends and enemies alike are ripe for manipulation, and if not manipulation, then consumption. Soon you will be able to trust yourself at all. You will be a monstrosity beyond redemption. Or not. Perhaps you are unique among illithid-kind. Perhaps you will retain enough of who you are to resist your nature. A rogue mind flayer. Like the Emperor. The risk is certainly yours to take - will you?*

Unlike normal mind flayers who lose most of their memories (and allegedly most of their personality/former selves) almost immediately after transforming, it takes Tav/Durge/most Origins longer to lose that sense of self, if indeed they lose it at all. The Narrator suggests we might be losing parts of ourselves, but there's a chance we're unique and might retain our sense of selves.

We do see glimpses of us retaining our personalities in the epilogue of course, but what is more interesting is if you decide to imprison yourself post-ceremorphosis. Withers will visit you in prison for a final conversation. (This conversation shifts a little if you're a Durge, but here is the Tav conversation.)

Withers: Thou remainest in thy chains. A hero, sacrificed. I told thee once that an illithid hath no soul, and yet...something glimmerest about thee. Something is not lost. Dost thou feel it? The spark of the divine within thee? Or does thy hunger consume thee? Player: [Option 1] I'm still myself. I don't know if I belong here. Player: [Option 2] I feel the hunger. But I feel myself, too. I'm not sure which to trust. Player: [Option 3] Have you come to torment me with hypotheticals, old friend? Player: [Option 4] Does it matter? This is my life now.

If you go with option 4, you hear Withers ponderingly say, "Thy life...yes..." before moving on to say that fate isn't done with you yet, which is his response to all the other options as well.

But the more important thing is that even Jergal recognizes a "spark of the divine" within you. Your soul should either be cast off and already wandering the Fugue Plane (if going with theory 1) or so completely transformed that it's no longer an apostolic soul that Jergal would be able to recognize as a god. Yet Jergal recognizes the soul within your mind flayer body as being...well, partly apostolic.

Interesting!

We get a similar dialogue if you sacrifice yourself as a mind flayer, too, though this is fascinating because now it's Withers literally finding your soul (still shaped like a mind flayer, which is interesting) somewhere that is...very gray. There's a suggestion that this might be in the Fugue Plane, or in some limbo state where souls sometimes end up, but regardless, Withers, the soul-finder himself, was able to track down your lingering soul.

Withers: Thou flickerest in the dark - but with mine keen eye, I hath scryed thee. I told thee once that an illithid hath no soul, and yet thou seemest to have something of the spirit about thee. I cannot account for it. How delightful. Tell me, how doth it feel to roam about as thou art now, transformed? Player: [Option 1] Where am I? [mumm's note: he basically doesn't answer this question lol] Player: [Option 2] I still feel like myself. My memories, my feelings - all intact. Withers: No matter how many aeons I have roamed this world and beyond, I am ever-surprised by mysteries new and old.

Even Withers is surprised that the soul you have is something he not only recognizes as a soul, but as your soul. I love how amused and intrigued he sounds when he says "I cannot account for it. How delightful." He even smiles when he says it. He thinks you're super neat! And also a new phenomenon.

(As an aside, I wonder if you being mind-flayer-shaped but still recognizable as you is a hint that your soul did indeed transform to be illithid, but didn't fully transform into a non-apostolic soul like normal illithids would. Like, I wonder if your soul is now half-apostolic and just permanently mind-flayer-shaped. RIP. But this would explain why bringing you back via True Resurrection is kind of a nonviable option since you'd just come back as a mind flayer, and this is the ending where you took your own life to avoid being a mind flayer for forever, so I doubt you'd even want to come back if you couldn't come back to your original body. Things to ponder!)

Anyway, you having something that has glimpses, sparks, or hints of the divine/the spirit about you does tell us that as a mind flayer, your soul wasn't destroyed. It may have been transformed, but you're not as soulless as you thought you were going to be, and you're actually still pretty close to being who you were before the transformation.

Close, but not perfectly or exactly like you were before. You did transform, after all. But these changes become more obvious in other examples, such as with Karlach.

You having a partly-apostolic soul that retains all its memories and most of its original personality is obviously VERY unique and different to what most mind flayers experience. For example, if you turn yourself illithid and then free Orpheus (again, see the same steps above, but go a step farther and actually free him this time), then Orpheus will be utterly shocked that you're capable of independent thought.

Orpheus: What is this... A mind flayer in possession of its mental faculties? This is the stuff of fables. It is as if I am reliving the legend of Oryndoll. You are the illithid Urengol, rebelling against your own hivemind. And I am the noble githyanki Valraag who must now reconsider his position. An illithid capable of rebelling against the Netherbrain's instruction... Not only capable but willing... If your intentions are as righteous as they seem, this is an advantage I cannot overlook. An advantage that must be grasped, for our enemy is formidable indeed. Very well. I propose an alliance.

A couple of notes here: Oryndoll is/was a real mind flayer colony far, far below the surface in the southern regions of Faerûn (beneath the Shining Plains). Not only is it ancient, but the wealth of knowledge stored inside via illithid technology rivals and probably even surpasses that of Candlekeep's library. There's at least one book in the game that talks about a foolish drow adventurer searching for Oryndoll, only to end up a mind flayer, while another hints at Oryndoll's role in the history of the Duergar race. But these are the only mentions of Oryndoll in the game.

Oryndoll has a history in D&D lore, but there's no mention of Urengol and Valraag (that I could find). If this is a fable Orpheus knows, it's apparently so ancient that only he remembers it. But that itself is interesting, because it makes Urengol his closest reference to you having become a rogue, independently-thinking, and emotionally driven mind flayer. He can't think of any other examples, that's how unique you are.

The most important thing here is that Orpheus literally considers your independently thinking self as so baffling, so impossible, it should only exist in fables. That, I think, says a lot.

The next question is, does he think he would become just as unique?

The Case of Orpheus

We all know Orpheus can be convinced to turn into a mind flayer and sacrifice his soul for his people. I'm sure he genuinely does think he is sacrificing his soul, as there is no real precedent that he or anyone else seems to know of for a person who turns into a mind flayer and keeps their soul (or at least keeps their same memories, personality, and intelligence). But if he's surprised that he's kept all his memories after turning illithid, he doesn't really show it.

You can ask him about it, of course, after he's turned into a mind flayer and after you've defeated the Netherbrain. His response is kind of interesting.

Player: You're a mind flayer, but you're still you, aren't you? Orpheus: Yes. But for how long? My mind screams. It will never stop until it has slipped away from me entirely.

No one else seems to define their illithid experience this way. I'm curious if his mind screaming is referring to the hunger he feels, the same hunger he is actively trying to resist, but he doesn't elaborate on this. Regardless, he's certain that while he has retained his personality (and probably his soul) for now, it's not going to last.

This is why he asks for an honorable death after the defeat of the Netherbrain.

Player: You don't deserve to die. Orpheus: I will not be ghaik! I did what I did to save my people. [...] The rest is up to them. Someone else must rise within the ranks to lead the revolution against Vlaakith. Give me my freedom from this form, release my soul to the Astral Seas while I still have one to call my own.

Orpheus believes that he only has a temporary grasp on his soul or consciousness, which may or may not have transformed into a different kind of soul. Then again, if he thinks his soul is going to the Astral Seas, maybe it doesn't matter whether his soul was transformed from apostolic to non-apostolic. I'm not even sure if githyanki have apostolic souls at all, since they wouldn't really be interested in the deities that govern matters on the Material Plane. I mean, for a long time Lae'zel wants her soul to be eaten by Vlaakith (a literal lich queen who eats souls) via "ascension" so...

I also have no idea if his soul, once released to the Astral Seas, would be mind-flayer-shaped. I guess that's the great mystery. I would assume yes, but I also don’t know how souls manifest in the Astral Seas and finding sources on this has been difficult (it all boils down to “ask your DM”).

Orpheus can be convinced to stay alive and just hang out in a far-off "corner of these realms" to watch his people fight against Vlaakith from afar, and there's kind of a hint that him agreeing to do this means he isn't actually afraid he'll lose his entire soul. But at this point, we're getting too far into "maybes" and "what ifs" to suggest anything concrete.

Quick picture break of Orpheus contemplating the Supreme Tadpole to break up the text (I just thought it was a good shot)

Now I do have to acknowledge two things about Orpheus: one, he could be a special mind flayer precisely because of his unique abilities to shield his mind from elder brain compulsion, which means his unique abilities could also be the reason why he retains so much of his personality and therefore his soul. Since most of the time you end up eating his brain and absorbing his abilities, this could also explain why you retain so much of your own soul if you become a mind flayer instead.

In this scenario, you’re a special mind flayer because (1) you have a Netherese tadpole, (2) you transformed using the Supreme Tadpole, and (3) then you ate Orpheus’s brain. All three elements could be at play.

But not everyone eats Orpheus’s brain, so that theory has holes. I genuinely think you just end up being a special mind flayer because of the Netherese magic that messes with your tadpole. The Supreme Tadpole plus Orpheus’s abilities would only be the icing on the cake, so to speak.

The second thing I want to acknowledge is that there’s a glaring plothole for Orpheus even turning into a mind flayer at all, if you play the game a certain way. If you send the Emperor away to free Orpheus before the Emperor gives you the Supreme Tadpole (for example if you send Lae’zel over to smash the chains holding Orpheus captive without talking to the Emperor, which is what I did one time, and the Emperor was literally like “don’t talk to me again bye” and left), then how does he turn into a mind flayer? He doesn’t have a tadpole and you don’t have the Supreme Tadpole to give to him.

He gets around this with you or Karlach by saying he’ll lower his mental shields so that your tadpole hears the Netherbrain’s orders to transform and then replace the shields again.

Orpheus: My defences keep the voice of the Absolute out, but just as I can raise them, so I can lower them. I will allow the voice of the Absolute in. Once it reaches you, it will order you to transform. It will only take a moment. And once you are a mind flayer, I will fold you under my protection once more. You will be the saviour of empires, not least my own. Narrator: *With the withdrawal of Orpheus' power, your mind is rushed with the full force of the Netherbrain. You feel a compulsion unlike anything you've ever known - excruciating and exhilarating in equal measure. You wish nothing in the world but to evolve. Then - complete silence, as you are once again closed off from the Netherbrain's mind.*

So that makes sense, and it means you being a special mind flayer could boil down to your personality being hella strong + you being infected with a special Netherese tadpole. In this scenario, the Supreme Tadpole can’t be used to explain your unique soul-keeping abilities, and neither can you attribute your soul-keeping abilities to consuming Orpheus's brain (since he's still alive). So maybe the Supreme Tadpole and/or Orpheus's brain doesn’t have any effect on why you keep your mostly-unaltered soul.

In the end I guess it’s just the weird Netherese tadpole that does the trick? Honestly, I wonder if it all boils down to the fact that the Netherese tadpole doesn't eat your brain, it just lies dormant and incubating in your head, so you're not losing brain matter. (But this ignores or forgets that when you eat other tadpoles you literally watch them burrow into your brain matter so I'm sure the magic has something to do with it too.)

But anyway this still doesn’t explain why Orpheus, who shouldn’t have a tadpole, somehow turns into a mind flayer by, I don’t know, manifesting it??? Or why he is also a unique mind flayer once he does this without the Supreme Tadpole. I mean in his case I’m sure it is because he has special mind shield abilities but still. How did he turn into a mind flayer without a tadpole? Make it make sense, Larian.

He literally just touches his head with a psionic magic effect, which is the same gesture he uses to lower his mental shield to allow the Netherbrain to force you to transform. It's also interesting that if you have him transform using the Supreme Tadpole, then he doesn't say anything as he accepts the tadpole from you and absorbs it. But if you have him change without the tadpole, then he says, "The Netherbrain will be only too pleased to claim me."

Which...kind of implies that he's somehow able to communicate with the Netherbrain or hear its voice, so...maybe he secretly does have a tadpole? I mean, a popular theory is the Emperor probably did tadpole Orpheus off-screen since he seems to have a level of compulsion over Orpheus, but this is never explained or mentioned in the game so do whatever you want with that theory.

But I digress.

Let's do a quick summary, shall we?

TLDR: You're probably a super special mind flayer who gets to keep their soul mostly intact (or mostly unaltered) because your tadpole was imbued with Netherese magic and generally doesn't eat your brain. You might also be super special because you transformed using the Supreme Tadpole (optional) and/or consumed Orpheus's brain (also optional). Orpheus might be a super special mind flayer simply because he's Orpheus, and that is why he can still retain most of his soul/personality, even though he keeps thinking he's going to lose it. His status as special mind flayer seems unchanged whether he transformed using the Supreme Tadpole or not, so it really must be an Orpheus Thing.

Phew. That was a lot. And honestly, Karlach and Gale only complicate things, so they're going in a separate post. Keep an eye out for Part 3!

~*~*~

You made it to the end!!! Amazing, you deserve an achievement or something, but all I have are more gold stars.

✨⭐️🌟⭐️✨⭐️🌟⭐️✨

Tags for those who wanted the update! @galesdevoteewife @stuffforthestash

[writing-for-life]

Give me your head-canons:

How do you solve the Orpheus problem?

[And as always: Send me asks about everything Sandman-related!]

As in: It’s the elephant in the room in so many canon-compliant or -adjacent fanfics I read (we obviously don’t need to talk about coffee shop AUs) and Orpheus either keeps on existing somehow (and no one cares, because Dream and whatever love interest just literally fuck off into the sunset and pretend everything’s okay), or he gets killed by someone else who quite strictly wouldn’t be able to kill him.

Is it a solvable problem?

If he keeps existing as a severed head, it’s honestly a bit shite for him, isn’t it? So these are the fics where we keep on visiting severed heads. I don’t know, I find that… dissatisfying.

If Dream kills him, it’s over. Unless he stays in the Dreaming and lets the storm blow over. Will it though? I mean yeah, he could sit there for all eternity (groan), not take Death’s hand and make sure he doesn’t conveniently leave so the Kindly Ones get in and start ripping the Dreaming to shreds. But that doesn’t really sound like a solution to me either, because the problem won’t go away. Also: Probably no meetings in the waking world with you-know-who ever again. Plot hole, people, it doesn’t work that way.

If someone else kills him: Who? Please don’t say Hob, I know he’s immortal (so was Murphy), but the very idea is that no one can kill the poor kid because he made a deal with Death, which she apparently can’t revoke. Is there an entity who could? Which links in to the question: Why could Dream (somewhat rhetorical question)? Could any similar entity do it if they also had to grant him a boon? But don’t forget: Can’t be one of the Endless, they’re all family. Unless one sacrifices themselves. I mean, I think I’ve seen Death doing that in a fic somewhere, I think the assumption was she’s okay with dying a mortal death, but I also felt that’s not quite right, since it’s just not the same (also: in her mortal form, she wouldn’t have those powers). Does it have to be The Presence/Glory? Why would they care?

Yeah, he could use the Saeculum I guess, but really? If the problem never existed, it would also feel… wrong? Plus, we all know that changing the past always has implications on the future that go far beyond the thing we want to change. Plus plus: I honestly think it would be a bit OOC for him because he’d feel there’s not enough at stake (like a whole universe imploding) to ever justify that. So no, that’s, IMHO, making him into someone he really isn’t (can of course be an option in fanfic I guess).

Same goes for the Dream of a Thousand Cats Spiel. Someone who is so wrapped up in his duty just wouldn’t do that for his own personal gain, and not even for one loved one (he also wouldn’t be allowed to kick it off by telling anyone, and what 1,000 dreamers would dream that? I mean, WE all would, but that’s a bit… meta?😂). I said what I said.

Or is it some sort of magic? Like, he’s still a severed head, but we make him *think* he isn’t, give him back a body (in his own mind, or maybe even for real)? But that’s also… not great and feels like gaslighting him. Really not keen.

So what say you?

Is this just a case of: Unsolvable problem, hence we might as well pretend we solve it in some ridiculous way or pretend it doesn’t exist in the first place?

[nightwonder7]

HI I HAVE MORE QUESTIONS FOR UR GHOST AU!!!! would orpheus exist as a ghost? or alive with alice?

ALSO ALSO!!!! would there be nortalice 🥺🥺🥺??

im sorry im just rlly interested in tbjs, i love ghost aus!!!

AAaaahhh I'm really glad to hear you're interested in this AU! ;//W//;

Orpheus would be a ghost, but he would have lost most of his memories (kinda like detective Orpheus in canon). While the other ghosts had some of their memories faded with time, Orpheus lost most of his memories upon death. None of the others seem to remember much about him either.

Later it becomes apparent that Orpheus is a key reason for why everyone is stuck in the manor. His refusal of letting go of his past and all the unhealthy turmoil from it combined with eldritch supernatural magic (all the horrible stuff taking place at the manor somehow attracted some eldritch beings to it) created a curse over the estate. Everyone who had died during the games became tied to the place, frozen in time and unable to move on; their unfinished businesses turned into more shackles for the curse that needed to be broken one by one. Then the curse could be lifted. While the ghosts weren't part of the memories Orpheus desperately wanted to return to, that very longing and desperation of not wanting to let go became a cage for them all.

Orpheus having to come to terms with this would be very challenging for him and the others. The resentment of their entrapment being "Orpheus' fault" (unbeknownst to him as well) could even undo some of the ghosts' progress and create more shackles.

I think Orpheus would have a demeanor more similar to his detective self, not anything like in AoM. A bit more reserved, brooding... he'd probably be more involved than the others in solving the mystery of their binding to the manor. He'd probably feel some kind of responsibility without quite knowing why.

As for nortalice, I am tempted,,, very much so,,,

[gyrovagi]

trying to think if any of my ocs would choose to be parents. like ik some of them have kids but enasa died and owain did not know yaz existed. eloy thinks the best thing she can do for morrigan after everything is respect her wishes and leave her and kieran alone. sang loves kieran and is trying their best to parent him well but was absolutely not planning on having a kid so soon under those insane circumstances. best oc parent award has one candidate

i think ga-sun would actually like to be a father but dorian has incredibly complicated feelings about that and also it's not feasible when they're long distance -> even when ga-sun does start living in minrathous post-vg it's just too dangerous. uhh seongmin might be crazy enough to babytrap anders but like anders is not leaving him. What he's trapping anders in is committing to staying alive. i've mulled over dea and valerie taking in an orphaned refugee mage but it never really clicked for me

all bad worldstate-ers would absolutely fucking never have kids. so-min and ga-kei too. the only way for orpheus to break his particular cycle is to not have kids but he's 20 and he doesn't know that. bryn and rosamund... maybe? dak-wai would be SO scared of fucking up as a parent but they would love that kid so much. hmmm githyanki egg......

...i do think there is some part of ambrose that feels this, like, fascination tinged with yearning thinking about the idea of being a parent, just to know what it's like to actually have a familial relationship. and then their relationship with sapadal is somehow parent-child both ways. and also unclassifiable but not not romantic. ambrose thinks of it like soul twins. but that's a whole other train of thought

[lowkeyclueless5137]

So about that event with the past versions of Ladybug and Chat Noir in the one book event where Orpheus and Yuuki try not to face palm at their own parents(also making sure that neither of the other NRC students that came with them aka, Ortho, Sebek, Kalim, Jade, Trey, and Idia[yes let’s add him so he’ll be more confused and freak out more] will blab either). But since you said it was based on the movie(and that movie had some musical parts) does that mean Orpheus, and Yuuki plus the other NRC students will just start randomly singing out of no where(imagine if they are the only ones to notice that yet no one else around them does for weird reason :])

It is based of the movie... But that excludes the wierd singing moments. :v

I did say it is based a bit more from the movie, but it's also a smol mix in between, because if we go fully by the movie, then the reverse episode doesn't have any logical explanation for existing. So it's at the base a mix in between, minus the wierd singing. Like pls no more musicals. I never understood musicals -3-

It is more set during a... Let's say a timeskip. Like a random villan of the week thingie.

Imagine how ladybug and chat noir must've felt when this ladybug and cat heroes from the 'future' are brought up. (this is set in between s4's truth/lies and gang of secrets, so no Alya knowing or all that stuff) Like surely this wasn't any of bunnix's doing.

Plus apparently in class, they have new students. Damocles really didn't do any fucking background check on these 8, just immediately 'sure here's your schedule and everything'. Like damn, now Yuuki and Orpheus understood why their parents didn't really like their high-school principal. This is somehow both better and worse than Crowley.

They got money via pawning some of Kalim's jewels. He didn't have with him his most expensive jewellery and it wasn't like he couldn't get more once they were back, so ya know... Not a significant loss.

Yuuki, Orpheus, Ortho and Sebek get in our akuma class. Jade and Kalim get yeeted in a year older class and same for Trey and Idia. They all used intricate concealing charms and for Ortho they said that he usually wears a mask for health reasons. Ya know, just to not raise too much suspicions.

Ortho actually gets along with everyone. Everyone likes him and it's pretty hard to hate on him. Doesn't mean he won't rip you to shreds if you dare try to target his big 'siblings'(yes, yuuki counts)

Sebek is absolutely all over the fucking place. He hates this class in particular with a burning passion and nothing can stop him. He wants Lila to crash and burn and he is so baffled by the homeroom teach's methods. Basically someone had to keep an eye on Sebek as to not have a fucking seizure.

Orpheus and Yuuki feel like in some complex purgatory, since these are their parents right there. They are classmates! And their mom is pinning for their absolutely oblivious dad.

Kalim befriends the whole school and everyone pretty much would die for this Boi.

Jade is feared by the whole school and no one wants to be associated with him.

Idia dies during dodgeball! :D

Trey is the sane one... He's the most approachable and actually normal one. Until you bring up teeth. -3-

At one point, Orpheus and Yuuki have to give the others miraculous from their box(which is usually hid in the infinite storage dimension from either Yuuki or Orpheus's weapons) and they do bring even more confusion for our og heroes. Sometimes ladybug summons in battle someone with the same miraculous as one of our assigned 'heroes' so it's absolutely clear there's just doubles of every miraculous at this point.

Kalim gets assigned the pig, Trey the turtle, Jade the peacock, Idia the butterfly, Ortho the ox (which kinda is making him a bit too op if he still has all those hi-tech weapons still. He's now untouchable too.) and Sebek the fox (he bonks people with the flute like it's a baton and he's not once apologetic about it)

They tried everything to go back home, but they flunked by the book magic. So only when they fulfill their 'mission' they can dissappear. They don't even know what that is supposed to be?!

Their mission? Help Lb and CN mend their very sour teamwork.

It takes a lot of 'bush spying' and just trying to tell them point blank to try and talk out their issues. PLEASE COMMUNICATE FOR FFS SAKE-

When they do accomplish their mission, the book would get them back to the real world and everyone collectively agrees to not speak about it. Ever. Like they all went through very awkward situations and a lot of face-palm moments to the point even Kalim got salty about sum shit. KALIM! THE NICEST PERSON YOU'D EVER KNOW ALMOST TORE A NEW ONE TO SOMEONE.

Yeah... Nice experience, won't recommend :'3

[4denthusiast]

I don't get why, in fantasy fiction with a modern setting (except superhero stories), the trope of magic being hidden from most of the population is so ubiquitous. There are some stories that don't do this (e.g. Ra by Qntm, Unsong by Scott Alexander, and Bright (2017)), but they seem to be very much in the minority. Having a masquerade is somehow considered the default in non-superhero modern fantasy, even though it's quite a specific trope really.

It's common for the protagonist to learn about the existence of magic at the beginning of the story, which I guess works as a way to introduce the reader gently to the rules of that particular world, but that argument would equally apply to fantasy with a historical (or at least low-tech) setting, where the trope is far less common. Perhaps authors think that the worldbuilding required to fully integrate fantasy elements into a modern setting would be too difficult, but it's not like designing the in-the-know subculture doesn't run into the same issues as designing an entire culture where magic is common knowledge.

Having a masquerade also adds its own problems too. Why does the magical subculture bother keeping it a secret? How do they manage to be so coordinated that there's not a single leak (which should be harder in a modern setting)? How do the non-magic people not notice? It's not that these problems are insurmountable, they just don't seem better than the issues of not having a masquerade.

Maybe readers would find it jarring to not have a masquerade because it's so rarely done? It should be fine so long as you establish the premise clearly and early though. This also is too circular to be the whole explanation. Can I blame the extreme popularity of Harry Potter for starting it? I'm struggling to think of examples of modern fantasy older than that at all (Narnia I guess? That's a portal fantasy where one side is modern and the other side is magical though). Maybe I'm just not widely read enough. Did this develop out of the older tradition of audiences expecting more believability in fiction?

There are even some cases where the non-magic part of the world basically never features in the plot and could just be dropped from the story entirely (e.g. Fate: the Winx Saga). It feels like people are just doing it because it's the done thing, even when their story doesn't actually require it. I know my tastes in fiction are a bit unusual, but I still don't get what's so appealing about the masquerade that it's this ubiquitous.

(I've thought all this for a while, I was just reminded of it by watching Kaos, which looked like totally no-masquerade fantasy except a single weird moment where Dionysus reveals to Orpheus that the gods still live on Earth among humans, as though it's a secret.)

[liedownquisition]

There's an overestimation, I think, on henchpeople being thrown in prison somehow being better for their families. Speaking as someone who spent a significant chunk of their life with a parent in jail, I don't know that I could give you a meaningful distinction that materially benefits the families.

I got to visit him a couple times before he was shuttled off to a holding facility too far away, and phone visits are a nightmare because you never know if there's going to be some arbitrary thing that they decide to withhold that visit from the inmate.

I was, technically, capable of writing letters, but I always stumbled on what to say, and I never knew if he was actually going to get it until I got a response weeks if not months later. It's not uncommon for them to withhold prisoners' mail. Eventually an email system was set up, behind so many layers of red tape. And it had existed for a while by the time we got to use it - it was a privilege he had to "earn" with good behavior from one of the nicer facilities when he was already pursuing an acquittal for his incredibly unprofessional and biased mistrial. (The prosecution repeatedly made fat jokes about him during court, amongst other things.)

most of the time, I didn't think about him. There was this nebulous space where a parent would be but wasn't. It was almost worse than grieving because at least then I'd feel something present of him over my life, but there was nothing just... an empty space.

And that empty space didn't get anything for me. There was no financial benefit - when we could spare something we'd send him money and not even know if he'd get it or if the guards would try to keep it for themselves if it was a worse facility. We were still on food stamps. We were still in the poorer areas of town living in shitty apartments or a beat up trailer that sometimes we'd have to fish stray animals out of our vents.

Maybe there was a thin rope of hope tugging me along. "maybe today he'll get out. Maybe today they'll realize things went wrong. Maybe today, maybe."

it's a matter of perspective. I was young, my father was good to me, but I knew he wasn't good to others. Ultimately, when he did get out, our differences clashed and that emptiness I'd filled with something else and there was no space for him, and to me it didn't feel like the person he became had room for me either.

Jason didn't even know Willis was dead until some time after he'd been with Bruce already. I find it hard to believe that Jason would see a material difference between someone being dead, and them being locked up where they can't support their families either way. Prison isn't some kind of... work retreat where they're too far away to see in person too easily/receive emotional support from but they're still getting paid and can cover the bills.

Someone who is in jail is no longer providing, and if Bruce was going around hunting down the families of every goon that gets locked up and making sure their family is okay, then Jason wouldn't have ended up homeless in the first place.

And it's not like Bruce gets better after Jason's death - it's very very repeatedly mentioned and notable that he is in fact, WORSE on goons afterwards.

Jason makes it very clear that he's willing to be the villain in Post-Crisis. He's willing to have people hate him to get things done.some orphan or half-orphan who wants to get revenge on him Inigo Montoya style is a perfectly acceptable collateral. Meanwhile, he's minimizing things that make a large swathe of people's lives worse.

Would it work in real life? No, but this is fiction, and as other people have already pointed out, this is also literally the same plan Batman himself had. This is exactly what Orpheus and Onyx do. The difference is that Jason's methods are better at dealing with Black Mask specifically, who was the biggest reason their original takeover didn't work and continued to be their biggest contender on the gang front. There's a nonzero chance that Bruce has had this plan somewhere in his files since Jason's days in the scaly panties and Jason might have read it and decided he had more insight to do it better.

In fiction, things work or fail because the narrative, the writers, want them to work. But whether or not Jason's plans work on a street level is never shown, because that's not the story that the writers were trying to tell. Organized crime is rather frequently known for self-policing, and protecting what's "theirs." That's not even a matter of fiction, that's just what fiction is BASED off of.

Anyways, tangent starting to go into left field so I'll end with this: Remember that fiction often uses dramatizations or extremes to illustrate a point, but comics in particular have a tendency to not examine what the actual consequences would be for those extremes.

Unless DC starts confronting the way that the no-kill Bats' methods negatively impact poor communities in a tangible, socially-conscious way? I don't want to hear SHIT about how Jason's methods impact them, because they've had a hell of a lot more time to affect a lot more of the population of multiple cities and Jason's crimelorder-y affected a hell of a lot less given its targets.

Look, I personally really hate Jason being a crime lord and killing goons/small time crooks, it really feels, to me, like an insult to core traits of his character in his origin story (the class consciousness, his father's death, his mother's OD...)

But I have to say all the "whaaa these crooks had families they didn't deserve that" by people who condemn Jason and love Bruce, by people who support the non-killing bats as they work with the prison system again and again (yes there are exceptions this post isn't about them it's about the people who support the bats in working alongside the system), I find that argument really frustrating. Like, remind me again why Jason ended up in the streets? His mom died okay and his dad? Yeah.

Not exactly cool to arrest Willis and put him in some slab where he ultimately gets murdered isn't it? Not cool to take away his freedom and cut him off from the vulnerable people he was trying to support for the crime of trying to support them, right? He was just trying to feed his family... And so do all the goons that non-killing superheroes so often just end up beating up and leaving for the police to find, they had a family too!!

Anyway murder, the vaste, vaste majority of time, isn't the solution for systemic issues. But at least it can offer some damn catharsis for the reader, and is often coherent with the exaggerated agency and impact on the world stories tend to give their characters.

Stories that condemn murder as solutions to systemic issues and end up with the criminals being arrested by the police/thrown into jail bore me to death on a good day, and piss me off more often than not.

[gxyhxrror]

Orpheus and Eurydice is so…like how does one not feel like Orpheus w everything they love…like ok if I keep going n know ur there maybe it’ll be fine, except if I actually look back at u & try to be *with* you…it’ll be lost

[raspberryjellybrains]

Morpheus is a truly fascinating character to look at from a moral perspective because he's such a dick but about 50% of the time it's on accident and the other 50% it's on purpose, but not because of any genuine hate or malice just... poorly directed sadness. Neither of these reasons make it okay, but they make it damn hard to see where the lines are regarding guilt, blame, and forgiveness. As if this isn't enough, hearing Morpheus' take on things (or appalling lack thereof) along with some others makes it even harder to grapple with.

When I'm analyzing this first 50%, I often come back around to asking whether someone should punished for something they didn't know was wrong, which is a normal hard and fast 'no', but this someone has had millinea to find out it is wrong and correct it and hasn't, which then pulls me into questioning where the ignorance becomes willful. Especially when the individual is so blindsided by the idea that there might even be something wrong. Morpheus is cold and aloof, which I put down to a general temperament thing; the problem is that he can't afford to be. This is, quite literally, a major reason why the series ends the way it does. He wasn't particularly mean to Lyta, just not very kind or understanding. He was busy and distracted and hurting and didn't explain what was going on or offer much sympathy (none in the comics). Is it okay that he did that? No. Do I understand why and feel sad that a trait that is innocuous to most was deadly to him? Yes, of course always, yes.

The other 50% where Morpheus is trying to hurt people, it's born out of his own hurt, as most cruelty is. He is not a malicious being; cruel, but not malicious. The way he treats Destruction is from his own wish to escape the weight of their existence and a frustration that someone did it, someone did it and he couldn't stop or join them. He doesn't actually hate Destruction, Dream clearly blames himself at least in part for his leaving and seems to miss him as much he wants to respect or exile him for the deciding to do so. He's on the fence about how to act and overcompensates by being desperately terrible, which is what he always fucking does. That's the worst part! I chose Destruction specifically as an example because the situation lays bare the core of his cruelty very, very well. Nada and Orpheus are good examples as well. Dream doesn't like not knowing what to do, doesn't like being scared and can't stand the idea of being thought of as anything less than perfectly confident and controlled at all times (wow, so healthy!). He doesn't want people to look at him and see someone who needs comfort so he doesn't let them look at all, and ensures they don't by pushing them away at the slightest offense. If they brush against an insecurity or hurt, he's trained himself to lash out rather than lick the wounds. He condemns Nada to Hell when she sees who he is and rejects him for it; He leaves Orpheus on an island for a thousand years because he reminded Dream that he can't fix everything, or even keep those he loves safe; He's so unforgiving and rude towards Destruction because he did what Dream desperately needed to do but couldn't.

Thing is, these are both fixable flaws with obvious sources, but he has spent so long living by them that he doesn't know any other way to do so. Maybe it makes me an apologist—I'm willing to acknowledge that I can tend to hold a warped perspective on things—but I see his core personal moral failings as holding himself to an ordinary standard of behavior when an extraordinary one is needed and feeling that somehow his power and suffering makes him better than just about everyone else (now think about that and Lucifer and lose your mind briefly.) He isn't, on the whole, awful and irredeemable. He's flawed and he's trying, but when one is endless there is very little room for such a thing.

Then I end up asking the question: did he deserve it? does anybody? And that's... hard. Morpheus caused real hurt and damage, intentional or not, across space and time. Does he deserve to die for it? I would like to say no, but I would also see reason in saying yes. The questions get big, applicabilty of death penalty and impact of intention on action big, and that's usually when I stop the train. The point of Morpheus' weird and complex morality is to drive the train straight into the sunset, which I fully encourage those who can do it safely to do but if I did, we would be here until tumblr was ash.

So I can't offer an answer with a neat little bow, or even a particularly persuasive argument as to the final moral determination of Morpheus as a character, but that wasn't necessarily my goal. I can tell you one thing for sure: he would majorly benefit from one (1) positive and healthy friendship.

[bludermaus]

I wanna hop in onto you hopping in to say that they are also very very similar on the way their quest ends, if you believe The Emperor's feelings for you to be genuine in some sort of way

Astarion doesn't believe that goodness can exist in the world after the trauma he endured under Cazador. He even explicitly tells you - regardless if you've romanced him or just been really friendly - that you're the only one he truly thinks is good at heart and the whole world is bad. It is only after dealing with Cazador and getting the Spawn Ending that he sees there can be goodness out there... and that he can be a part of it. That's why he becomes an adventurer in the end... I mean... well... that and also because it is a free source of blood if he gets to kill somebody in his quests but a man gotta feed somehow!

On the other hand, The Emperor has intense trust issues and who can blame him? He was rescued by his friend/lover Ansur and humored him in looking for a cure, he was sincerely sad to see Ansur sad like that and pleaded for him to go... only for Ansur to end up wanting to mercy kill him.

He then later worked with Stelmane, and I know he has "the truth" scene but I believe he tells us what he thinks we wanna hear to confirm we are the "monster" we see him as in that route, because I've seen one or two texts in the game that corroborates that - at LEAST - they started as business partners like he mentioned before. The game it ambiguous enough that it's hard to know if he enthralled her from the get-go or if they had a falling out later in their partnership.

The point is that later he gets betrayed again, but this time by Gortash, throwing him back into the Absolute's arms. This is less of a "a friend I know betrayed me" and more like "non-illithids keep ruining my life" kinda betrayal.

And for the duration of his quest I sincerely believe that a friendly Tav/Durge sloooowly gets his trust for real. But, understandably, he never fully 100% trusts you... you can romance him and then talk to Raphael and he will still be nervous enough to try to mindread you. The moment where he fully 100% trusts you is when you choose him over Orpheus. You - a non-illithid - chose an illithid's life over someone's else's. You showed him that a non-illithid CAN be worthy of trusting with his life, you vindicated his choice of trusting you from the very beginning. And he shows it by telling you he'll miss you and even going through the effort of writing letters to you in the epilogue, regardless of which of the 4 possible Emperor endings you got (Non-Illithid, Lonely Illithid, Knights of the Shield Partnership, Conquering The World Partnership Shenanigans).

And it also makes sense why you can *only* stay with him if you've became a squid yourself... you being trustworthy isn't gonna undo how people have treated him in the past. He trusts you as a friend, he'll write letters to you, he will miss your presence, but at the same time he has to keep you at an arm's distance because you're still non-illithid and... the poor squid needs therapy. But hey, according to the letter you're still free to visit him! So by the epilogue he at least entertains the idea of visits, he's improving.

However, you can live as a squid with him because that's someone who will know how he feels and has less reasons to ever betray him. Case in point, he's so vulnerable and trusting of you in the end that you can as an Evil Durge kill him to take over the world by surprise, or eat his brains as a squid because he didn't expect that from you.

Sorry, I know I spent more time talking about The Emperor than Astarion in this comparison about both, but people have a hard time putting themselves on his shoes and I felt like I had to spend the extra time rationalizing my thoughts about him. If Reddit taught me one thing, is that he was 100% justified in hiding he was a Mind Flayer and some people would/will murder him on the spot for what he is regardless of what he's done for you and the Tadpole Squad™️.

Ooops Astarion fans on Twitter found out about the Stelmane scene and are shitting on The Emperor and saying they're soooo glad to kill him every time now

Well I'm sorry if my comfort character can't be an elf who disapproves of helping others all the time and is murder-happy even in the end-game after his redemption; at least the squid doesn't disapprove of us doing that because he *wants* us to have allies, he even subtly admonishes you for raiding the Grove when you meet him in Act 3 showing he's not in favor of senseless loss of life

Is it so hard to just ask to be respectful to people's favorite characters? Nobody is saying either of them is perfect, but it's not nice to yuck somebody's yam, people just wanna enjoy their faves without negativity and debate about them all the time

[solariaperegrine]

Colin Bridgerton maintains that love at first sight is insanity. That one had to be a particularly teeth grinding cringe kind of stupid to fall in love without knowing jack shit about the other person.

He took a sip of beer before continuing  his rant to Philip Crane, who, on second thought must be the last person he should have vented on.

The guy lost his wife just a year ago.

"It's  madness I tell you!  It's  so unrealistic and the way they portray it in movies makes me want to gag--"

These were the exact words that left his mouth when he saw her . The same exact words he now swallowed because the beautiful girl in sage green dress sat across their table and smiled at her  very obviously gay friend. 

And there it was, like a bolt of lighting.

It must have been what it felt like to witness the birth of Venus. This must be what Orpheus felt when  he met Eurydice. 

Love

How stupid it was to believe it could be possible. Yet...there was not another  word for this.

Was it mere infatuation?  

But he did not feel the least bit turned on.  Not that she is not sexy. 

And not like he is not like any hot blooded male.

Somehow this felt different. He felt like he was a goblet, overflowing.  In the few seconds he glanced at her, his mind filled with visions.

Of himself waiting at the altar. 

Of red haired children dancing in a meadow.

He heard church bells ringing and also heard himself swearing libations to her name.

What is her name?

He wondered if he knew her from another plane of existence. If this had happened  before and he was repeating some Sisyphean task from the universe.  Because  what else could it be, there was no worldly explanation  for the pull he felt in his bones.

The compulsion which made him shift  his entire  body to her direction

He must have heard Philip's attempt to pull him back to earth but somehow his mind won't  register  reason.

Love at first sight.

It doesn't  make the least bit of sense

But there he was walking towards her table .

The beating of his own heart loud against his ears.

...it was love

***

Philip Crane has had enough.

His  best friend and work colleague Colin Bridgerton  kept gawking at the pretty redhead across them.

His mouth hanging open like some idiot.

"You wanna talk to her?"

He said, snapping fingers in front of his face.  

"Y-yes!" Colin replied nervously.  This baffled Philip. Colin has never been the type to lack confidence.

"Go on then!" Philip said, tapping his shoulder.Did he even need to encourage him. The git had already stood from the table. 

"Colin" Philip called again. 

"Yes?" Colin said. 

"Play it cool mate. Don't come on too strong"

Philip held his own breath while Colin sauntered to her table. 

The redhead and her gay friend started noticing Colin  and both turned their eyes to the broad shouldered  man who loomed above them.

"Come home with me" 

Philip just about died. Of all the fucking pick-up lines. That's what he went  with?

"Who are you?" The redhead said,  incredulous, understably.  If  Philip was in her shoes, he would have decked Colin.

"The man who's gonna marry you"

Must this torture never end?

"I'm Colin"

Philip had to do something. He stood from the table and followed Colin, keeping a close enough  distance.

"Is he always like this?" She asked him, when she noticed the look of retreat he was trying to communicate  to Colin. 

"Yes" Philip answered, placing a palm on his forehead. As if being a single father of two isn't enough headache for one botanist. Now he had to provide parental guidance to his friend too? Fucking hell the man himself is an adult who spoke sense just minutes  ago. 

"Not really" Philip tried denying. But he remembered  the way Colin waxed poetics about Penelope, the wife of Odysseus. Sometimes being friends with a literature professor becomes too unbearable, especially  when said professor spent a sabbatical year in Greece then comes back to teach a semester of classical Greek epic romances to a group of youngsters about  half of them, horny young women.

Didn't  help Colin was apparently  very physically  attractive ( how else would he have known. They were classmates in an all male boarding school)

Thus, Philip's last semester  was spent dodging underage girls who kept pretending they have a class with him just to get Colin's  number. 

Is this now an opportunity  for revenge? He'll take it.

"But also kind of yes. I mean to say. He is not really the type to be this bold. He means no harm."

"I'm Penelope " 

Fuck.

"Your name is like a melody" Colin said, almost singing.

Philip felt his eyes roll back inside his head. Of all the names in the known world why did it have to be Penelope? Why Penelope? Why? That will just reinforce Colin's  delusions.

"A singer, is that what you are?"  The  redhead quipped.

"I also play the lyre" bragged Colin, a sheepish smile pulling his lips.

"Oh, a liar , and a player too! I've met too many men like you!" Said Penelope.

"'I am not like that"  Colin said.

"They all say that" she said. With a sad smile.

"I'm sorry" Colin heaved a dejected sigh.

"He's not like any man you've met" Still Philip  cannot help come to his friend's rescue.

"How  come?"  She asked.

"He's actually a classissist"  Philip said. Colin really owes him. Bigtime

"A classist?" She said, smirking.

"Well, he IS a Bridgerton"   Everyone knows the last name. As one would know a Vanderbilt or in the same vein, a Featherington.

"A narcissist?" Penelope  quipped.

" You could say--" Philip began.

"Philip!" Colin snapped.

"Fine. Tell her what you're working on. Orpheus "

To his relief, Penelope  seemed less weary of them.

Actually, is she enjoying  this?

Colin explained his craft. "I'm working on a song. It isn't finished yet. But when it's done and when I'll sing it. Spring will come again."

"Come again?" Penelope  asked.

"Figuratively"  Colin clarified. "Um. Let me show you"

Colin borrowed the guitar from Theo, the bartender who also had on his face, a shit eating  grin.

They were regulars. Now Philip  wondered if he can ever come again to this bar.

Soon however, Colin plucked the strings  and sang. Despite the strangeness of it all, Colin did have a wonderful voice and affinity to music.

The entire bar turned to watched him 

Great. More unsolicited  attention. But when Colin's  voice rang through the air, Philip cannot help be enthralled himself.

Spring will come That's what I'm workin' on A song to fix what's wrong Take what's broken, make it whole A song so beautiful It brings the world back into tune Back into time And all the flowers will bloom When you become my wife

"Oh, he's crazy!" she said.  "Why would I become his wife?"

"Erm Freudian Slip. He means can he buy you a drink" Philip said, getting in between them.

Colin gave him a look of gratitude.

"And why should I say yes to that?"  She said. She did not look weirded out or surprised, but actually  looked like she was teasing for fun.

"Maybe because he'll make you feel alive? " Philip said then wondered how Colin could pay him back for this.

"How do you know that?" She asked.

"He helped me when I lost my wife" Something  flickered in Penelope's  eyes then.

Something warm and wonderful.

"Fine. Mister Colin Bridgerton. Buy me a drink" Penelope said  to the fool, finally. 

Colin looked like a dog who had just been told he will spend the entire day at the park.

The gay friend who just watched everything  unfold with benign amusement suddenly  then took Philip's hand and took them back to their table, leaving Penelope to talk with  Colin.

"My friend just spent an entire weekend crying because of a bad breakup"  He said to Philip, whispering. 

"Let's  leave them be, shall we? What did you say your name was again?"

"Philip"

"Hi Philip! That's funny, My name is Dodi"

Philip let out a laugh.  An involuntary little laugh. He took a long swig of his Long Island Iced Tea and wondered  if he was a side character to some badly written RomCom novel.

[morganaspendragonss]

maybe it will turn out this time

finally posting my @911lsbb!!! i'm so excited for you all to read this 💚 it will be three chapters and they will be posted every two days. word counts and warnings will be in the separate posts for each individual chapter fic title and chapter titles from road to hell from the hadestown soundtrack

summary: Falling in love with TK Strand wasn't part of Carlos's five-year-plan. Falling in love with anyone wasn't part of his five-year-plan, but TK... He blew like a whirlwind into Carlos's life and brought him a happiness he couldn't have even dreamed of. But tragedy is never far around the corner, and when it strikes, that happiness feels like a distant memory. * orpheus and eurydice, with a tarlos twist art by the absolutely wonderful and talented @dangermagnetstrand here! ao3 | 5.2k | hadestown references, first meeting, developing relationship, non-linear narrative

banner by @maomarty-blog

chapter 01: it's a love song

TK wakes up to warm, strong arms holding him close to a firm chest. A lazy smile curls on his lips and he doesn’t bother to open his eyes, snuggling back further into the embrace instead. The grip tightens around him and lips press into his hair. TK doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was this happy.

Too long; weeks, months — or that’s what it feels like.

But, really, any time away from Carlos would be too long.

*

Carlos’s five-year plan is simple: work hard, establish himself in the department and in his captain’s eyes, and make (or at least start the process of making) detective. His friends like to mock him for it; they say he’s turning into a workaholic and he needs to lighten up, that he’s going to forget how to have fun.

It’s stupid. Carlos knows how to have fun. He’s just not interested in the type of fun his friends usually mean.

Carlos isn’t a relationship guy.

He used to be, or he could have been had his first real relationship not blown up rather spectacularly when the parents issue came up. He can’t be the one to start this conversation again, so they’re at an impasse, and it’s not an obstacle Carlos feels comfortable removing right now. The avoidance is even comforting, now; it means he can still pretend that things are okay. 

Anyway, he figures that, while that’s the case, no guy is going to be willing to give him the time of day. And, sure, Carlos is open to being surprised. If love, somehow, appears in his life, and this guy, somehow, has no problem with Carlos’s ridiculous hang-ups, then he’ll happily eat his words.

He’s just not planning on it, is all.

He’s not planning (though he doesn’t know it yet) on TK Strand.

“I still don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” he grumbles, though he only makes a half-hearted attempt to get out of Lena’s grasp. His youngest-elder sister is famous in their family for always getting what she wants, and she can strong-arm anyone into anything. This was true of even their abuelo on their father’s side, who was a hard nut if one ever existed.

So it’s hardly surprising to Carlos that she’s succeeded in dragging him out to an open-mic night on his evening off, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Stop whining, Carlitos,” Lena huffs, smirking as he rolls his eyes at the nickname. “No one ‘talked’ you into anything; you want to be here and I can tell.”

“I really don’t.”

“You really do.” She speeds up and Carlos has no choice but to let her drag him through the bar, lest he get swallowed by the crowd around them. Hopefully, he’ll be able to sneak out before it gets too late, but he’ll play along for now — at least that way she won’t be able to say he didn’t try.

An hour in, he’s seriously regretting that decision. Most of the singers are drunk and so out-of-tune that Carlos thinks his ears will be ringing for days, the beer is warm and overpriced, and Lena abandoned him at the table fifteen minutes ago to talk to a couple of friends she spotted.

Carlos would use that fact as an out, but she’d asked him to watch her drink and, as both a cop and her brother, he can’t in good conscience leave.

So he remains, sipping at bottom-of-the-barrel beer and fantasising about his bed. He’s barely aware of it when a hush starts to fall over the bar, too in his head and regretting his decisions to bother with this whole thing. It’s been fairly loud all night, most of the crowd not even really quieting for the performers.

Until now.

Now, the bar is near silent, with most turning toward the stage for the first time all night. It draws Carlos’s attention to the stage where a guy who looks to be about his age is just starting to sing. He’s attractive, Carlos won’t deny noticing it, with bright green eyes and a smile that could probably charm even the most hardened criminals into telling the truth. He actually looks kind of familiar, come to think of it, but all thoughts of the man’s identity are knocked from Carlos’s head as his voice starts to wash over the bar.

King of shadows,

King of shades…

Carlos stops focusing on the lyrics and lets himself be carried away by the mystery singer’s voice. It’s as though he’s put a spell over the bar; even the bartender has ceased polishing glasses and is staring at the man on the stage. The song has a haunting melody, beautiful and lilting, and, though he’d never even heard it before this moment, Carlos finds he can’t imagine it being sung by anybody else.

This song was made for him; he was made for it. 

Maybe it’s the singer’s manner. His eyes are closed and there’s a small, private smile on his face, as though he’s forgotten he’s in front of an audience. He sways in time to the rhythm, his fingers moving expertly across the strings of his guitar. It’s this that captures Carlos’s attention the most — he doesn’t know why, but he finds himself lost in the moment. All he sees is those skilled hands; all he hears is that gentle voice and the beautiful notes of the song.

Then, suddenly, silence falls again.

It takes a moment for Carlos to pull himself out of his stupor, and by that point, the singer is already giving his thanks and walking off the stage. Someone else takes his place, and just like the flipping of a switch, everything goes back to how it was. Another out-of-tune voice fills the bar, loud shouts start to drown it out, and the crowd, so still a minute ago, is once again almost suffocating with how close the bodies press in.

Carlos isn’t entirely sure he didn’t dream the entire thing. He tries pinching his arm to check, but it turns out there’s no need; he’s very abruptly reminded of reality when Lena suddenly grabs his shoulders from behind, making him jump.

“Do you mind?” he demands, the grouch firmly back in place.

Lena just winks at him and leans to whisper in his ear. “Told you you’d like it here.”

His cheeks flame, but Lena is gone before he can get any stammered protests out.

*

He’s missed this.

It’s a strange thought to have, TK realises — he sees his husband almost every day, shifts allowing — but it’s true nonetheless. He’s missed watching Carlos bustle around the kitchen, whistling a soft little tune and juggling more pots and pans than the TK of a few years ago would have believed were needed for breakfast.

That’s the least of the things that have changed since he met Carlos; the TK of a few years ago would never have believed that one day he would have mornings like this in the home he shares with the love of his life — a man who accepts him for everything he is and isn’t.

The TK of a few years ago was more likely to end up dead in a ditch than with all of this.

But he does have this, and so TK takes a moment to bask in it, to soothe this strange feeling in his chest. He leans against the bedroom door frame, a small smile growing on his face as he watches Carlos, who is still oblivious to his presence. 

The ache flares up again and TK rubs at it, but it just continues to grow, stealing his breath and sending a chill over him. TK closes his eyes and shakes his head, hoping it will knock this sudden sensation of wrongness from him, but it doesn’t work, and when he opens his eyes…

When he opens his eyes…

Carlos is gone.

*

He can’t get the singer out of his head.

Carlos doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. This isn’t him. He doesn’t fall in love with guys at first sight — fuck, he doesn’t even think be believes in love at first sight. But ever since he went to that bar with Lena, his thoughts have been filled with flashes of green eyes around every corner and soft strums of a guitar in every song.

And, speaking of songs, he can’t find the one the guy sang at the bar. It apparently doesn’t exist outside of those three minutes, which is not helping to dissuade him from his theory that he was hallucinating or dreaming or — or something. 

Except, his heart lurches in a very real way every time he thinks about the stranger, and Carlos isn’t sure he could have dreamed up a guy like that. 

Then, there is the fact that Lena is taking every opportunity to tease, which is something Carlos wishes he was dreaming. It’s inescapable; when she can’t get to him in person, she’s blowing up his phone in every way she knows how, asking how the ‘love of his life’ is doing and when the wedding will be.

Carlos tries to ignore her — this is generally the best tack to take with Lena. If he lets her see for a second that she might even be slightly right she’ll become unbearable. 

It’s just a crush though, or that’s what it’s going to be. Austin may be a small town, but it isn’t that small; his chances of ever seeing the guy again are below zero, and his chances of talking to him are even lower. 

It’s a thought that helps him in his quest to forget the singer. Though Carlos knows that haunting melody will stay with him for a long time yet, he can make his peace with this, at least, remaining a mystery.

Then the storm hits.

*

“Babe?”

TK blinks and Carlos is in front of him again. He gapes at him and blinks again, and again, finally reaching out to touch him. Carlos’s chest is solid under TK’s hand, just as it always has been, and it stays that way when TK collapses into him, his heart finally slowing from the rabbit’s pace that came when Carlos disappeared.

Carlos’s hands come up to hold TK, but there’s a hesitancy to them that belies the frown that must be on his face. “Babe?” he repeats, more worried this time. “Are you okay?”

TK nods into the crook of Carlos’s neck. “I am, now that you're back.”

“Back? When did I leave?”

TK pulls away, though he refuses to let go of Carlos just yet. There’s this feeling inside him, inexplicable, that if he moves away now, he’ll never see his husband again. That Carlos will vanish, and never return.

His silence is obviously worrying Carlos, so TK pastes a smile on and leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. It’s a stupid thought anyway; Carlos would never just leave him like that. That’s always been TK’s move.

“Nothing,” he says. “For a minute, I thought… It’s nothing. Guess I’m still half asleep.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow, so much fondness in his expression that it aggravates the ache. It’s like a longing, but it can’t be, because all TK longs for is right here in front of him. 

“You do realise it’s nearly twelve, right?”

He shouldn’t be surprised. He’s never been an early riser on his days off, but Carlos’s words still catch him off guard. He could have sworn…

Carlos laughs and finally detaches TK from him, pulling him out of his thoughts. TK mourns the loss of contact, but he tries not to focus on just how deep that loss seems to feel, instead trailing after Carlos and instantly latching back on as soon as he stops in front of the stove.

“Clingy this morning, are we?”

TK isn’t sure himself what the mumble that escapes his mouth is supposed to mean, but Carlos doesn’t object when he holds on tighter.

TK relaxes into his husband, and he wishes they could stay this way forever.

*

Carlos keeps his hood up and his head ducked, shivering as cold drops of rain still manage to work their way underneath his clothes. The weather took a turn a few days ago, scorching hot sunshine suddenly becoming bullet-like rain and winds so strong it sometimes feels like he’s going to fall over. 

He still has his job to do, of course, but fortunately his only job at this scene in particular is to keep the public and press back — something that’s a lot easier than normal; even Fox News doesn’t want to risk potentially losing a reporter for a bit of gossip. So Carlos is able to stand at the edge of the scene, mind on the warm coffee he has waiting for him back at the precinct, and feeling more than a little bit sorry for himself.

That is until Lexi grabs his shoulder and snaps him out of it, directing his attention to an argument that’s apparently broken out between a patient and one of the paramedics. He can’t hear what’s being said over the storm, but the body language is enough to know that the argument is heated and the patient is showing no signs of calming down.

The guy takes another step forward; the paramedic one back. Carlos groans — why can’t people just be grateful for their help — and strides forward, covering the distance as quickly as possible.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says, muscling his way between the paramedic and the patient. “Is there a problem here?”

“Yeah. Yeah, there is a damn problem.” The man glares around Carlos, presumably at where the paramedic is. “The problem is that this bastard is trying to force himself on me.”

Carlos raises a brow.  “That’s quite a serious allegation, sir. Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure! Ask him!”

He turns to the paramedic, who looks at him wearily and holds up a wad of now soaked gauze. “He cut himself on some glass; I was just trying to help.”

“And I told you no!” The man lunges forward again, causing Carlos to stumble a little bit as he tries to hold him back. The paramedic has backed off completely now, but Carlos feels no real need to pursue him; the concern radiating from him and the untreated gash he can now see on the patient’s arm indicate that he was telling the truth. 

Not that the patient is doing much — or anything — to discredit him, either. He puts his full weight into Carlos, screaming about waste of my time and healthcare costs and anything else he can seem to think of. It takes a while, and a lot of self-control, to get the guy to listen to him, and by then Carlos is more drenched than he ever thought he could be, and thoroughly out of patience to boot.

He wants to just stomp off to the cruiser and get on with the miserable journey back, but he’s stopped quite literally in his tracks by a voice calling him. 

“Officer! Hey, Officer!”

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, making sure a pleasant smile is on his face when he turns back around. 

To find the paramedic he’d helped standing barely a foot from him, and Carlos feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

Because, it’s…

Well, it’s him.

It sounds ridiculous and clichéd, but Carlos knows it to be true anyway; he would recognise those eyes anywhere. They’ve been living in his mind for weeks, this pretty, sparkling green that he’s certain he’s never seen in any other person. The smile, too — gentle, but slightly crooked — is familiar, and suddenly it hits him like a bolt out of the blue.

Of course the singer at the bar had been familiar to him.

Carlos works with firehouses all around town, but the 126, which this paramedic clearly belongs to, is kind of a legend in Austin. Brought back from tragedy, spearheaded by a new, fancy captain, filled with transfers who all seem to individually attract more problems than entire firehouses put together.

Everyone knows who the 126 is.

Carlos isn’t really sure how he didn’t put the pieces together before, but he’s not given time to think on it. The paramedic — Strand, his chest patch reads — is starting to frown, probably a bit confused by the staring.

“Uh, Officer Reyes, right?” he says, laughing a little nervously. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did back there.”

Carlos blinks, mentally shaking himself. “Just doing my job.”

Strand smiles again, his gaze very obviously raking up and down Carlos’s body. “And doing it very well, if I may say so.”

He’ll deny this to anyone who asks; he’ll tell them it was just an effect of the cold. But, in reality, it’s Strand’s words that set off the hot flare on Carlos’s cheeks, making him suddenly feel like he’s burning up rather than standing in the middle of one of Austin’s worst thunderstorms in years.

“Um, I, ah—” He bites his lip and swallows — get it together, Reyes. “Happy to be of service.”

Because that sounded completely normal and not at all like he’d been strangled.

Whatever Strand was looking for earlier, he seems to have found it; he grins widely and reaches out to lightly touch Carlos’s arm. 

The shiver that runs through him at that action is just yet another effect of the cold. Or so he’ll say.

“Yeah,” Strand says, so quiet that Carlos swears he shouldn’t be able to hear it. “I’m TK, by the way. Maybe I’ll see you around, Reyes.”

Then, he gives Carlos one last grin and heads back to the ambulance, shaking himself like a wet dog before climbing into the driver’s seat.

It doesn’t occur to Carlos until the sirens are well off in the distance that he never gave TK his own name.

It’s ridiculous how quickly his crush grows from there. Carlos tries to remind himself that a relationship is not what he’s looking for, that he needs to be focusing on his career rather than an attractive guy who has the gift of charm and knows how to use it. 

Unfortunately, the TK Strand living in his brain doesn’t seem to get the memo.

“What is wrong with you?” Lena demands, slumping down next to him on the sofa and smacking his shoulder. 

They’re at Tía Lucy’s for the weekly Sunday dinner, and while Carlos normally enjoys these gatherings, it’s hard to be fully present when he can’t stop thinking about the glimpse he’d caught of TK yesterday. He’d been wearing his long-sleeved uniform shirt which looked too good to be real, and he was smiling and nodding along as the little girl he was treating rambled on at him. 

It had been painfully endearing, but maybe Carlos could have dealt with it if it hadn’t been for the Look. 

The girl apparently hadn’t needed a hospital, so when TK was done with her, she’d danced happily off to her mother. Not wanting to be caught staring, Carlos tried to pull his gaze away, but he hadn’t been quick enough. His eyes locked with TK’s, and he’d watched as a downright sinful smirk crept onto TK’s face, followed by a wink that set Carlos’s cheeks — and several other body parts — ablaze. 

But explaining all that to Lena would be a serious mistake, so he just shrugs, keeping his gaze fixed on the TV, though he doesn’t know for the life of him what the show is.

“Nothing’s up,” he says, but even he can tell that he doesn’t sound convincing.

Lena huffs. “Carlossssss,” she whines, like the dog with a bone that she is. “You’ve been acting weird for ages, and as your older sister I have a right to know why.”

“No, you don’t,” he corrects, but because Carlos knows she won’t let it go, he continues, “It’s just work stuff; you wouldn’t care.”

“Wrong.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow at her; it’s well-documented in their family that Lena does not and will not — in her words — give a singular shit about any part of her brother’s or father’s line of work. “So you suddenly care about my job now?”

“What? No.” She pulls a disgusted face, looking briefly offended that Carlos would even suggest that, before her expression returns to one of determination. “I meant, you’re obviously lying about it being about work. You always get really boring and serious whenever it’s that — more than usual, anyway — but now you just look kind of constipated.”

“Do not.”

“Do so.” Suddenly, Lena grins in a way Carlos definitely doesn’t like and leans in conspiratorially. “Is it about a boy?”

“And we’re done here.”

Carlos gets up, intending to remove himself as far away from his sister as he can — which is his next mistake.

“Oh my god, it is!” Lena shrieks, loud enough that it catches the attention of several other family members in the room. Thankfully, none of them are their parents and none of them seem inclined to carry on listening, but it still makes Carlos’s heart skip a beat in panic. He glares at his sister, and for once she actually looks contrite. She stands and follows him to the front porch, away from everyone else.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “You know I’d never—”

“I know,” he interrupts, smiling weakly in her direction. “Just, can you please drop this now?”

“Nope,” she says, because of course she does. “I won’t say anything in there, but you owe me more deets. Who is he? Where did you meet? What does he look like? Is he hot? When can I meet him?”

Carlos whips around, and he takes great pleasure in her indignation when he returns the smack from earlier. “Nobody’s meeting anybody,” he says firmly. “It’s just… It’s a stupid crush, alright? Nothing’s going to happen except for me getting over it.”

Lena nods at him, eyebrows raised condescendingly. “Mm-hmm, sure you will.” Then, at Carlos’s hard look, she sighs dramatically and flings her head back. “Come on, Carlos. Are you telling me you’re not going to even try to make a move?”

“I don’t need a relationship right now, Lena.”

“Okay?” She shakes her head at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “You don’t have to have one. Ever heard of friends with benefits? Or even just benefits, I mean, I don’t judge… Where are you going?”

Carlos doesn’t dignify her with a reply as he walks back into the house. He makes sure to spend the rest of the day away from Lena, and ignores all her glares and annoyed text messages, but it’s harder to ignore the thoughts she’s put in his head.

After all… What would really be the harm?

*

They’re curled up together on the couch, music playing softly in the background, when TK hears a soft chuckle come from above him. 

He cranes his neck to look at Carlos’s face, unable to keep from smiling at the fond look on his husband’s face. “What?”

Carlos sighs softly, almost wistfully, and kisses the top of TK’s head. “I was just thinking about that night at the open-mic.”

TK’s grin widens — the night in question doesn’t need specifying. It was the beginning of their relationship after all: the night that TK spotted Carlos in the crowd at the bar and went over to talk to him after his performance. 

One thing led to another, and TK woke up the next morning in a bed that was not his own with a real life Adonis snoring softly next to him. He had taken his time that morning to gaze over every visible inch of Carlos’s body — whose name he had finally found out in a breathy whisper as they made out in the bar’s bathroom — trying to commit it to memory. Probably a bit creepy in hindsight, but at the time TK was convinced that it would just be a one-time thing.

He had no idea he was lying right next to his future husband.

“That was a good night,” he says, settling his weight further back into Carlos. “The best.”

But then Carlos shifts upright, forcing TK to move from where he was actually very comfortable, thanks very much. He glares at Carlos, only to be met with a matching, albeit playful, one directed straight back at him.

“Five years together and our first night is still the best one for you?”

“Well.” TK pretends to consider and laughs at the mock offended look Carlos sends him. “Top five at least.”

Carlos huffs, but there’s a grin creeping across his face. He suddenly pulls TK back on top of him, hugging him tight, with an intensity that suggests it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do so. TK makes a noise of surprise, but when he’s recovered, he shifts to face Carlos and returns the hug, burying his head in his shoulder.

“This is nice,” he mumbles, eyes drifting shut. Carlos’s hand ghosts over his back softly — almost imperceptibly so.

“I just love you,” Carlos whispers, so quiet that TK struggles to hear him despite how close they are. “I always will, no matter what you choose.”

*

He doesn’t know how he got here.

Carlos is clearing out some drawer space and he doesn’t know how he got here.

It was supposed to be a hookup.

It was supposed to be a single night of fun, and now Carlos is clearing out a drawer for the boyfriend he somehow acquired along the way. The boyfriend who is sweet and kind and has the prettiest green eyes and the most amazing voice, and who didn’t even run when Carlos messed things up with his parents.

Or, well. The boyfriend who had run, but who also came back.

A drawer doesn’t really feel like enough for the man who is in Carlos’s home more often than not, but it’s only been a few months since they started dating seriously. And it’s not like there haven’t been bumps along the way; first his parents, then TK had confided in Carlos about his addiction, which had taken a while for him to fully understand, and things haven’t…

Objectively, logically, Carlos knows things haven’t been perfect.

But, oh, they have.

He never realised how lonely he was before TK entered his life. Sure, he had friends and he went out occasionally, but his mind was always elsewhere, always on the next thing, always on the job and how he can do better, be better.

Then he brought a hot paramedic-singer home with him, and suddenly found himself with a whole other family.

TK’s friends are loud and every bit as much trouble as their reputation says, and they immediately adopt Carlos into the fold. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that they were TK’s friends first; Paul has a habit of stopping by occasionally with food and seems to know everything about Carlos, despite Carlos being fairly sure he never explicitly told Paul half of it.

Mateo instantly takes on the role of the younger brother Carlos never had and his exuberance is infectious wherever he goes. Marjan and Nancy are both slightly intimidating at first, but they drop the act pretty quickly; Nancy actually ends up becoming one of his best friends.

It’s during one of their now weekly game nights that it strikes him how different his life is to a few months ago. And then the second realisation — he loves it.

Carlos always thought he liked his life as it was. He didn’t think he was missing anything or needed more than what he had. But now he has a whole other family, and a boyfriend his parents love, and a half-empty drawer in his bedroom that he’s already thinking about turning into half a closet.

And he’s happy.

TK Strand came into his life in a whirlwind, and, for once, Carlos is content to let himself get carried away by it.

But the thing about whirlwinds is, if you’re not careful, they might become a tornado.

*

He tries not to let Carlos’s comment get to him. Something about this whole day has felt off, almost like it’s… Well, like it’s too perfect. TK doesn’t even know what time it is; there are no clocks in sight and he can’t find either of their phones or watches anywhere. Carlos said it was noon when he woke up, but it’s like the sun hasn’t so much as twitched since then, like time has stopped completely. And Carlos is just… He’s too perfect, too. Unsettlingly so.

Of course, if anyone asked TK, he would immediately say that Carlos is the perfect man. It wouldn’t be a lie either because he is perfect for TK, but the Carlos he has before him now isn’t his Carlos.

He smiles the same and walks the same and his body feels the same as it always has, but there’s something nagging at TK, telling him that all of this is too good to be true. Even the loft feels wrong somehow.

“Babe?” he says quietly, because the knot of anxiety in his chest telling him that this isn’t where he’s supposed to be is too great to ignore, even as his brain screams at him to let things be. “Is everything… Are we…” He huffs, frustrated; he’s never been the best at articulating his feelings, but this time it’s just impossible.

Literally — every time TK tries to come up with the words, he draws a complete blank.

Carlos frowns. “Are we what?” he asks, his voice so soft and caring and Carlos that TK almost tells him it’s nothing.

The word is halfway out of his mouth, in fact, when he manages to catch himself. “I don’t… Is there something we’re supposed to do today? I feel like I’ve forgotten something.”

Carlos’s face clears and he smiles sympathetically, as if this is a regular occurrence for them. And, okay, TK will admit that he does have a slight tendency to be forgetful, but he’s not this bad, right?

“You haven’t forgotten anything,” Carlos soothes — soothes? — as he strokes TK’s cheek. He must read the confusion on TK’s face as something else, because he follows up with, “Don’t be embarrassed, the doctor said memory loss was to be expected, remember? It’s okay.”

If Carlos says anything else, TK doesn’t hear it. A wave of static fills his senses and he feels suddenly off balance, like the loft is literally disintegrating around him. He pushes away from Carlos’s embrace and lurches to his feet, breathing heavily as he tries to centre himself again.

“What are you talking about?” he gasps. “Doctor…memory loss…what… What is this?”

He searches his memories for something that could explain this, but again and again he comes up empty. He can’t remember anything. And it’s not that he doesn’t have memories — he remembers his life in broad strokes, he remembers meeting Carlos and their wedding day and the last vacation they went on — but yesterday, last week, last month, even, is entirely a blank.

He doesn’t remember anything.

“Tyler,” a voice says, Carlos’s he thinks, but he’s suddenly not sure because a cacophony of beeping has started in his brain and there’s yelling coming from somewhere and hands grabbing him and—