#sorry but the readmore is broken for me

[neversetyoufree]

Guess who noticed a really interesting tiny detail again?

Beloved mutual torterrachampion recently pointed out to me that the special thanks page in each vnc volume always has a nice crisp lineart version of the frame from its cover, and there's some really interesting details hidden in there. A bunch of the thanks pages even show extra details that aren't there on the actual color covers themselves!

In particular, volume 2's frame has this whole bottom bones/flowers arrangement that's totally left out/hidden on the actual cover:

And right off the bat, there's a couple things about that bottom arrangement that really catch my eye.

First of all, the position of the hands there strikes me as pretty important, since uh

reaching out and down toward Vanitas is a pretty major recurring image for Noé. It makes a lot of cool symbolic sense that this shape of reaching hand would show up in his frame, since it seems to be so important to his story.

Even more interesting than that, though, is what's going on with the left eye of that bottum skull. It looks like the skull's been partially shattered there around the eye, and while Mochijun does generally seem to enjoy a bit of cracked bone imagery, this one stands out to me because:

Something happened to Noé's eye when he was a kid, but he's never once acknowledged it, and we've never gotten a single hint at what it was beyond it happening with the traffickers. And now the one skull featured on his cover's frame has a huge crack around its eye.

This doesn't actually give us any new information beyond just drawing yet more attention to the eye mystery, but. DAMN.

The rest of the imagery in this frame (the book and pen, the mourning lilies, the reaching hands) is all pretty central to who/what Noé is as a character. So while the cracked skull is/could be just a clever little nod to the existence of the eye mystery, its surroundings make me wonder just how relevant that injury is going to be.

[tubifexx]

I've been thinking about the concept of a drunk Carrion ever since it's been bought up.

Okay, so alcohol basically has to pass through your bloodstream in order to help get you intoxicated. However, due to Carrion not exactly having a bloodstream, nor skin to help hold in all of their blood. Does that mean it would sorta...filter out?

Like, they wouldn't have a desire to drink alcohol. They know what the stuff does, but even if they didn't, they just don't like the taste of the stuff. It also carries no nutritional values for them.

BUT! If they somehow would digest a large amount of alcohol, i think it would just simply... ooze out of their body then have a lasting effect on them. They might move a bit more disorganized, but yeah.

So so far, im leaning towards No, Carrion can't get drunk. Buzzed, but not drunk.

But then i went, 'Ya know. Maybe worms CAN get drunk?' so i tippy tippity my ass to google to see if different kinds of worms can get drunk. And guess what? They used to. Used To.

Why? Why would you do that? Apparently, with a small tweak of a certain molecular. They just...dont get drunk anymore. So, that helps in the 'Carrion can't get drunk' theory, science Bullfuckry. But Wait, there's MORE:

So, the test worm lives up to about 15 days. With a tiny amount of alcohol, it lived up to 40 days. The worms had dissolved the cholesterol in ethanol. It's a solvent. The little guys just Did That on their own.

So, take away is either 'Carrion is immune to Drunk' or 'Carrion breaks down the liquor and ends up living LONGER' and im not sure which I'd rather go with

[princess-of-purple-prose]

[ID: Scum Villain fanart featuring Zhuzhi-lang and Tianlang-jun. The first page features shows Zhuzhi-lang, a long-haired young man with scales on his face and robes, clawed fingertips, and snakes curling around his neck, looking surprised and earnest as well as sticking out his forked tongue with disgust at a sheet of paper.

A colored piece shows him in green robes, looking nervous. There's also a piece of Tianlang-jun laughing vigorously patting Zhuzhi-lang on the shoulder as he boisterously exclaims, "My nephew is such a catch!" Zhuzhi-lang buries his face in his hands with mortification.

The second piece shows Tianlang-jun in color. He's a broad-shouldered grinning man with gray streaks in his hair. To the side, Shang Qinghua says contemplatively, "You know, Tianlang-jun is kind of a--" Shen Qingqiu scowls, "Don't you dare finish that sentence." Shang Qinghua exclaims, "You don't even know what I was gonna say!!" and Shen Qingqiu replies, "I was also raised in the 21st century and have eyes, I know what you were about to call my father in law." Below that is an uncolored piece of Tianglang-jun laughing beside Zhuzhi-lang, who seems curious. End ID]

Them🥰🥰

[pinkopalina]

x

[littlestpersimmon]

Rbs are off because I don't want this to take too much attention from more important things. But I currently only have 4 teeth left on my upper mouth- have been saving up for almost 3 yesrs now for a tooth implant bc I don't want my entire upper row of teeth to be just dentures;; I've neglected my dental health for years due to homelessness and perpetual poverty in the global south.. and because my parents are both very disabled... and because of a fear of the dentist. I currently have two jobs- one is industry work, and the other is doing commissions. I swear on everything I am working as much as I possibly can, but for the past few days my mental health has been very very bad, and I've not been able to work as much as I usually can. I'm nervous because I was not able to draw anything for patreon this month, so am rushing to work on both patreon, and my other two sources of income / workload. A few days ago I collapsed, and ended up hurting my lower jaw / cracking my tooth and experiencing significant paint. I would absolutely love to go to the dentist this month or next month. Hopefully I will just open commissions once I finish the batch I am working on, but atm I just.. I don't have the time or strength or health to draw as fast as I can. I have a tipping jar.. and maybe if you guys like my art, maybe you could send me a small tip. I'm sorry I've not been able to draw of late; I've not had a single proper/ planned day off since August. Thank you for reading, and please stay safe.

(Links are still broken, so pleade just remove the a href thing that tumblr adds)

https://ko-fi.com/littlestpersimmon

https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/littlestpersimmon/

Thank you. This is a pic of my cracked tooth; (not graphic, but under a readmore bc it's a part of my face / embarrassing)

[a-heart-of-kyber]

Whenever anyone bitches about Reid in Proof I'm just overhere like, "I would've been worse."

I'm not gonna beat around the bush and both sides this; imo Reid had a right to his anger and JJ was in the wrong.

Whenever I see the anti Reid arguments for this episode, it's always "Reid's anger was valid, but-" and then they proceed to invalidate his anger....

Now this is very Anti JJ, and not exactly pro Emily or Hotch either, and I am not looking to be convinced otherwise. There are tags and a readmore and now a warning. If you are bothering to read this any further and you disagree... you made that choice, not me.

Starting with s6 Emily. She literally put them all in danger and Knew it. She never would’ve prepared them until Doyle did what he did despite knowing they were threatened even before meeting with Doyle. Meaning one or more of them could've died probably without even understanding why. It's only because Doyle was looking to trap her that none of them were hurt.

Now, Proof opens and we immediately find out that JJ had already been bugging Reid to hang out before the episode. Which she clearly had been doing despite her knowing he was actively avoiding her. "He hates me." Makes it clear this wasn’t a one-time ask.

Hotch then, ignoring the tension, pairs them up.

Is Reid passive-aggressive? Yep. Is his passive aggressiveness based on her (JJ's) actual actions and the breach of trust and deconstruction of character caused by those actions? Also, yes.

Not once does JJ open one of these potential conversations with "I'm sorry." Because, guess what, even things you view as Necessary and Right can genuinely Hurt People. Best way to handle it? Take Accountability for your damn actions and apologize.

Hotch takes accountability in 7x01 and the first words out of Emily's mouth are "I'm sorry."

Instead, JJ puts the onus on Reid to open up because, to JJ, she is entitled to know his feelings. To JJ, she is entitled to his forgiveness.

During their period of grief, JJ should have steered him elsewhere to grieve because she was Lying to Him. To Reid, she spent months lying to him and play acting at a grief that he perceived as mutual. That would be mortifying to discover. It'd make someone feel foolish and betrayed. It's incredibly fucked up.

Then JJ goads Reid into a fight by insulting his intelligence and essentially calling him arrogant by suggestioning this was all just the result of a bruised ego, after spending the episode clapping back instead of apologizing. Their fight's foundation is steeped in a feeling of broken trust and manipulation/betrayal on one side and righteousness on the other.

And people have the audacity to say that Reid telling the Truth is being manipulative....after literal months of JJ doing that to him. The only difference being that she was Lying.

Frankly imo, when you push for a fight by hurting someone Even More (Reid had been actively trying to leave), you do not get to play victim when their truth hurts you.

And only after that does she even think to say "I'm sorry."

Plus let's not discuss the bit of this necessary secret where no one seems to actually consider the safety of those who didn't know if Doyle came knocking. Reid, Morgan and Garcia were potential and unwitting pawns/sacrifices the entire gd time. (Rossi says he figured it out....swell.)

In 7x01, Reid wasn’t requesting reinstatement. He would've quit/taken the fall. He was at the very least considering it.

He can't be mad at Emily because she came back to life and said sorry. He can't be mad at Hotch because that's his boss, and he didn't melt down in front of him.

But JJ acted as if his forgiveness was assumed, mandatory almost. That was his Best Friend who let him drown right in front of her....again.

I would've told All of them to get fucked and ghosted because I wouldn't have been able to trust them ever again. And while I have abandonment issues, I don't have them to the extreme that Reid does. The fact that he stayed is a miracle.

[opashoo]

Hiiii! I mean, you're very, very good at drawing. And also ask if you have a favorite ship by rw. So I want to draw something for you. You are a very cool artist

I'm sorry if I'm distracting you from important things

I'll say it again, you're cool

Oh thank you! That's so nice to hear! The past few months have been a lot of growth for me so it's nice that it's noticed. And you don't have to worry about distracting me! I'll answer in my own good time, there's no rush. As for my favorite ship uhhh readmore so I can talk about it because I have a lot of thoughts

ArtiHunter is my top favorite ship. Beyond just "They are both violent and red", I like to imagine that Hunter's got a straightforward, no-nonsense but compassionate attitude. She would tell Arti, "What you've done is awful and I can't forgive you on behalf of all the people you've hurt, but you have the chance to stop hurting people and make things better." I like to imagine that even though Arti is full of anger and hurt, she would appreciate someone who wants her to be better, and doesn't say, "Well it's all in the past, it's okay because I like you." An Arti who wants to do better or is wrestling with guilt would probably hate that so much. My ArtiHunter's not about redemption or forgiveness or violence, it's about acknowledging the hurt you've done and doing better, about two people slugcats making each other better.

RivuSpear is probably my next favorite. To me, Spears is very easygoing, but just a little cynical and neurotic, and Rivulet is very fun but anxious and maybe even legitimately bipolar. I think they could settle into very easy rhythms where they take turns talking and listening. Like they probably each feel broken or alien in some way but they love each other including their eccentricities, not despite them; not because they love when a person is damaged but because they love the whole person. Together they probably feel like everything is right with the world, not because they're normal but because they can be themselves.

Anyway I mention both because I don't really ship any other slugcats and I know that sometimes people don't like ArtiHunter. Whichever one you draw, I will be eternally grateful 🙏

[tatiejosie]

📻 A Donald Ferguson playlist

A couple of songs that I associate with Donald, along with the lyrics that remind me of him. The lyric bits are translated to English for practical purposes, but please be curious and check the entirety of the songs!

📼 I suggest clicking on the playlist in the title to have everything at the same place, but each song is linked under the readmore.▼

▶ 万有ヱレキテル / The UniversaL ElekiteL - sasakure.UK

[no lyrics]

▶ Delirious - 照井順政

[no lyrics]

▶ L’enfer - Stromae

Everything I’ve thought about To say that plenty of others thought about it too Nevertheless, I feel alone So I’ve sometimes had suicidal thoughts / And I’m not proud Sometimes we believe it’s the only way to shut them out These thoughts that put us through hell These thoughts that put me through hell

///

You know, I’ve reflected a lot And I don’t know what to do with you That’s the point - reflecting That’s the problem with you

▶ ムーア - sasakure. UK × メゾネットメゾン

I clawed at what lay behind this world An abnormality in the dot-dash frequency Chasing after a formless signal A nonsensical love song Signals the coming of a sad farewell A strange uttering and a love for reform The end is quaking

///

The experimental body that rejected that wish for resonance Distress and dissection, thunder and solution An empty grace The mutant weeping in this darkened world The automata's repentant response, these horrid feelings The end is quaking

▶ Being human - Steven Universe Future

Just a little time Just a little something that I need Just a little time Just a little feeling gaining speed I'm dreaming of going going going Going somewhere and Being being being Being human

▶ Body Terror Song - AJJ

I'm very sorry that you have to have a body One that will hurt you, and be the subject of so much of your fear It will betray you, be used against you, then it'll fail on you my dear But before that, you'll be a doormat, for every vicious narcissist in the world Oh how they'll screw you, all up and over, then feed you silence for dessert

///

Eyes and hands, sometimes bullets, Uninvited, passing through us Uninvited, passing through us I'm sorry that you have to have a body

▶ 幽霊みたい - 歌愛ユキ

From a dark pedestrian bridge where the streetlights have been cut off I'm almost sucked into the intersection overlooking it Even if I disappear from the world No one will notice As I drift and roam around Like a ghost I wish I could live like her In a city where bodies are transparent

///

Can I talk to you for a minute? (Forgive me) I hear you really want to live (Though life feels pointless) You're a selfish ghost (I felt like jumping in)

▶ 愛を探して / Searching for your love - Kikuo

Where is this place? How long have I been wandering in a dream? Where are you? Where is that place? How long have I been lost in the fog? I'll wait for you in my dream as long as it takes, you with your broken skull. Hold me tight / hold me close. I'll wait for you to come hold me / stuck in my child state. As long as it takes...

▶ Jinzou Enemy - じん

“When your dreams have disappeared, you can keep going through your daily routine, but what's the point?” What an incredible thing to say.

///

You feel something connecting you to people without faces or voices, but I'm sure that's not really love for one another. Today is coming to an end, but as usual you just pretend and pretend to live, and then sleep.

///

Hey, if you've been crushed under it all, why are you still focusing on what's out there and looking at me so coldly?

///

Even you must know that that's not the best plan. At the end of it, there's only a bottomless loneliness In this room where no light shines on every repeating day, I start breaking down and my noise is echoing.

[borderline Decil coded!!!!! where my KagePro fans at!!!]

▶ dogdog - 虻瀬

I want to die, look, I want to die, if it's going to hurt this much I want to die, I really want to die And yet I can't die I can't die I can't die My body just freezes up and doesn't move an inch Do I want to live? Do I want to die? My skin screams out At the very least, let me scream too

▶ 🔪、🔪、🔪 - Kikuo

Taking the flying bullets will make me HIGH I don't have hands to hold you with anymore Aa, aa, aa

///

When I was brought into this world I screamed for this to be a dream At the moment when I realize my life will end today I come to wonder, what the point, what the point, what the point in all this was But y'know, a philosophical question like that will only be left hanging in hanging in hanging in-

▶ バツ猫 - Kikuo

Let’s crush the ears and the mouth. I can’t make it sound sad, The sound of my crying just sounds so stupid. Every day, every day, I’m trying to forget myself, Myself, myself, myself, myself…

///

I can't see or hear, I won't speak of or smell The happy things or the painful things. Another day where I forget everything, Here at the darkness of a moonless night. Another day where I’m living without a care. Alas.

▶ Don’t - Persona 3 Reload FES

Leave me out I don't want to fight But if you insist There will be consequences It's like I'm Getting stomped on my face While I'm down on the ground, though I / Survived the worst but the worst is yet to come Don't do this to me now I've gone numb

///

Win or defeat / It's empty, gonna feel incomplete Feeling half awake and half asleep Would rather be asleep and dream the days of peace Unbecoming / Everything that I wanted to be Someone tell me / What should I do next?

///

Trapped in time Forever in remorse How could I ever be In peace when nothing else matters to me

▶ La panique mécanique - Dionysos

When I panic, my heart’s mechanic derails to the point where I feel like an old train Loco-locomotive doing wheelies on the rails of my own fears What am I afraid of? I’m afraid of you - I mean you without me - watch, As you can see the steam filter underneath the rails

///

At this point I am stunned like an abandoned bell tower In a desert of blue smoke Just like the fear of leaving, Come on, come on, the hazards of round-trips are causing me to rattle Which I will learn not to - another time, Now, you see, it’s starting to clatter - my heart is filled with popcorn

▶ INVISIBLE - Duran Duran

When you can't even say my name Has the memory gone? Are you feeling numb? Go and call my name I can't play this game, so I ask again Will you say my name? Has the memory gone? Are you feeling numb? Or have I become invisible?

///

When you don't hear a word I say As the talking goes, it's a one-way flow No fault, no blame Has the memory gone? Are you feeling numb? And have I become invisible?

▶ La menuiserie - Stupéflip

Pick up bits of things Pick-up-pick-up Pick up bits of things and then piece them together

///

Mommy please don’t send me to the hospital / I can’t take it, I feel bad there / not the hospital not the hospital / people are too strange there / when I think of them I have nightmares / mentally I am not challenged / mommy I don’t want to see them anymore I swear I am not insane anymore / that was before, when I was insane / last time they wanted to hit me / and I can’t stand the anti-lice / I’m begging you, don’t call them / they’ll suck my brains out / No mommy no, don’t do it I’ll be sweet like a lamb They hit me with a rod / Say I deserved it / They stuff me with barbiturates even when I’ve done nothing Please, please / you know they’ll tie me up Mommy I’m begging you I don’t want to go back

[translating Stupéflip is an ordeal pls have patience and listen]

Here we are! My Donald playlist! Maybe I'll do a Decil playlist????? because i sure have a bunch of songs in the drafts for that

[chaseprice]

hi!! hope i’m not a bother. i just came across u and i wanted to ask something,,,

basically, i joined the life is strange fandom in 2018 so i never got to experience the pre-bts era, meaning i didn’t get to experience what rachel was like to the fandom back then or see the different interpretations of her.

i did some digging and i found some fan content of her from 2015-2016 & i’m absolutely infatuated with all aspects of the fanon version of her, especially her personality & how she looked. i totally wanna embody her. also the love is strange vn was so interesting to play, i love how she was written. i’d love to know more!

i stumbled across ur blog while i was doing my digging and i saw an old long post of urs saying how bts didn’t live up to the fandoms expectations, as almost everyone perceived her differently.

sorry for all the yapping LOL but what i basically wanna ask is,,, how *exactly* did the fandom perceive rachel back then (2015-2016). what were some popular headcanons for her? things you guys even considered to be canon? what were some of your own *personal* headcanons? (can be silly, realistic,,, just anything you thought resonated with her)

do you have any favorite arts from that time period that you thought really captured her? what were your hopes for the prequel/rachels character before it was released? what did you want to see in terms of story? was rachel’s style, appearance, & personality extremely different than what you expected? what did you expect?

i assume that rachels treatment in the fandom was different then than what it is now. whether it’s better or worse, i’m not sure. i was hoping u could answer that too😞. recently i’ve just been seeing constant hatred or lack of care for her character so i’m starting to think that if bts was written differently and based on the fandom’s interpretations instead, the hate now wouldn’t be this bad.

from my digging it seems like you guys had alot of fun sculpting rachel’s character on your own, and the interpretations were probably more realistic than what decknine put together.

anyway i’m sorry for the yapping essay on this random saturday, most old lis accounts are dead & i didn’t know who else to ask☹️. just trying to relive what you guys experienced the best i can. hope i’m not bombarding you with this. thank you so much if u respond !!

hiii u def did not bother me, i am not in a position to answer all of these questions, but although it makes me feel ancient, it's cute to see so much passion for rachel and pre-BTS fandom opinion, so i'll try answer some and for the rest (art, hcs, etc.) im just gonna have to direct you to my archive* (will continue under the readmore)

*(tumblr archive is so broken on mobile so you gotta go on pc for this, but also there's so many gifs from that time so it will Definitely slow down your browser). i was insane and 17 years old so like, just excuse all of the cringe content i guess. you can click tag and filter it by either #lis #rachel amber #amberprice or whatever to try and find stuff like art. and i got into lis sept 2015 so that's like, as far back as it will go, but i was fully lisbrained from 2016 through 2018)

to be honest, in alignment with pre-bts thought lmao, rachel is whoever you want her to be. there was less of 'this is a correct objective fact about her personality/history' and more 'yeah, this is an idea the fandom really likes and has become fanon, most likely because it is a nuanced and entertaining and realistic interpretation of what we have seen of her character in lis1' which means people whose opinions conflicted with that might've be contested/laughed at/unpopular, but they weren't wrong per se. there were plenty of people i'd criticise (and ridicule) back then for implying that this teenage girl was evil, and being a teenager myself back then, i'd call them morally reprehensible and cancellable and whatever, but tbh, as an adult now, i can just see that it was simply a boring interpretation of her character informed by misogyny

i'd disagree with the notion that fandom treatment of rachel's character was better before bts, back then there were plenty of people seemingly excited to characterise her as emotionally manipulative, a cheater, deserved what she got, etc. as well, bc tbh, the story did leave room for that interpretation, but it left room for so much more as well. i feel like bts just really locked in on a certain story they wanted to tell plot-wise, and didn't choose to explore a lot of the questions fans had about rachel as a person. it's hard to turn the ambiguity of a friendship turned situationship over a period of 4 years into a playable experience for an audience - so they didn't. regardless, it got people thinking about rachel more, putting a spotlight on her, hence increased attention both positive and negative. i feel like there's just a fundamental difference between what lis1 fans enjoyed about the potential for her character and how she related with chloe and the world around her, and what deck9 wanted to portray in bts (yes they hit the astrological headcanons, the charmingness, her rebellion, the emotional conflicts... but it personally felt hollow, contrived sometimes, i suppose). but there were a lot of people who loved bts (i enjoyed a lot of parts of it!). just, in my opinion, some of those were quite different people from who loved lis1, and with that wave it brought a lot of emotional immaturity to the fandom (like... ship wars, really? that was an insane change to fandom dynamics for me lmao, but maybe i was just spoiled by surrounding myself with people whose takes i respected)

anyway i highly recommend also that if you're hungry for that kind of content, read fanfiction on AO3 by the old fans - by Mogatrat (TON of rachel centric ones there), explosionshark and tippytypewriter, chicknparm (though Cusp is written post-bts, it's informed by pre-bts characterisations), vicepoint (me hehe), def many more good ones out there those r jus my friends so they come to mind first, e.g. i liked homecoming by kriegersan back in the day, but you could def find some more by sorting the lis ao3 page by kudos and reading the older ones that are highly rated featuring rachel. and lastly, my gf wrote a beautifully worded blog post called "The Assassination of Rachel Amber by the Cowards Dontnod and Deck Nine" which gets into some of this from a media crit perspective (not about fandom) in a very eloquent way thru comparison w twin peaks and i highly recommend that

rachel hcs that def started way before bts: skater rachel, stoner rachel, punk music listener rachel (but also like, fleetwood mac cranberries cocteau twins grungy hippy stuff rachel too), rachel's parents being distant and still living in california, curvy thick rachel, things that i've accepted as canon but were def created by diff people: bri explosionshark hc'd that rachel paid for chloe's sleeve, mogatrat (i think) hc'd that rachel initially went to get her nips pierced with chloe (that's a longtime fan hc now idk who started that one) but chickened out at the last minute, i think she also hc'd that chloe made the earring for rachel which is cute too

[rosanna-writer]

a simple name and everything has changed (4/?)

Summary: we said hello and your eyes look like coming home, Rhys POV chapters Or: Rhys's slow realization that he's mated to Prythian's most chaotic human (and how much he loves her for it Warnings: implied/referenced sexual assault Word Count: ~6k

This is Rhys's POV of chapter 15: even when you're sleeping, keep your eyes open, which is the first training session and Feyre's first reading lesson in the library. This version has an additional conversation between Mor and Rhys that Feyre is unaware of in her POV.

You can find it Here on AO3 for below the readmore.

I should have known it was a dream because Amarantha had me pinned to the bed by the wings. I couldn't move without tearing them; as always, she was on top of me and holding me down. One of her hands was wrapped around my throat.

Helpless—I was helpless. The worst part of it all was the knowledge that I wouldn't run, even with nothing stopping me, because I was supposed to be pretending that I liked it.

I could hear my own voice, as if from a long way off, begging her for more. Wanton and eager, covering up my sheer terror at the thought of what she'd do to my family if I weren't convincing enough.

Something tugged at my chest. If I hadn't been pinned, my hand would have flown to my breastbone. The tugging continued, steady and insistent.

There was a thread, something I hadn't noticed before, but I knew with that strange fuzzy logic of dreams, that home was at the other end. Someone was whispering my name. Familiar, but I couldn't quite place it, unless it was…

"Feyre?" I said, snapping awake and sitting up. My hands and feet had shifted into talons, and I forced all signs of my beast form away before I started growing feathers and tearing the bedsheets.

"Just me," she said.

My stomach churned, and I sprinted for the bathroom before I made a bigger mess of things and vomited into her lap. My knees slammed into the tile in front of the toilet, and I heaved.

As my stomach emptied, I was dimly aware of the sound of the cabinet opening and closing and the faucet turning on and off. Once it was over, I sat back and glanced over to see Feyre crouched by my side, holding out a cup of water.

My throat burned from the bile, but I managed to say, "I'm sorry." Feyre just gave me a meaningful look at the water, silently daring me to challenge her.

But I needed it, so I took the cup and downed the whole thing. The cold was soothing, and my mouth tasted a bit less horrible when I finished. I felt a bit more like myself. "Thank you. I didn't mean to wake you," I added, relieved the words came out sounding like speech and not a croak.

I hadn't meant to make this her problem, too. Feyre needed sleep, and I'd had plenty of nightmares even before being trapped Under the Mountain—I should have kept it contained.

And beyond that, I hated anyone seeing me this broken.

There wasn't the slightest bit of pity in Feyre's face as she regarded me. "You'd think the Lord of Nightmares of all people would be able to sleep through the night."

I didn't understand what she meant at first, my sleep-addled mind still moving slow. But then I realized…she was teasing me.

I narrowed my eyes, more out of a desire to cling to my last shreds of dignity than any real annoyance with her. "That's not quite how it works."

"Then I suppose you'll just have to use a sleeping draught like the rest of us."

A sleeping draught wasn't a bad idea. I'd never slept well Under the Mountain, but taking one had been an unacceptable risk then. In Velaris, however...I was safe enough to risk being difficult to rouse for a few hours.

But that was a discussion for another time, so I stood to rinse my mouth out. The nightmare seemed far away now, but the lingering taste of bile in my mouth hadn't faded. "I'll be fine. Go back to bed."

"I can stay."

I wouldn't ask that of Feyre, not when she needed rest, too. As much as I wanted to fall asleep beside her, I wouldn't risk my tossing and turning—or worse, slashing talons—robbing her of any more sleep. Instead, I just brushed a loose lock of her hair back into place and hoped she knew she wasn't unwanted.

"I don't want to disturb you again. Just knowing you're safe and nearby is enough."

But my heart was still hammering in my chest, and the nightmare had left me feeling unsteady. I didn't want to stop touching her. With her hair back in place, I slid my hand to her cheek and just cupped it, stroking her face with my thumb.

Without a word, she rested her hand on top of mine. She studied my face, her blue-grey eyes unnervingly sharp and perceptive as always, that way of seeing through me she had.

I half-expected her to voice some uncomfortable truth, but she just squeezed my hand and said, "Then get some rest."

"I'll try." I wasn't sure I could fall asleep again.

She kissed me, and I forced myself to pull away and let her go. Every instinct of mine was screaming to hold her and bury my face in her hair until her scent chased away every terrible memory from Under the Mountain, but…I couldn't bring myself to. It was bad enough that I'd woken her up.

Feyre deserved better than a sleepless night tending to a mate she hadn't asked for.

I watched her go, then slid back into my own bed once her door was shut behind her. For a while, I just gripped the bond and stared at the ceiling as the last dregs of nausea faded. After fifty years as Amarantha's whore, an empty bed was a blessing, and I could feel that Feyre was safe and sound. That was enough for now.

I wasn't sure what I expected when I went downstairs the next morning, but it wasn't to see Feyre in Illyrian leathers. On some level, I'd known that she'd wear protective gear for training. But she was human, so I hadn't realized she'd choose something made for someone with wings. She looked shockingly at ease in them.

I was wearing the same thing, and I watched her eyes roam up my body, lingering on my thighs. Feyre wasn't subtle. And I liked it when she looked like she was about to pounce on me.

"Morning," she said, clearly trying very hard to keep looking at my face.

On another day, I might have teased her for it—or said to hell with training and spent the morning in bed with her. But I couldn't stop staring. Until recently, I hadn't seen much of Feyre in the sunlight; it brought out the gold in her hair.

"You look like you've worn those all your life," I said.

Feyre shrugged. "They're comfortable."

She took the stairs two at a time without even realizing it, restless since the moment she'd woken up. While I re-cast the glamour to hide her tattoo and our scent, she was practically bouncing on her toes. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that way, full of energy in need of burning off.

Gods, I was getting old.

It didn't help that my wing joints practically creaked as I landed atop the House of Wind. Normally, I would have flown all the way up, but it had been a struggle the other day, so I winnowed above the wards and glided down.

Az was already there. He didn't look up or even acknowledge me as he wrapped his hands. I wanted to believe he was merely focused on what he was doing, but…I knew better. The initial relief at having me home again was fading, and now there wasn't much tempering my Inner Circle's fury over being trapped in Velaris for fifty years.

I supposed I deserved that.

Fortunately, we weren't alone for long. I swallowed a growl at the sight of Cassian carrying Feyre. For once, it wasn't my darkness trying to slip its leash, but something far more primal that called for fists, not magic. I pushed it down as best I could, but I still couldn't help but feel relieved by how quickly Feyre hopped to the floor and stepped closer to me.

"Take your time warming up. It's been a while, and that's an injury risk," Cassian said, directing it at Feyre.

I probably needed to hear it too, even if the words were in that stern tone of voice Cassian primarily used with impulsive half-trained recruits. Which, I supposed, Feyre was in a way.

We fell silent as we worked through a warmup. During rare snatches of time alone Under the Mountain, I'd gone through the routine just to feel like myself. There had been some days I'd come close to forgetting I'd ever been a warrior at all—my life before I'd been trapped there sometimes felt like a fever dream or a distant memory.

But today, I was careful, spending the time cataloguing the stiffness and weak points. It was obvious enough I needed to get my strength back, but I was missing mobility and range of motion, too.

I wondered how long it would take for my body to feel like mine again.

When it was done, Azriel pulled Feyre aside to work with her as planned. I unsheathed my sword. Cassian turned to me, and the grin on his face was the same one he'd worn the first time he'd challenged me to a fight and won the shirt off my back.

Some things never changed.

"I meant what I said about not embarrassing you in front of Feyre darling," he said. With an irritated growl, I charged him.

The sparring match quickly devolved from there. I was a Carynthian—trained so thoroughly that fighting came to me as easily as breathing. I knew the steps, how to look for openings and parry attacks, to keep my balance and stand my ground.

But my limbs had never been so…sluggish.

Even when I'd been chained in the mud for weeks, I hadn't lost this much strength. Everything burned. And while my mind fell back on centuries of practice, it still felt like my body was moving through mud. Slow. I was far too slow.

I was breathing hard within minutes, too. Cassian hadn't even broken a sweat; this might as well have been an extended warmup for him. I hated knowing that he was holding back for my benefit, that he was taking his time as a favor to me.

I'd never been so painfully aware of every last bit of strength that bitch had sapped from me over the last fifty years. My dignity had been one thing, but it was far more maddening that an enemy general had rendered me so weak and useless in the end.

She hadn't just used my body as a toy—she'd broken it.

I was damn near gasping when I finally lost my balance, falling on my ass then my ribs, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Cassian's sword pointed casually at the center of my chest.

He could have done that whenever he wanted. But of course the bastard had waited until Feyre and Azriel were watching to finally end it. The two of them gaped at me as I took Cassian's proffered hand and stood up.

I knew Cassian was just trying to be courteous as he poured me a glass of water and handed it to me, but it took all of my willpower not to glower and snatch it from him. I didn't want pity.

For a while, no one spoke, which was likely for the best. I gulped down the water, hating how much I felt like I needed it. But the summer morning was already warm, and I could feel the sweat forming under my leathers.

Azriel muttered something about needing to go and took off without looking at me. He did, however, give Feyre a polite nod goodbye. I immediately thought back to the memory he'd shown me the day before—Make her happy, Rhys. She deserves it, he'd said.

Az held Feyre in high regard. I wondered if she knew that, too.

I turned my attention back to the task at hand as Cassian said, "While you were gone, I found some more books on human fighting techniques from the war, Feyre."

That was a relief; if I'd been present, it was exactly what I would have asked Cassian to do. And I was pleased he'd been confident enough she'd come back alive to continue researching.

"What did you find?" Feyre said.

"Not as much as I'd like. The mortal slaves that rebelled were the best experts on human-faerie combat. Most of them were illiterate, so not much was written down. But there are a few techniques to avoid being winnowed away if you're grabbed. We can try them today."

Cassian said it without blinking—he must not have known Feyre couldn't read. None of the Inner Circle could have known; it was the only way I could imagine them sending her Under the Mountain illiterate.

I hadn't realized it, either. What did it say that we were all apparently too stupid to notice my mate—the Lady of the Night Court—couldn't read?

Like always, Feyre seemed to be taking it in stride, however. She set down her cup decisively. "Let's go."

"I'll instruct. She'll practice on you," Cassian said, turning to me. His good humor was gone, but I didn't take it personally. As a mated male, I was a safety risk, likely to react on instinct to anyone striking or grabbing Feyre, even during combat training. If I wasn't in such a weakened state, it might have been prudent for me to leave and call in Mor instead.

I nodded, and enough understanding passed between us that Cassian cracked a smile and added, "Alright then, Feyre. Let's see if those bony elbows of yours can rattle Rhys's pea brain around in his skull."

I let myself feel excited to see what Feyre was like in the ring. Under the Mountain, there had been flashes of potential—her stance during the beating in the throne room, her levelheadedness as she fought the Middengard Wyrm, the gods-damned cannon of an arm she'd displayed when she'd thrown that bone-spear. She was all grit and tenacity and good instincts, exactly the sort of things I'd looked for in soldiers I'd trained back when I'd commanded a legion myself.

If she wanted to be properly honed, Feyre could make herself utterly lethal, human or not.

She took direction well, too. I could see it wasn't easy for her—even though she kept her mouth shut, she scowled every time Cassian corrected her form. But she made adjustments and put everything she had behind each strike.

Despite the obvious improvements, anger continued to ripple off her in waves. I kept out of her head—she didn't need a distraction—and I couldn't tell if this was cathartic for her or merely an exercise in frustration.

But when she switched sides and immediately landed a nasty hit to my jaw with her right arm, I understood.

An archer with a strength imbalance—a tale as old as time. If I didn't think she'd murder me on the spot, I would have laughed and taunted her about fighting me one handed.

Her lips twitched upward as I rubbed the already-healing bruise on my face. I'd take a million more hits from her if it made her smile again.

"Feel better?" Cassian said. She nodded. "Good. Now give me ten more just like that."

There was something blessedly normal about serving as Feyre's punching bag and would-be attacker as Cassian ran her through more drills. I liked watching her put her mind to something and work at improving. It made me feel better about…well, everything.

We didn't stay at it much longer, though. There was still work that couldn't be put off, and training ourselves to the point of exhaustion would only be harmful in the long run.

As he pulled on his jacket, Cassian shot me a look I'd become familiar with over the centuries, the one that meant he had something to say mind-to-mind. I rapped a talon against his shields and he let me in immediately.

I hate to ask, but before I go…do you need help getting back down to the street, Rhys?

He was just trying to be practical. It was a valid question, but that didn't make me want to roar in frustration any less.

No. And Feyre doesn't either.

Cassian raised his brows, and there was an edge to his voice when it rang out in my mind again. Did you just make that decision for her?

The implication was clear—that I was getting into the habit of making choices for the people I loved. He wasn't wrong.

Feyre can't read. I'm fixing that today. I pulled out of Cassian's mind before he could argue; I didn't want to turn this into a discussion. He squeezed my shoulder before taking off, as if he were unwilling to leave entirely on bad terms.

If he was angry, he'd get over it.

I turned to Feyre, who wasn't bothering to hide her irritation at being left out of the conversation. "You're coming with me to the library," I said by way of explanation.

The words had clearly come out too harsh. "Is that an order?" she snapped.

It would be if needed. I wasn't above strong-arming Feyre into learning a skill that was necessary for her survival.

But there was no sense in turning this into an argument for no reason, either. "I want you to learn how to read," I said quietly.

Her irritation melted into confusion, and I knew I needed to be forthright with her. My own stupid assumptions had nearly gotten Feyre killed Under the Mountain, and she deserved to know I'd failed her. So I told her about what I'd encouraged Amarantha to plan for the second task, even as my voice shook and tendrils of night leaked from me again.

For a long moment, she said nothing, and my power swirled around around us, then faded. I braced myself for her anger.

But all she said was, "Then I'll start learning today. We won't make the same mistake twice."

"Thank you," I said, reaching for her hand.

I felt better holding onto Feyre. And I'd missed the library. It was small in the grand scheme of things, but I hadn't been able to make myself comfortable in an armchair tucked away in the stacks in so long. This was the most peaceful place I'd ever known.

Yet the bond still seemed to tighten with Feyre's anxiety as we descended the stairs. Perhaps I'd miscalculated—she didn't have a history with this place, and it was underground.

I squeezed her hand, and before I could say anything, she reached for me through the bond and said, I'm fine. I took her at her word.

All things considered, it was probably reckless to allow ourselves to be seen like this. Now that the borders between courts were no longer sealed, the priestesses in Velaris were likely in contact with their sisters elsewhere. We were almost certainly inviting gossip.

I couldn't bring myself to care, though. After everything…I'd more than earned the right to cling to my mate wherever I wanted to. Feyre was mine, and even if the bond itself was a secret, I wanted everyone to know I was hers.

We approached the main desk, and it was good to see that Clotho looked well. I introduced to her to Feyre and explained the favor we needed—thankfully, there was a priestess who'd been a schoolteacher before she'd needed to seek refuge here, and it was no trouble for her to tutor Feyre.

There was a softness in Clotho's eyes I recognized. She took my hand in her own gnarled ones, and I realized that was the gentleness she used with new acolytes who'd just arrived at the library after surviving something horrific.

I hadn't thought I'd ever be on the receiving end of it.

Rumors of what I'd done Under the Mountain had certainly reached Velaris by now. Clotho knew what I'd sacrificed for this city. She wouldn't bring it up directly, but the quiet understanding and compassion was there.

The priestesses in the library had welcomed me as a trustworthy High Lord—a benefactor, really. But now…we shared something.

I didn't have time to dwell on that. Feyre was already being ushered away for her first lesson. There was business to attend to a few floors up, so I climbed the stairs and delighted in how effortless it felt to use magic to shift my leathers into a more formal tunic and pants.

Except for the piles of paper that had grown exponentially larger during my fifty years away, Mor's office in the House of Wind was virtually unchanged. When I'd appointed her my Third, I'd told her to choose any room for a workspace she liked, and Mor had made this one her own over the centuries.

The shelves were stuffed full of atlases—editions with maps of the Night Court that included Velaris—and records of meeting minutes and court budgets and various quarterly reports. The hand-knotted rug and comfortable leather chairs were the same as before, both in shades of red and brown carefully chosen to match the rock of the mountain.

She'd insisted on no windows to prevent surprise visits from any Illyrians. Being unable to see the sky made my chest tighten, but I didn't feel truly anxious in this place, not when it was so obviously Mor's domain.

She was chewing on the end of her pen and frowning at the letter she was drafting, but her head snapped up as I closed the door behind me. Her smile at the sight of me was bright, even if her face was a bit wan. "How was training?" she said.

I dropped into the chair on the other side of her desk. "Excellent," I lied, wings twitching. "Feyre elbowed me in the face several times."

"She fights dirty. If that's all the damage she did, then you got off easy today."

My heart swelled at the obvious pride in Mor's voice. I'd known my family would protect Feyre when I sent her to Velaris after Calanmai, but I hadn't given any thought to whether or not they'd like her. It hadn't mattered then.

And I still didn't know exactly what had transpired between them during the weeks she'd stayed here with them. Amren hadn't wasted time teaching Feyre to shield her mind, so I'd only gotten brief glimpses. I hadn't violated her privacy.

But by the Cauldron was I curious.

"You trained her," I said, doing my best to restrain myself from interrogating Mor about it. Feyre had looked so at ease in the ring with Cassian and Azriel—to a degree I found surprising considering she was wingless, half their size, and had never been a soldier.

"We all did. Don't think we didn't try to talk her out of it." Mor's brown eyes flashed dangerously, daring me to punish her for not stopping Feyre from going Under the Mountain for me.

I was angry with them. The sight of Feyre in that throne room had filled me with more terror than I knew was possible to feel, and my Inner Circle could have prevented it. The only reason I was trying—and honestly, not entirely succeeding—to choke down my rage was that it had been Feyre's choice.

I'd respect Feyre's decisions even if it killed me. Which meant the rest of my court would, too.

That wasn't the conversation I wanted to have, anyway. Not while I was still so raw and feeling sorry for myself because I could barely fly. So I said, "What was she like with you?"

Mor's expression turned thoughtful as she considered the question. I waited.

"Quiet," she said eventually. "Obviously, she's scrappy like Cassian, but she would silently hover on the edge of things, the way Az still does sometimes. It was clear she was worried sick and everything from your end of the bond was eating her alive but Gods, Rhys, she wouldn't even play cards with us, just watched."

I loved Feyre—deeply, completely, desperately. But there was still so much I didn't know about her. A clearer picture was emerging of her life before I'd come into it, and it worried me how isolated she'd been. There didn't seem to be a single person in the mortal lands she was keen on reuniting with.

In some ways, that made her more vulnerable than merely being human did. A girl who came from poverty, who'd spent all her time up a tree or tracking game instead of in school, or at the very least around other people…Tamlin could have manipulated and broken her so easily.

If I wasn't careful, I could hurt her, too.

"She doesn't get along with her family, either. Yesterday, I told her I wasn't keeping her here, but she still didn't want to see them."

Mor let out a single, bitter laugh. "She really is one of us, isn't she?"

"I just hope she feels that way, too." Seeing Feyre in the training ring gave me hope that she did. But I'd also noticed how quiet she'd been at dinner.

"We all see something of ourselves in her, I think. Even Amren—they're both some sort of magical anomaly. This is the healthiest place Feyre could have ended up. So just…give her some time to settle in, alright? You're both lucky to have each other, and everything is going to be fine."

More than anything, I wanted to believe that was true. But it seemed impossible. "She's nineteen," I whispered, almost afraid to say it too loudly.

As a human, that made her an adult, albeit a young one. Capable of making her own choices. Perhaps it was because I hadn't been around mortals in centuries, but that fact was still…difficult to reconcile.

Mor's smile was sad. "It might be better if we don't think too hard about how much she reminds us all of your mother."

I cringed. But at least I wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

Changing the subject probably would have been the wisest course of action, but there were things I needed to say that I only felt safe expressing to Mor. Even if it was uncomfortable. My cousin was the only one who'd understand.

"When I ate those pomegranate seeds," I said quietly, "was I making the same mistakes as my father?"

She leaned back in her chair, considering it. That much, at least, was a relief—if she'd answered too quickly, especially if she said no, I wouldn't have believed she was telling me the truth.

"You didn't have the power to make those kinds of mistakes while you were Under the Mountain. It's too early to tell, I think."

I stared into my lap, unable to look her in the eye as I said, "I'm scared, Mor. She never asked for any of this."

It seemed entirely possible that Feyre would come to resent this life she'd been forced into. Even if she didn't hate me, she hadn't chosen it. That would be enough to make anyone bitter.

As an immortal, so many human experiences were now closed off to her. And at nineteen, when she'd seen so little of the world…

"You're not the only one," Mor said gently. "When she showed up in the townhouse and Amren confirmed her story, I was terrified for you both. Even with a long lifespan, things between her kind and ours…they're never simple."

Mor's gaze had gone distant, as if she were remembering something from long ago. I knew that look; a memory from the war had crept up on her.

I wondered—not for the first time—if contacting Miryam was worth the risk. It seemed possible the only other person who'd been Made immortal knew something that could help us understand the half-bargain inked on Feyre's arm. But a letter could easily fall into the wrong hands…

Mor shook her head as if to clear it. "That's enough of a pity party for today," she said, half to herself. I started to say something, but a too-bright smile appeared on her face as she added, "Even if it might end badly, that hasn't happened yet. You two just about tore each other's clothes off at the dinner table yesterday, so enjoy the blessing while we have the chance."

Wise words. It was still too much to believe the rest of eternity could be like last night—holding Feyre, making her smile, hearing her tell me in no uncertain terms she wanted to fuck me again. But perhaps…perhaps I could believe I'd have that for a little while.

Before everything inevitably came crashing down. Everything I loved had a tendency to be taken from me.

I straightened, trying to ignore the barking pain in my back muscles that had grown unused to supporting wings. There was work to finish—I hadn't actually come here merely to chat. "Thank you. Now what crises have you been handling in my absence?"

Mor had been spending the past few days putting out fires. It was nothing she wasn't capable of; she'd offered to continue with the extra duties to give me a chance to rest, but I couldn't bring myself to take her up on the offer. Returning to the Hewn City drained her. And I needed to feel like the High Lord of the Night Court again, paperwork and all.

We were at it for a while, but eventually I left her office with a stack of reports summarizing changes since I'd been away and a folder full of updated statues that needed signatures. My own office was on this floor, but I wanted the quiet of the library.

And I already missed Feyre.

I found a desk tucked away in the stacks, dug my reading glasses out of a pocket dimension, and got to work, keeping an ear pricked for any signs Feyre finished with her lesson. Before long, a door opened in the distance, and I felt a shift in the bond. I tugged gently on the thread, just enough to call her to me without making it seem urgent and alarming.

She paused and stared at me for a moment, then slid into the seat next to me. Before I had an opportunity to tease her with some comment about being so enamored with my face that she'd stopped in her tracks, she whispered, "Have you always needed those?"

Right. She'd never seen me in reading glasses before. It was easy to forget that there were things she didn't know about me, too.

"Since I was a boy. Don't ask me how many times Cassian broke them when we were younger," I said.

She went quiet for a moment, as if she were considering where that new piece of information fit with the picture of me that was forming in her head. I didn't mind—if she wanted to interrogate me, she could.

Instead, she jerked her head towards the paper in front of me. "What's that?"

"Reports on the status of the Night Court and documents Mor needed me to sign. There's…a lot I missed."

Feyre pulled out work of her own after that, and we lapsed into comfortable silence. It took all my willpower not to peek over her shoulder—I wanted to know what her handwriting looked like. But I could tell this was a sensitive subject; despite ample opportunity to learn before coming Under the Mountain, she hadn't brought it up, and apparently Tamlin had made jokes at her expense.

Eventually, she pushed her scratch paper aside, and I tried not to stare as she lifted her arms above her head and stretched. She was still in her leathers, and her breasts looked incredible when she arched her back.

I'd been productive enough for the morning, I decided.

"Do you need more sentences to practice?" I said, careful not to give away what I was thinking.

"I might."

I jotted a few words down, then slid the paper over to her. "Try reading this, then copy it over."

I watched her nose wrinkle adorably as she sounded out the words. She managed it, though quite slowly. "Rhysand is the most—"

Her expression cycled through several emotions—confusion, surprise, amusement—as she realized what the full sentence was. Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord. There were several more, all about how attractive, cunning, and excellent in bed I was. Practically vibrating with anticipation, I waited for Feyre to read them all.

"Are you always this shameless?" she said.

I smiled. "You seem to bring it out in me."

I'd assumed Feyre would say something about the accuracy of the statements I'd just made her read. But no—she balled up the paper and flung it at my head instead.

Truly, it's what I should have expected.

She put enough force behind the throw to knock the glasses off my face, and her aim was impeccable. I laughed; I'd asked for this ,I supposed. Feyre didn't need words to express irritation when brute strength and wickedly accurate hand-eye coordination would do.

Incredibly Illyrian of her, all things considered.

As I picked my glasses up off the floor and slid them back onto my face, a spark of Feyre's happiness lit up the bond for just a moment. I'd gone so long without being playful with anyone; it was another part of me that had atrophied underground, just like my wings. But I'd get it back.

The rest of the day was tranquil. It soothed me all the way down to my soul to spend the afternoon in the library with Feyre, enjoying her quiet companionship as I slowly chipped away at getting my court back in working order. And it was good to see that after training and a reading lesson, she was slowly becoming a stronger, more capable version of herself.

But still, I was utterly worn out by the end of the day. Cassian must have anticipated it—he'd left us with a large container of Illyrian stew, a hearty comfort food that had warmed us up on so many frozen nights. As angry as he was with me, my brother knew there was barely any food in the house, and he'd never quite stopped making sure everyone was fed.

The note scrawled in his messy hand was simple: Even assholes who trap their family in Velaris need to eat. Also, make sure Feyre gets enough protein. Feyre and I both shoveled the food down and went to bed early, the ideal way to cap off a day that had started with the first training session in a long while.

I supposed, however, it couldn't be perfect. I'd barely been asleep for more than a few hours when I woke to the sound of Feyre screaming. She was already halfway to the bathroom when I winnowed to her.

I managed to gently pull her hair back before she started retching. Her heart pounded so loudly I could hear it clearly, even as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

Her breathing was shaky as she sat back. I pulled her against my chest and held her, just sitting on the floor with her. Once the nightmare had faded enough that I was sure there wouldn't be another round of vomit, I'd carry her back to bed.

I couldn't stop the nightmares. But now, at least, I could do better than letting her face them with nothing more than a braid and a promise I'd come back.

[karl-raccoon-in-a-teacup]

gently wiping tears from the other's face + fukufuku

sharing a blanket. snuggled up together. + lemon futon

“Stop it. Can’t you see that staying away from you is torture for me too?” + oscargide

“That was but a moment of weakness. Think nothing of it.” + tachiaku

:)

Why did you do this to me. Oh my god why did you do this to me.

gently wiping tears from the other's face + fukufuku

It's all been too much, lately, too hard with the constant news of misery and despair from the warfront. Fukuzawa has grown numb to it, almost, but he was too isolated. Not like Gen'ichiro. Not like Gen'ichiro who comes to him, the letter of his friend's demise still clutched tightly in his hands, and the mask of strength he's worn for days now starts to wear thin the moment Fukuzawa says his name, approaches him. There are tears spilling down, now, and Fukuzawa's numb heart turns to nothing but aches immediately- brushing the tears from Gen'ichiro's face, leaning his forehead against him. "I'm sorry," he says, for the grief that's not his own but weighs upon his shoulders all the same. Gen'ichiro leans into his touch, breathe shuddering. "It'll keep happening, Fukuzawa. I can't keep recieving news like this." "I know. I know." But he can't stop it, either. So all Fukuzawa can do is hold his friend close to him, and try his best to offer some semblance of comfort.

(The rest will be under a readmore because hm many words!)

sharing a blanket. snuggled up together. + lemon futon

"I'm... surprised you agreed to this, really," Katai mumbles, not really meaning to say it at all. They're both curled up beneath a blanket- or rather, Katai's curled up in Yoshiko and Kajii's taken a blanket flopped over him and Yoshiko, snuggling them both up together while Katai flickers through the TV for something to watch. "Surprised? Why would that be?" Kajii asks, head tilting to the side in that natural, curious way." "You just seem a bit- I don't know, excitable?" Katai says. "For something like... this." "And you seem a bit too much of a homebody to accompany me on my excursions-" Kajii says, reaching out to boop his nose- "but you do that anyways, don't you?" "Well, yes." Katai mutters. "I just... this is fine, right?" Kajii laughs, throwing an arm around Katai even as he squeaks. "It's great! You're here, after all!"

“Stop it. Can’t you see that staying away from you is torture for me too?” + oscargide (Probably an AU/canon divergent since I doubt this happened in canon)

"Stop it." And that makes Andre Gide pause. Because even in all the years he's known Oscar, he's so rarely heard him waver- he knows where each of his hidden knives are, of the poison he has hidden in false teeth and in unseen pockets, of the portrait his very essence is tied to. Yet now, he wavers- now, his hands are trembling, now the careful mask of his face has crumbled. "Can't you see that staying away from you is torture for me, too?" his whispers, hands clenching into fists. "You cannot continue this, Andre- this constant sacrifice. Even for your men." Andre opens his mouth- he pauses, he hovers, he's always been good with words but now each one dies in his throat. How can it not, when the man he cherishes so deeply looks at him with such a broken face?

“That was but a moment of weakness. Think nothing of it.” + tachiaku

Michizo Tachihara has woken up to a lot of things, really. But waking up in the bed of a Port Mafia hospital, and seeing the Akutagawa he does not have the pleasure of working with daily be the one standing by his bedside... "Huh," seems like a pretty good word for it. Akutagawa, of course, glares at him. "You made my sister concerned for you. Try not to do that again." And that's all the Mafia's hellhound says, standing up, and about to leave. "Wait-" Michizo tries to sit up, ignoring the dull pain in his chest- "wait, Akutagawa- if that's all you had to say, why come at all-?" And then his eyes wander to his bedside table, and his eyes widen. "...Did you bring me fucking flowers?" Akutagawa shoots back a hellish glare, Rashomon flaring- Michizo briefly wonders if his hospital stay is going to get even longer, especially once he realizes the usually pale face is slowly turning red. "That was but a moment of weakness," he spits with venom that would kill even an executive dead. "Think nothing of it." And yet, the flowers still stand there, right in his line of vision. And Michizo is... just kinda confused.

[stagbells]

beetle wings & other broken things.

From: @iinkhorn

To: @magn0lia-blossoms

Note: Sorry this came a bit late..! In a fit of madness and several lapses in judgement, I accidently made this 16,000 words long. Oops. Anyway, hope you enjoy <3

Written work under readmore

Author: iinkhorn

Title: beetle wings & other broken things.

✦ ✦ ✦

There was a Voice, carried to Oro by the wind.

It is not the wind itself, for the wind outside whispered in many voices, in languages not understood. No, this Voice, It spoke in his dreams, and it was everywhere, a burning light on his mind’s horizon, whispering, shouting, pleading, weeping, commanding him to listen. 

DREAM OF ME, It says, in a voice that belonged to no one. Oro snidely refuses, preferring the dark, blissful quiet of his own dreams.

DREAM OF ME, It says, in a voice that belonged to Mato, then Sheo, Esmy, and Master Sly. One by one, they promised they would forgive him. That they would love him once again. That he didn’t have to be alone anymore. And all he had to do was dream of the light.

(Sheo tended towards pleading, whereas Esmy wept, before fading to silence. Master Sly’s voice, the most distant, was fond at first, then cold and disapproving. Mato’s voice, the loudest, was all of these and more.)

However, if Oro is reliable for one thing, it is persistent, vicious stubbornness (not his own words). He does not bow to anyone undeserving. He does not surrender. Above all else, he loathes being told what to do, by ghosts or otherwise.

When awake, Oro takes action to clear his mind, meditates poorly and restlessly, scarcely eats save for sour hopper draught and pale bitter roots. His clumsy efforts succeed; he manages to sleep undisturbed, for a while.

But when the while runs dry, he finds himself hardly able to sleep at all, if only to escape the voices and their bodies of light.

Oro had been so sure of what he wanted, once. But his dreams begin to infect his very thoughts, between the cycles of sleep and meditation. Training doesn’t help, nor does neglecting it. Not even counting his piles of Geo manages to lift his meager spirits. Memories of when he was not quite so alone digs claws into his chest, drawing blood that wasn’t there. Some things could not be defeated with a nail, loathe of this though he might be.

In the end, lying awake atop his meager bed on the floor, he clings to his own body until it hurts, surrendering to nothing as he grapples with his own madness.

Oro is no fool. He knows in his heart of hearts that the voices aren’t real. But even so, his resolve crumbles as his shamefully soft insides shout and plead no, please, I’m so sorry for everything, come back, come find me, I don’t want to be alone anymore. His inner shell begs him to surrender, to let the warm light swell into every sharp crack and broken crevice until the pain is gone and nothing of himself was left.

Greedy. Cowardly. Unworthy. Unloved. Losing himself and all that he is was not entirely an undesirable idea. This was perhaps the most ugly truth of all.

After some torturous weeks, when he can no longer stand the sound of his own thoughts, Oro fills a traveling sack with meager provisions, a rolled-up pallet, his thickest cloak, and his severed fifth limb; a dusty nail, as cold as a brother.

Perhaps I miscalculated, he thinks a little desperately. Maybe this ash-swept grave isn’t the end of the world after all.

Perhaps there were places deeper and darker than the one he hid himself, where his dreams couldn’t find him, free from even the occasional penniless wanderers he suffered from. It could be nice, he reasoned, to live in a place without sour-tasting prey, falling armored corpses and their vast stink.

(These days, there is a peculiar taste on the wind, of which has made its recent home on the edge of the edge. Oro was used to the dead and their stench, but this was something alive, a foreign idea among the typical miasmas of the dead.)

At the very least, it would be good to stretch his legs and breathe new air, sour as it was. Oro hardly ever ventures outside except to hunt, and never beyond where the ashen wind blows. (He might blame the cold, if such a thing bothered him under his cloak and its heavy shaggy collar. Nevertheless, he blames the cold anyway.)

Oro takes one last look around his tranquil house, the skylight above, the shadowy purple curtains drawn over the walls as if to hide them. Not one of his nails in view, carefully maintained. His hefty Geo cache, of course, is well-hidden deep under the frozen ground. Should he never return, his wealth will remain safe from thieves and scavengers.

The only thing holding him back now was his own cowardice. He takes a deep breath, the dust in the air fleeing from him, and opens the door. 

Only to find that his door would not, in fact, open.

Irked, he pushes again. Fails again. Something heavy was blocking the way. Oro summons his strength, shoving his shoulder against the door with great might, and hears a loud scraping as some solid object outside is moved.

He shoulders his way through the conquered door with irritation, frigid air hurrying through the gap, and immediately trips over the corpse.

With a startled shout, Oro stumbles away as falling ash blinds him, breathing hoarsely as he looks down at the body curled at the foot of his door.

When he manages to calm himself a little, he bows forward, and warily examines the body. It’s curiously unlike the armored corpses he so often encounters; small and thin, with blue shell-like armor. A hood rather than a helmet obscures its face. It overall makes for a distinctly foreign look (a shame, to travel all this way just to die).

Upon closer inspection, he finds what he looks for; several large gashes across the body’s chest, washed with clear, uninfected blood. A feeble dark hand clutches a shield (if it had a weapon, it was nowhere in sight), and the other is raised, fingers splayed, propped against Oro’s door as if attempting to get inside, but never succeeding.

He swallows the emptiness in his throat. Watches pointlessly for breath, any sign of life. For a long time, the only thing that moves in the world is the ash, already intent on gathering upon the strewn body.

His first thought brushes pity. Swiftly, Oro’s heart hardens, and he crushes the feeling between his fingertips.

Fear waning, he sneers at the corpse of the Fool, clearly just another victim from above to taint the scenery. He turns to look behind, spotting the trail of disturbed ash where the Fool had somehow managed to drag itself down the slope from the cliffs and acid pools, surviving the hopping and spitting predators, all the way to the hidden door of Oro’s hut.

Despite himself, a strong, grudging admiration emerges inside him for the Fool’s strength and determination, even while dying. A warrior’s spirit until the end. Shame it found its demise in such an unworthy place.

“I will bury you,” Oro suddenly speaks aloud, shaming himself as he does so, “when I return. If I return.” If the vermin doesn’t eat you first. 

The wind blew. The body did not respond. The wind blew. It was all any of them could do.

“More than you deserve,” Oro mumbles, as if the dead were listening. He turns away, treading the path away from his hut. He carefully avoids the trails of dried blood, which glint from youth. If only he had left his house a day earlier, listened a little more carefully to the sounds outside his door. As if he was in the business of nursing paupers who bought their deaths with Geo and called themselves warriors because of it.

Already, Oro’s body is tired, his nail a heavy burden on his back. There will be no one to bury him if he doesn't carry it.

No doubt the Fool carried not a single Geo to its name, either.

✦ ✦ ✦

The world grows darker, more cavern-like, the walls closing in. Oro walks paths familiar only to him, avoiding giant hopping beasts and tiny spitting aspids with ease (the burns on his body ache every time their flying bodies are within earshot).

He is led by the arm of the escorting wind, released by its soft fingertips at the day’s end. At his feet, a powerful humming rumbles the ground, and small, hairy flying creatures watch him from nearby. He knows not to get too close, and flees their slow, buzzing approach.

Oro walks farther down, farther than ever before, the sour air heavy in his mouth. The world bathes in a dark brown hue, black plumes billowing from beneath the ground. Remnants of civilization are everywhere, glinting spikes and shining spires defeated by giant roots and hanging filth. There is stillness save for the scuttling of spiked creatures with bright, mindless eyes.

He passes ruins so large and grandiose that a king might have resided within them once (monuments to the consequences of extravagance; to possess wealth was one thing, but excessive pride was entirely another, Oro thought). 

Oro stops, pondering the ruins around him. Yes, he could make a home here, make meals of the local creatures should they prove edible. It was certainly quieter, emptier of bodies, though the smell was considerably worse and the scenery less appealing. The once-silver roads are covered in dust, no footprints save his own; clearly no one has ventured down here for an age. Oro wonders if that makes him the foolish one.

The Nailmaster had not been outside of the Kingdom’s edge for more years than he had left. He occupies his days with cycles of sleep, meditation, and of course, training. A physical nail may have a start and an end, but to wield one is endless.

(And he had never truly been alone. One could hardly be, with all the corpses and predators everywhere, stinking up the place. Nevertheless, it was certainly good for business, if one’s business was to be left completely and totally alone.)

The few lampposts he encounters are tall and stately, brightly lit despite the passing eons. He unrolls his pallet under the light of one, intending to nest in a hollow shell nearby. A sudden, distant howling from some creature stays his hand.

As fast as a beam of light, he draws his nail, a beacon in the shadows. The burning eyes of nearby scuttling bugs see their reflection in the steel. If there is some great beast nearby, Oro would not merely sit around, content to be eaten as he slumbered. The dead grass bends from the strangely silent wind, pointing Oro in the direction of his fate.

He crouches along quietly with light footsteps (not an easy feat for one as large and bulky as he), eyes narrowing at every shadow and shivering root. His path ends quickly as the tunnel leads to an enormous cave, the ground falling and relinquishing to a vast sea of shining teeth-like spikes, as if Oro had just entered the maw of the caverns.

Clearly he can see the other side in the near distance, where the path reforms and leads beyond. It would be impossible to cross for ordinary bugs. Oro may sleep contentedly knowing no beast could get to him here. But still, something calls him beyond.

Oro could see it in his mind, the figure of Mato lecturing him on the foolishness of even trying, hiding behind a veneer of concern and support for his brother. In reality, Mato would have been too frightened to attempt such a journey.

Had he not been alone, Oro wouldn’t have done it even for a reasonable sum. Unfortunately, the only thing stronger than his love of Geo was his hard-shelled pride.

He makes doubly sure that no one is around before he lays his supplies on the ground. He grumbles and mutters under his breath as he gathers his nail and cloak in his arms. With an audible crack, he opens the broad elytra at his back, reluctantly revealing a pair of dark wings underneath.

It takes a moment for the stiff appendages to get blood moving through them, as Oro has not opened his wings in an age. Usually he preferred to spend his days pretending they didn’t exist. Never would they aid in a fight, Master Sly informed him once, and only served to make him look more oafish than he already was.

In another moment, Oro is suspended in flight, making his rather slow and sluggish way across the ravine. At first, he stumbles and drops down, almost killing himself, but manages to save himself. The sheer wind bites and scratches at his fragile appendages; Oro endures.

Throughout, he feels extremely foolish, like a fat, stupid Boofly hovering in clumsy flight. If someone were to witness him now, Oro would grant himself a favor and allow himself to plummet into the pit of spikes below.

His feet touch the path, safely on the other side of the pit. He indignantly throws his cloak over his back and tries to regain an ounce of composure.

The caverns are aglow from the soft light of large, membranous… vesicles of some kind, ones filled with orange liquid, disgustingly pulsing as if the organs of some enormous creature. The more he looks, the more Oro finds, nestled in every corner where there was space and accompanied by orange roots that resembled veins.

Growing increasingly disturbed, he resolves to slay the source of the beastly noises as quickly as possible and promptly flee in the other direction, never to return.

The howling grows more powerful, accompanied by an occasional frenzied shriek. Oro is surprised when the familiar steel whine of a nail cutting air touches his ear. He readies his own nail, stiff and poised, and enters the cavern from where the howling is loudest. The uproar seemed to shake the very ceiling itself. Oro conceals himself poorly behind a shell outcropping, and sees It.

A bug of Hallownest, in a furious blur of a swinging nail and billowing cloak, was currently in the throes of battle with one of the mindless spiked creatures, of all things.

The shadow creeper, completely oblivious of its current situation, merely sits there unmoving. However, its impenetrable shell seemed to be giving the other bug some trouble, who was unable to pierce it, try as it desperately might.

(Meanwhile, the Nailmaster amuses himself by noting that the size difference between the two was almost negligible.)

After a moment, Oro then notices (how could he have missed it?) the bulbous orange sack resting atop the bug’s horned head. It appeared quite heavy, weighing the bug down as it was forced to stagger and stoop.

(It is with growing horror that he realizes the orange membrane was not merely resting on top of the bug’s head, but rather emerging from inside of it.)

Mouthless, the bug of Hallownest howls and howls, mad with fear. Its puppetlike movements are crazed yet becoming increasingly sluggish, swinging and beating uselessly against the shadow creeper like a child who had just picked up a nail for the first time.

“Oro, you oaf,” Master Sly chastises from deep inside an unbidden memory. “You wield your nail like a club.”

There is a sickening crunch as Oro steps forward and drives his broad nail through the paper shell of the small creeper with ease. A weighted silence follows as the wind holds its breath.

Warily, Oro pulls his nails back and straightens, staring down at the other bug. He waits expectantly for it to speak, to thank him profusely, even offer Geo for his trouble (alright, that was pushing it).

It’s a small yet solid thing, thin limbs trembling from exertion as it stares expressionlessly up at Oro, two empty eyes that held nothing within. It seemed barely capable of even holding its nail. Oro is merely impressed that the creature hasn't yet collapsed.

If this was a bug of Hallownest, it was unlike any other he had ever seen before. From above, Oro could see thick cracks in the face of its shell, the orange burden it carried oozing thick liquid out of every crevice. He might have even pitied it, if pity were not a waste of time.

“Well?” Oro demands impatiently, clear voice cutting swiftly through the sickly air. “Speak up, then. Aren’t you going to thank your savior? You certainly possess the voice for it, noisy thing.”

The bug stiffens, head sagging to the side due to the sheer weight on its head. With a sudden cry, it hefts its nail into the air and attempts to bring the blade down upon Oro’s face, the highest point it could reach.

His body hardly moves as he expertly brings the flat of his broad nail down upon the bug’s head, striking the orange membrane, which weakly deflates like a vile balloon. The bug immediately collapses backwards onto the ground, dust rising to catch its fall.

“Hmph. Ungrateful grub,” Oro mutters critically.

Truthfully, he does not know why he didn’t just slay it out of mercy. As he walks away, he finds himself hesitating. Oro turns back to the bug, unsure of his intentions, but then freezes.

His helpless eyes can only watch as tiny orange seed-like creatures spill from the orange sack, squeaking and stumbling, blindly fleeing into cracks in the rock walls. The head of the bug is quickly emptied, leaving behind a broken shell that looked almost… hollow. 

It seemed, then, that the repulsive things were a cluster of parasites forming a single mass with the bug as their vessel. Without them, the bug looked smaller than before. Almost dead. Perhaps left without even a life or will of its own.

With a grunt, Oro startles backward as the vessel’s eyes stare up at him. Achingly slow, it raises its broken, unburdened head, reaching weakly for him before its head hits the dirt. Unconscious, its small chest rises and falls, nearly invisible to Oro’s eye.

He is unwillingly reminded of the corpse he’d left behind in the kingdom’s edge, the one lying dead in front of his door, frozen hand reaching for a savior that would never come. Oro looks around, spotting the glow of the seed creatures lingering in the walls, perhaps waiting for a chance to infect the hollow bug once more. Cruel it might be, then, to leave the body where it lay, but Oro has never once claimed to be otherwise. 

He sighs. Why is it always the destitute that come to him for pity?

“You had better be carrying Geo in your cloak, or I’ll drop you in the pit,” Oro threatens the prone vessel.

Of course, he is no honorless thief. Only the very lowest of bugs looted from the sick or the dead.

Grumbling, he gathers the strange bug and its unremarkable nail, both weighing less than his own rather more impressive weapon. He hopes very hard that no creature with a mind is around to see him cradling this creature as though it were his child. 

The return flight over the sea of spikes is swift, as Oro’s wings grow used to being used once more. Once safely on the other side, blessedly free of sickly orange monstrosities, Oro dumps the body and its nail on the ground, a little more harshly than he intends.

“There. Perhaps you’ll be safe here… or, perhaps not,” he sneers at the unconscious vessel. He was beginning to regret doing this; charity always left a bad taste in his mouth. “Regardless, your fate is your own, now.”

Good riddance.

With that, Oro leaves in the direction he’d come, intending to think not on the previous events a single second longer. The echoes of howling, long since silenced, rest heavily on the abated wind. Like a stale breath in the mouth of a dead creature.

He finds his sack and rolled-up pallet where he’d left them. While eating and outfitting himself, Oro comes to a reluctant decision. Relatively peaceful as these ancient caverns seemed, it appeared there were nasty surprises hiding deep within unexpected places, and he would be loath to discover creatures bigger and more skilled in combat than that broken vessel had been. Not that any beast or warrior alike could hope to face a Nailmaster and triumph.

(Those engorged cells pulsing in every crevice as if alive, bright orange roots growing like weeds, odd seed creatures without mouths or eyes, scurrying out of the empty head of that vessel… such things frightening and familiar, perhaps, is what truly scared him. Things a nail alone could not defeat.)

It would seem, then, that a long and disappointing journey home awaited him.

He travels dourly to the awaiting lamppost, makes his bed in a hollow shell, attempting to meditate out of obligation and failing out of routine. Memories of shrieks and howls nestle inside his shell as empty eyes watch him in the dark. Oro sleeps, for once, without a light in his dreams.

✦ ✦ ✦

Of course, when one carries leaking honey, then pests are certain to follow.

(One of the Master Sly’s many, frequently repeated wisdoms. In truth, the fly was probably just fed up with the three brothers making a mess of their food as children. How sweet memories tasted bitter on the tongue of the mind.)

On his journey home, Oro notices that one of the honey jars he carried was leaking from a loose cap at the same time that he realizes that he is being followed.

Cursing under his breath at the sticky stain on his cloak, his eyes follow the thick trails of brown honey underfoot. Something moves in the corner of his eye, and Oro narrowly sees the white face duck behind a cliff not ten strides away.

Irritation forgotten, the tip of his nail strikes the armored ground. He stands to his full height, looming over every creature he might meet, and his short horns almost touch the low tunnel ceiling. The only noises come from the boiling acid pools hissing somewhere nearby, calling creatures to swim in their depths.

He has no confusion about whether a bug or beast stalked him as silently as a ghost, for Oro knew that face well. It had only been a day, after all, since he’d carried that broken vessel from its fate and left it behind for another.

(How was it possible that it survived? From the splitting open of its infected head, to the brokenness of its shell; it was any wonder that creature could move, let alone walk. It was almost admirable. If sheer desperation could be called as such.)

For a long time, the world is motionless. Oro is forced to sheathe his nail and resume walking, leaving his back left unguarded, but he isn’t fearful. This land was merciless to any who weren’t familiar with all its various deadly offerings. This is the card he will play.

Want a rematch, do you? Oro thought smugly. Or do you believe yourself a hunter stalking its stupid, oblivious prey? Well, you’ll have to survive this place first.

With a sudden burst of energy, Oro increases his speed tenfold. He climbs smooth cliffs that possessed little footholds, hopping across acid pools on small stones where one misstep meant death, dodging flying orange acid and swaths of needle-like legs above his head, all while maintaining a relentless stag’s pace.

Finally, finally, he stops. Breath and wind wrestling heavily inside of his chest, Oro stands at the mouth of a familiar cavern, his hut nestled at the bottom of the slope. For some moments, he waits for his blood to cool, but there is no sign of his little stalker anywhere, having certainly met its death without Oro having to raise his nail. He allows himself a little triumph, congratulating himself on his cleverness.

Weary of running and of pointless adventuring, Oro forgets all about the corpse at his door and his promise to it. It doesn’t help that the body is gone with hardly a trace, shield and all. He enters his lonely hut, falling into the embrace of the welcoming heat and lovely darkness of his home. In a moment, he will heat up a bitter hopper draught and dine on its flesh. He almost finds himself looking forward to it.

“Shame. You were gone for so long, I thought you had died,” croaks a small, nasally voice from the corner of the room. “Welcome home, Nailmaster Mato.”

Oro, currently in the middle of unholstering his nail, promptly drops it. The weapon falls heavily on a small purple vase and breaks it, trinkets spilling onto the floor. A high-pitched ringing fills the room, his ears.

“That is, if you could call this paltry fortress a house,” the weak voice adds in an afterthought as the ringing dissipates. Oro can see the figure under the blankets of his bed on the floor, a hooded head the only visible part of him.

In his house. In his bed.

His anger, a boiling tidal wave, rises into his throat all at once. His mind grapples between shock and confusion as he processes the situation with the speed of a fly in honey; he can only focus on the bug’s mocking words.

“You…” Oro glowers with poison in his voice, a rumbling earthquake threatening to splinter the floor. “You. What… did you just call me?”

“Ah, yes. I suppose I thought you a Nailmaster. You know, with your oversized nail and monkish clothing,” the bug answers, quick wit and poison to match. He pauses to choke wetly into his fists, sounding as if blood was in his lungs. “M-my sincerest apologies.”

“My name is not Mato,” Oro snaps (as for some reason, this is what offends him most). He picks up his nail from the floor and points it at the bug across the room. “And as for you… you have ten seconds to get out of my house before I use this.”

“Do you even know how to, you big brute?” the bug mocks, but the fear in his face betrays him. His dark face is pale, and Oro can see that he’s trembling, but perhaps for another reason. An image flashes unbidden in his mind of a frozen, twisted corpse with its chest broken, armor dark with blood; apparently not a corpse after all. However, it could certainly still be arranged.

“Seven seconds,” Oro sneers, moving a few steps closer. Without breaking eye contact, the bug’s tiny, frail hands start to scratch wildly at the floor, presumably for his shield, which lay just out of reach. Oro wonders how this fool bug thought it would save him.

“Four seconds. Any final clever words?” he says darkly at the bug’s panicked silence. “You certainly had plenty of them to say not moments ago.”

Oro moves, and then stops, standing at the foot of his bed and looming over the intruder, who was struggling to sit up. Blankets fall from his chest to reveal loose bandages; apparently the scavenger helped himself while he was in here. Probably wasted no time in rifling through Oro’s possessions—in fact, it was probably how he learned the name ‘Mato’, from the portrait miniatures of his brothers buried somewhere in the room. This angers him most of all.

The ten seconds are long since up. Oro stands over the prone bug, taking advantage of his sheer size and frightening figure. He lazily passes his nail from hand to hand, leaning on it in a way that would make the Great Nailsage pinch his arm.

In truth, he’s uncertain if he intends to use it.

“Well? Aren’t you even going to beg for your life?” Oro demands at the bug’s stunned silence. “You must not value your life, if you haven't even thought to offer me money.” 

“I’ll pay you. G-geo,” the bug says immediately, gritting his teeth; a drop of blood trickles down his chin.

“Hmph. You have no money,” Oro replies with a cruel half-smile; he doesn’t need to check to know it’s true. Momentarily stunned, the bug heaves a labored breath, choking. No doubt trying to get Oro to pity him.

“I… I cannot get up,” the bug admits with a whisper, to which the other scoffs.

“If you were capable of dragging yourself from the acid pits to dirty my bed, surely you can make it outside before dying,” the Nailmaster reasons.

“If you’re strong, you’ll survive,” said Master Sly, and it was true. If you’re strong, you’ll survive, and it was true, until strength no longer mattered.

Once more, the previously arrogant bug had nothing to say. Rolling his eyes, Oro sheathes his nail. Before the bug can react, he picks him up by the scruff of his hood and starts to carry him gingerly towards the door, away from his body as if he were holding a gross piece of trash.

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry I insulted you! You left me there to die!” the bug howls. He struggles with every last scrap of strength he possessed, but only manages to ruffle Oro’s cloak with blunt claws. “Fine! Nailmaster! Nailmaster Sheo!”

“Wrong again.” Oro takes his heart and beats his pity with it. If only he was Sheo, or Mato. They two would have certainly spared this miserable wretch, their hearts bleeding onto the floor.

“Wha– all three of you look the blasted same!” the bug wheezes, face pinching with a comical frustration. Finally, he ceases to struggle and grips his claws around the Nailmaster’s arms.

“Should have peered closer, then.” 

Oro opens the front door one-handed. The light from outside bathes them both in a pale light, and the touch of a frigid wind makes the bug dangling in his hand go still. In the far distance, predators hover and dance, burning eyes forever hungry.

He extends his arm, holding the bug out of his door above the frozen ground. He cannot tell which one of them is making the other tremble. The small bug slumps; his hands on Oro arms loosen their grip as a tear spills down his face in a pathetic display. The Nailmaster cannot believe he had once thought this one a warrior.

“Oro,” the bug whispers, eyes vacant, all fight gone. “Don’t leave me here to die. Not again.”

He stops.

“Oro,” Esmy whispered, eyes burning, all hope gone. “Don’t kill me here. Not where your brothers can see.”

What a monster he’d become. No better than the mindless, loveless vermin skulking around, hungry only for Geo and blood. It is no wonder that his brothers hate him, that Sly thought him unworthy.

Oro sighs.

“Don’t get blood on the floor, or I’ll make your shield into your headstone,” he threatens, and before he can stop himself, turns and drops the sputtering Fool onto the floor of his hut.

Without going inside, he shuts the door, shutting himself out.

Oro is suddenly overcome with tiredness, as if he were an old man without an ounce of strength left. He drags himself onto the bench next to the door with a great heaving of his chest, putting his chin in his hand and staring at the falling ash with misery, the occasional faraway corpse (falling and falling—would ever it end?).

Over some minutes, the wind blows a pale fog into the cavern (probably from the city) obscuring everything in the distance from view. Burning eyes danced and danced in endless motion, never needing to rest, their bodies forever asleep.

From the fog, a small, cloaked figure approaches. Ironically, its lack of a face rendered it quite unmistakable.

Oro watches with some trepidation as the broken vessel drags itself to where he sat, staggering and stumbling as if drunk, a dripping nail clutched in its trembling hands. His own nail sat in his hut where the Fool was. Oro made no move to get up and retrieve it.

(Even when far away, it never breaks eye contact, which admittedly unsettles him just a bit.)

The long, dark tendrils of its cloak drag along dirty ash as it stumbles towards Oro, stopping just short of nail reach, which greatly surprises him. For a long moment, they stare warily at each other, the vessel swaying on its feet.

(He does not know for what it waits for; has he not already given it enough?)

Finally, having grown fairly uncomfortable, Oro speaks.

“You are quite brave, to follow me all the way here where the world ends,” he remarks dryly. He is now satisfied that this creature does not appear to want to attack him. “Or perhaps just stupid.”

“Bravery, determination…” Master Sly said. “These are just more words for stubbornness, something you have in abundance.”

“Too much rigidity, and even the strongest blade breaks,” he added. “Learn to bend once in a while, you oaf.”

The broken vessel bends sideways to look up at Oro with its curiously empty eyes, and the deep, jagged hole in its hollow head makes his face twinge in sympathy. It was a difficult thing to look at, but he can’t make himself look away. Not for a second time.

He tries again.

“From where did you get that dirty old nail, little grub? Stolen from a corpse, perhaps? I’ll inform you that I do not tolerate thieves in my domain, not even those who steal honorlessly from the dead.”

Then, in a motion that makes Oro tense, the vessel holds up one small hand, palm-up, to reveal a glistening handful of what he immediately recognizes as honey. This mad creature must have gathered it from the ground, where it had fallen from Oro’s back. (Perhaps it had gotten its nail in a similar manner.)

For a time, Oro can only sit there in shock. Then, he laughs. Quiet at first, then louder still. It is not a noise he has made in a long, long time. The very action practically cracks open his stiff chest.

The vessel mirrors him soundlessly, bobbing its head, horns tall and split (so unlike any bug he’d ever seen). Oro wonders where its howling voice has gone; left behind in the sickly caverns, perhaps.

“You’re going to need much more of that honey,” Oro hisses, unable to help himself, “to pay off the debt you owe me.”

Why is it always the poor that decide to stay? 

In his mind, he ruminates over where in his hut he stores his medicine, bandages.

✦ ✦ ✦

The world grows colder, the seasons changing (down here, such a thing did so very, very slowly, but change it did all the same). Oro possessed limited knowledge of the traditions and holidays celebrated by the bugs of Hallownest (as Sly was not born here, he did not pass them down to Oro and his brothers), but he does recall a popular one that occurred in the rare cold season. (All Soul’s Eve. Wyrmnalia. What ridiculous names.)

In his hut, Oro wraps the broken vessel’s head in bandages, over the gaping, bloodless hole. He’s uncertain if it will have any positive effect, but it was better than accidentally staring down into the creature’s unsettling… hollowness.

All the while, the broken vessel sits motionless, placid, amenable to every of Oro’s motions (he tries not to be rough when touching the creature’s broken parts, but gentleness does not come to him naturally). Additionally, it seems to respond more often to his tone rather than his language itself, which makes Oro wonder if the creature even understood him.

“I think,” Oro ruminates as he rolls up unused bandages, sitting cross-legged on the floor, the broken vessel mirroring him, “that I shall call you Howl.”

Never feed vermin, and most important of all, never give one a name, unless you want them to follow you around begging for scraps for as long as you live.

The vessel—Howl—acknowledges him, but otherwise doesn’t react. A fitting name for one so earth-shakingly loud, though Oro much appreciates its newfound, if not unsettling silence (he wonders deeply on this sudden change).

If the vessel had its own name, it does not share it.

Across the room, Tiso (a name Oro by contrast had unwillingly learned; he believed ‘Fool’ suited him better) scoffs quietly, running his hand over fresh bandages wound tightly over his shell. His other rested protectively over his shield, tapping and tapping. Despite losing his body’s weight in blood and nearly freezing to death, the fool seemed to possess endless energy, and never stopped moving, not even when asleep.

“Is that pale thing your pet, then? A true warrior does not waste time doting on the lesser, you know,” Tiso smirks, though he sounds hoarse. How quickly his arrogant personality was restored now that he was back in a warm bed instead of the cold where he belonged.

Ignoring him, Oro ruminates shamefully over their delicate encounter not long ago. Tiso─less prideful than Oro but no less arrogant for it─has since been taking full advantage of this. 

When no one pays him any attention, Tiso sighs loudly into the heavy silence, and the sound grates into Oro’s skull. Hardly a day later and he is already beginning to regret his choice to grant free shelter to the noisy, ungrateful bug.

Perhaps worst of all, was Tiso’s endless, unrelenting questions.

“Are Mato and Sheo your brothers, then?” he tended to remark out of the blue, when Oro least expected it. “Where are they? Do they claim to be Nailmasters as you do? I’d once believed there to be no great warriors left in this decaying burrow, and I’d be eager to be proven wrong. Though few could truly challenge me.”

After days of not sleeping, he is pulled from an uneasy, lulled meditation, opening one eye to glare at Tiso. It appeared that the stronger Tiso grew, the more questions he tended to ask.

In another corner atop a pile of Oro’s cloak rested Howl, who perhaps was sleeping (he couldn’t quite tell). It was still too soon to tell if the little creature was responding to the medicine, the bandages. At the very least, it no longer staggered as it walked.

At first, Oro ignores Tiso, which proves to be a mistake, as Tiso takes it up as an invitation to talk all the more.

“Hey, brute,” Tiso insists. “I’ve grown weary of lying here day after day, drinking nothing but disgusting blood and medicine draught. This dull serenity is driving me mad, and neither you nor the squib make for anything resembling decent conversation. You claim to be a warrior, yet I have never witnessed your supposed skill with a nail. When I can stand, you should spar with me, so that I may rebuild my strength and return to the Coliseum. This time, when I emerge victorious. I may even consider sparing you a miserable cent.”

At these mad words, Oro breaks his own muteness, utter disbelief tightening his throat.

“You truly are a fool,” he scoffs angrily, unable to believe the sheer stupidity he was hearing, “if you have learned nothing from this ordeal. I have allowed you to bring yourself back from the brink of death, and already you are clamoring to undo my hard work. Of which, may I remind you, you have not once compensated me for,” he adds.

Unmoved, Tiso has the gall to roll his pale eyes.

“Indeed, because pouring a disgusting draught down my throat and spooling paper around my body is such a difficult, heroic task,” he speaks sarcastically, but he looks away from Oro’s withering gaze with a frown.

When he has the strength to do so, Tiso begins to rifle through Oro’s things (though he did not possess much) without so much as a request for permission, unashamed as he did so.

Surprising himself, Oro does not stop him, though he watches the bug’s movements extremely carefully. Tiso runs his probing fingers over various trinkets, old weapons. Though they are far and few in between, his hands linger the longest over pictures of his brothers, or Sly. However, he does not interfere, as it is in these moments that Tiso is blessedly silent.

Except for the times he isn’t.

“I have abandoned my own family, too, you know,” Tiso remarks out of the blue, almost casually, but a waver in his voice betrays him. “And my family, in turn, has abandoned me. However, I often find myself grateful, having become all the stronger because of it.”

Oro immediately stills, busy unwrapping bandages from Howl’s head. The vessel in question sits between his legs and plays happily with a small trinket (at least, as happily as it seemed capable of being).

He debates ignoring Tiso, or denying the implication of the bug’s annoyingly insightful words. In truth, he does not desire either of these things.

It takes an age, but finally, Oro speaks.

“I do not forgive, and I do not forget,” he says firmly, words flowing steadily like blood from a wound. “Those who betray you do not change either way. Better to harden your heart and trust only your own company. That is from where my strength comes.”

Tiso’s expression grows intensely amused at Oro’s weighted words.

“Finally, a genuine reaction from underneath that cold, unbreakable shell! And more than three words at a time, no less,” he teases, grinning widely. “I was starting to think you a mere half-witted brute after all.”

Oro glowers at the bug, secretly offended, and from then on resolves to say nothing so personal ever again.

“The week almost reaches its end, and you seem almost entirely healed,” Oro changes the subject with a threatening voice tone. “Practically fit to once again reenter the wasteland on your own, I daresay.”

“Ehh. You have sensitive inner flesh, for so hard a shell,” Tiso sneers, proving once again to be unexpectedly good at reading Oro’s tones and expressions. However, he meekly waits at least another hour before attempting to insult Oro again. Almost a new record.

In the meantime, Oro takes it upon himself to train the strengthening vessel, without exacting a payment, no less (at least a little bit; he hasn’t yet stooped low enough to be that generous). He recalls the vessel’s pitiful, frankly atrocious form in the ancient caverns, no doubt having received no training at all. It would be a gross disrespect of his teachings to neglect this.

And so, Oro brings Howl to the scarcely-visited back of his hut where a training dummy forlornly stood in a small, empty cavern. It's dressed in pale ruby clothes—the color of a Nailmaster—in a painful reminder of Oro’s own debt, the battle he has yet to confront. From the day he created it, Oro has yet to bring his nail down upon it. He would never admit it, but without Howl, he would never have mustered the courage to even venture back here once again.

“First. Let me be reminded of your capabilities, before I may teach you my own,” he instructs Howl, settling cross-legged on the ground nearby. “By the end of the day, I want you to strike the dummy until it falls.”

In its own way, the vessel appears to accept Oro’s instructions. Gripping its nail with two hands, Howl throws the weapon backwards and strikes the ground behind it, before bringing the weapon down in a swift arch, hitting the dummy squarely in the face.

The dummy barely twitches.

Despite himself, Oro chuckles, reminded of himself as a child in his early days, clumsily swinging a nail he could scarcely carry. He forces his smile from his face when Tiso (comically swimming in one of Oro’s spare cloaks and still shivering despite it) emerges from the hut to join them. He does not protest, however, being pleased to observe the bug’s ability to walk was growing stronger every day.

Howl turns its drooping, bandaged head to look at the Nailmaster, seemingly uncertain. Already, dozens of harsh criticisms rest under his tongue, all assuming the tone of Sly, but Oro bites his sharp tongue. Instead, he stands.

“Hmph. Here, allow me to demonstrate proper form,” he informs the vessel.

First, he bows deeply to the dummy, emphasizing respect for the opponent. (When Tiso does not laugh, Oro glances at him, and sees the bug engrossed in a stone journal of some kind, unusually oblivious to the world.) When he straightens, the dummy’s dead eyes stare unblinkingly into his, and Oro tries very hard not to imagine Mato standing before him.

Then, taking a step back, he rushes forward with blinding speed, swinging his nail in a powerful horizontal arch that cuts through the very air itself. The dummy slams backwards against the ground before springing back to a standing position, its eyes trained upon Oro’s.

“My signature Nail Art, the dash slash,” Oro informs Howl with grave pride, of whom stands in attention, face intently following Oro’s nail. “Its strength lies in precision and proper form, swift speed followed by a powerful stroke. Let not your feelings become heavier than your own nail, lest you be too weak to wield it,” he adds in an afterthought.

From the ground, Tiso scoffs loudly, to which Oro glares at him, confused. However, the bug doesn’t look up from his tablet; Oro wonders what the Fool is so intently reading, but doesn’t sink so low as to betray his curiosity.

“Ehh. On the contrary,” Tiso snidely remarks, “it is from our feelings that we draw our greatest strength. The will to succeed, the desire for greatness, for glory...! If you imagine your every opponent to be your greatest enemy, only then you may muster the strength to cut down each and every one.”

It isn’t the first time Oro has heard this idea. However, by contrast, Mato tended to be less arrogant and rather more sentimental in his naive convictions.

“Emotion is an unreliable flame, and rage especially is short-lived and energy consuming,” Oro coldly argues; it isn’t for the first time that he says these words. “Strong emotions may foster a temporary increase in strength, but also inner weaknesses. In short, you become sloppy, and predictable.”

Of course, by saying so, Oro falls into Tiso’s trap.

“Prove it, then, O Great and Powerful Nailmaster,” Tiso cries eagerly, seemingly forgetting the cold as he stands and stares intensely at Oro. “Prove that your words are truer than mine by fighting me, and we will finally see who is the greater warrior!”

The Nailmaster grimaces, noticing, for the first time, an unusual strain in Tiso’s voice, as if he were sick. When he doesn’t reply, the bug attempts to goad Oro even further.

“Who knows, it may even be I who is worthier as a teacher for this pale grub,” he leeringly boasts. “Tell me, oaf. Are you frightened of me?”

Howl looks between the two with seeming uncertainty, wringing its cloak in its hands.

It is then that Oro finally sees the burning glint in Tiso’s eyes, the wavering of his body, the slight slur of his speech. No wonder Tiso was acting as cruelly as when he’d first invaded Oro’s hut; he was clearly drunk, driven mad from sleeplessness.

They never discussed it, but Oro knew Tiso suffered from his dreams as he did, laid awake at night as he did. Perhaps they feared the same terrible light on their mind’s horizons, whispering, shouting, pleading, weeping, commanding them to listen.

However, the rather less disciplined Tiso seemed to be cracking under the strain considerably worse than Oro was. And now he was spiraling out of control.

“Come, Howl,” Oro says quietly to the vessel, bidding it to follow. “That’s enough for today. We shall resume this lesson tomorrow.”

In the corner of the Nailmaster’s eye, he sees Tiso’s body flail as he brandishes something in his hands; a stone journal. Suddenly, Tiso’s nasally voice fills the cavern. 

“Ahem! What place is there for us in the world, us defects and disappointments?” he loudly begins, in a clear mockery of Oro’s voice. He realizes with a chill in his blood what exact journal Tiso read from.

“Those of us abandoned ones, we are not fit to sit among the glorious on their Patheon, so we must either wander or hide where none may discover our sheer unworthiness. Maybe it’s fate I have resigned myself to, maybe it’s something else inside of me. Either way, I am content to live alone among corpses and vermin. In this grave, I can be just another ghost, scattered into pieces by the decaying wind…!”

“Are you quite finished?” Oro utters lowly, trembling in shame at hearing his deepest, most private thoughts read aloud to him. Somehow, Tiso must have dug up his old journal, authored back when the Nailmaster had first resigned himself to a life of lonely, bitter solitude.

However, it is a sharp betrayal Oro hadn’t expected, not from one he had slowly been considering almost resembling a friend.

Breathe, he commands himself, gut twisting with miserable rage. Do not kill him. Not in front of the little one.

Then, Oro makes a grave mistake. Instead of confronting Tiso at the height of his madness, he chooses instead to walk away, intending to deprive the bug of the attention Oro knew he internally craved.

However, instead of ceasing as expected, Tiso’s voice rises to a shout, shrill and desperate, pure of madness.

“What can one do with all this sadness!?” he shrieks, growing increasingly frenzied. “You cannot kill it, starve it, or make it bleed! You can only gather your sadness in your chest, and try to keep it warm despite the cold shell you carry around! DO NOT HEED THE DEAD, for they are COWARDS! They will grant you no favors, only burdens! Better to cut them from memory just as you cut the life from their body–!”

Tiso’s voice cuts off sharply as Oro brings the flat of his blade down upon his head. The Fool immediately collapses. The cave echoes long after the screaming stops.

And then…

“Please, help me…” came a small voice from inside of Tiso’s body, one that did not quite belong to him. “The light… it won’t leave me alone...”

Tiso stops moving. Stops breathing. Dead.

Breathing. Knocked out. Breathing.

Not dead, not dead. 

For the longest moment, Oro stands there, head bowed and breath heaving as though he’d just ran to the city and back.

He tries not to let Howl see the tears on his face, revealing the weaknesses hidden deep inside of his brittle shell, all his miserable guilt and cowardly shame. But when a tiny hand touches his own, it is all he can do to look down upon the empty face of a small, broken creature, and see a flicker of something reflecting back.

The wind blew. The ghosts did not. The wind blew. It was all any of them could do.

“We…” Oro breathes.  “We must leave this cursed place. The very air is driving us all mad. To where, I do not know. Before we each lose ourselves forever and can never come back. I do not know.”

He does not know where Sheo lives, or else he may have never considered his next actions. In his mind, an image of a lonely hut among great cliffs, far away at the top of the world. Oro would rather die than travel to that place. But it is a trade he might be willing to make, for the sake of the broken and dying vagrants he’d come to consider his friends.

To Mato’s hut, then.

✦ ✦ ✦

The ride to the surface is relatively uneventful. At first, Oro is nervous of his, well, size, but the old stag assures him that neither his height nor weight will slow him down.

“I carried the mighty Hegemol upon my back, once!” he groans happily. “Granted, the knee on my fourth leg has never been the same since, but…”

Regardless, as they race through the dark, low-ceilinged tunnels, Oro keeps his head down for fear of losing it.

At some point during their journey, the sack on Oro’s back begins to shift as an unconscious Tiso awakens, stuffed unceremoniously inside for convenience.

“Ehh… n-not these rattletrap creatures…” comes his nasally voice, a whisper in the roar. It startles Oro, who nearly thrusts his head into a stalactite. “A real warrior… c-carries himself to combat…”

How did he know they were…?

“Hmph. How interesting,” Oro says dully, staring ahead into darkness, “that you should recognize when you are traveling by stag, despite not seeing our surroundings. One may even believe… that you are familiar with these sounds, and the feeling of being carried upon a saddle.”

The Fool only groans, saying nothing. Soon, the sack ceases to move once more.

Settling into old habits of conversation that idled on companionable ribbing, Oro hesitates to bring up Tiso’s previous madness. Strong in his mind was the memory of his terrible words echoing the walls of the cave, as well as how Oro had dealt with him like a feral beast. He wonders if Tiso will even remember. He wishes he himself could forget.

Meanwhile, the little one, Howl, looked perfectly content upon the saddle of the stag, letting its head be pulled gently back and forth by the steady gait of their companion steed. It seems almost to be fatigued, but never quites succumbs to sleep. Oro closes his eyes, his thoughts abandoned in the tunnels behind them.

When they arrive, Oro dismounts, landing on the platform with the grace of a nauseous boulder. Uncertain if stags typically required payment, he bows deeply, resorting to flattery as a means of distraction. A favored method of Sly’s.

“Thank you deeply for your service, great stag,” Oro grovels (though he finds his words to be genuine). Next to him, the vessel bows as well, albeit sleepily. Its large head droops, nearly toppling its body into the platform before Oro snatches the scruff of its cloak.

The old stag stomps his myriad feet and bellows deeply in his throat, blowing air out of his great nose. Clearly unused to gratitude and attention.

“I will be here when you return, should you require my services once more,” the old stag rumbles happily. Then, he pauses, head tilted in thought.

“Be careful, friends. The surface world… its winds carry below a stench of flame. A smell… from nightmares.”

The stag shudders his great carapace, huffing and shaking his great horned head. Perhaps senile…?

“Watch over yourself, little one,” he rasps to an impassive Howl. Then, he sets about the arduous task of lowering his sizable body to the ground, no doubt with aging and aching limbs. (Oro could relate to this beast.)

On his back, Tiso moans, clawing weakly at Oro through the cloth of the sack. Above, a muffled but powerful wind calls to them, unrestrained by caverns and stone walls. 

Nearly there. There’s still time. To save us all.

On the lift up to the twilit entrance of the stag station, Oro debates taking the vessel’s hand to better keep track of the little vessel, who had a habit of wandering in inspection of random objects and creatures on the ground. He quickly dismisses the childish idea.

Oro has not been to the surface for a long time, but he still remembers its vast sempiternity, the moaning of the wind carrying the voices of those who had once dwelled there, as if to ask where they all went. And receiving no answer.

They emerge from the dimly lit stag station to the full, radiant light of a single lamppost, and are temporarily blinded. Oro grimaces, and stumbles determinedly forward.

As they walk, they discover that more than a few of the abandoned houses are illuminated from inner lights and appear suspiciously well-kept. An iron bench sits invitingly underneath the very lamppost that blinded them from its sheer luminosity.

It’s far too open out here. Exposed, like a belly-up beast without a shell. Anyone and anything could approach from any direction, at any time. And they would be all the ignorant.

Oro glances down at Howl, who is walking with lurching strides to match Oro’s long strides, but despite this, falling increasingly behind. It appears for all the world uncaring, unafraid, as though the very ground weren’t on the verge of eating them alive. The Nailmaster notices that, along with its feet, it’s dragging its nail behind it, and the blunt tip scrapes along dirt and stone, weakening it.

“Pick up your nail when you carry it,” Oro snaps. “A warrior who profanes their weapon is as good as dead.”

He regrets his harsh words quickly. Fear and paranoia, and the anticipation of what (and who) awaited them twisted his tongue. The little vessel slumps, perhaps from being rebuked, perhaps from fatigue. (Maybe all three of them suffered sleeplessly from dreams. Regrettably, the Nailmaster had never once considered the vessel to be suffering the same as them.)

Oro sighs, caverns under his eyes, and stops walking. He kneels down, rocks grating against his knees. He takes the broken vessel’s meager weapon, and the creature only stares at him. He sheathes the metal toothpick next to his own weapon.

“Hmph. I will carry you on my shoulder… but only if you promise never to speak of it later,” Oro wryly says, half-smiling.

The vessel doesn’t move, looking expectantly at him. Oro has a vision of another slender figure looking up at him in the same way, enormous eyes filled to the brim with impossible expectations, waiting for a younger Oro to get on his knees so that he might climb his back.

(Sly always believed he was a better teacher when riding upon the shoulders of his much larger students, his advice and admonishments directly inside of the brothers’ ears as he clutched one of their horns, moving their heads as he pleased. Even now, Oro couldn’t claim to understand the Great Nailsage’s methods. Though, perhaps that is why he was Great.)

Howl is larger than Sly was, but nevertheless, it settles down into the thick shag of Oro’s cloak, legs on either side of his neck. Oro jumps when a cold, mouthless shell settles into the valley between his horns. He imagines the exhausted vessel feeling grateful relief, voicelessly praising him within its empty head. The Nailmaster grits his teeth as his horns bump against ones that weren’t his own.

Oro continues walking, burdening two creatures that most certainly were not going to compensate him for his trouble. He may as well become a stag, at this rate.

(As Oro passes one of the occupied houses—clearly a shop of some kind, given the signs—he believes he hears, for a moment, a familiar muttering of some voice he might have once known coming from somewhere inside. Advice and admonishments. The sweet tinkling of Geo against Geo.)

(Two more familiar voices join the first, and the sounds they made resemble laughter. The howling wind blows; the voices cease to exist. Oro continues walking, faster this time, and the tasteless air tastes bitter.)

The cliffs await them sleeplessly. Oro feels as though he were on the verge of collapse. He would never admit as such, but the combined weight of Howl, Tiso, and his heavy nail were not helping his exhaustion in the slightest.

Perhaps we can go back to the town, offer Geo for safety, a brief resting place, he thinks desperately. But his mind, although fraying, has yet to lose itself completely. He trusts nothing; not strange townspeople, not familiar voices, not his dreams. Besides, his cold Geo stones were better suited to keeping him warm from inside his pockets. The cliffs await.

At their backs, the little town of Dirtmouth stills and fades. Ahead of them, in the distance, there is fire, growing brighter the darker the endless cavern becomes.

One after the other, increasing in number, red flames emerge from the fog atop black poles, scarlet and twisting; somehow never snuffing out, despite the unyielding winds.

“Hmph. How truly lively this miserable little town has become,” he mutters sarcastically to himself.

At first, he thinks the torches invented in a delirious madness, until the gentle, haunting music fills the air. It emerges from inside large, pointed tents, mouths open in an eternal scream. At the entrance of the grandest tent, a pair of long-necked beasts in slitted masks kneel upon the ground, watching Oro alertly. They say nothing as he approaches; perhaps mindless, though their intense gazes seem intelligent.

A traveling circus? In this dying kingdom? Oro thinks derisively. As if a colosseum wasn’t enough.

Oro looks beyond the path where he knew impassable cliffs stood, knowing how to surmount them. But in the haze of the fog, he’s long lost track of how much farther he needs to go.

The scarlet flames of nearby lanterns crackle and spit; even from a distance, Oro can feel their warmth against his shell. The music slows his shallow breathing to a crawl as he becomes as weightless as air. Crimson eyes watch him in the darkness, but when he looks, there is only fire. 

Oro approaches the doorway of the grandest tent, and the house of madness invites him inside.

As he walks within, soft earth transforms into layers of fabrics atop the hard ground, causing his footing to waver. Soon, Tiso crawls out of the sack on his back and Howl from his shoulder, as silent as ghosts (though such creatures are the opposite of quiet). Together, the two abandon him to his fate.

When the whispering starts from behind heavy cloth walls, he does not draw his nail, for his limbs are frozen in raw terror, his chest bursting with caged laughter. The ground itself is alive, pulsing and pulsing under Oro’s feet, as though from the beat of some great heart.

The tunnel goes on, becoming darker all the time. The music grows thicker. The smoke grows louder. A voice, deep and lonely, sings lovely and low.

“He says that time is on our side

Another thousand beasts have died

Beside me”

Oro walks until the tunnel ends, and he reaches the familiar short cliffs of the kingdom’s edge, where the corpses fall from above like rain. His dread swells like the belly of a hopper filling with blood. He can see a body laying abandoned on a cliff nearby, different from all the rest. It is Tiso. Not merely dead. But rather left to die, by Oro.

“He says our lives will never end

Another thousand of my friends

Have left me”

Oro walks until the tunnel ends, and he reaches the familiar tight caverns of the ancient basin, where radiant sickness pulses in every corner. His dread swells like orange seeds in a throbbing membrane, filling the hollow, broken corpse of a bug lying nearby. It is Howl. Not merely dead. But rather left to die, by Oro.

“He says our dreams will endless flow

Another thousand lands to go

Ahead me”

“He says–” says the voice, deep and lonely, “that you’re early. Mrmm.”

At the end of the darkened tunnel, Oro stops. A broad, masked bug was standing nearby, squeezing and pulling a legged accordion from which music mournfully seeped. Close by, the outside world loomed beyond the tent’s open doorway, a draft blowing dust onto the patterned floor.

“Early for what?” Who says?

“The Master says, of course,” says the broad bug, squeezing and pulling. “I sense that you possess one as well. A master, that is. You will know why, then, you are early.”

“Early for what?” Oro insists. I once had a master. But no longer.

“No longer…?” says the broad bug. “You carry heavy burdens, then, for one who claims to be unchained. Heavy debts. For yourself? Or for others? Mrmm.”

“Early for what?” Oro shouts, but the bug does not hear him over the music.

The Nailmaster ponders drawing his great nail and intimidating this strange bug into telling him what exactly was going on, but his nail is heavy on his back, and his arms shake from the though. Most of all, he’s afraid, and deathly so. But of what, he does not know. It takes everything he has left inside of him just to keep moving forward.

The music continues (if Oro listens closely, he can hear the same notes played over and over in succession, in a song that never ends), and so does Oro, deeper and deeper into the tent.

Oro enters a crossroad, and his shadow becomes four.

“You have a lost, hardened look about you. The abandoned ones always do.”

It’s Sly. He’s young, and wears a pale ruby cloak over his tiny wings—the color of a Nailmaster. His brothers don’t know what to make of him. But Oro has eyes only for Sly’s shining nail, wider than his body by far. But only a fool would assume a bug’s strength based on their size. It is Oro’s second lesson, after loneliness. And after each, love.

Oro enters a green grove, and his shadow becomes three.

“This is not hatred. This is love left to rot.”

It’s Sheo. He’s the leader of the three (or so he used to claim), all because he can swing his nail in the exact ways that Sly loves best. He’s the most skilled, but he rejects power, throwing it away to seek purpose instead. When Sly resents Oro’s unworthiness and Mato deems Oro an enemy, Sheo is kind. But kind is all Sheo ever is. Within his brother’s heart, Oro does not know what feelings truly lie.

Oro enters an arena, and his shadow becomes two.

“See how I weep. Doesn't it remind you of home?”

It’s Mato. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in emotions and a bleeding heart. In his lonely home at the top of the world, he’s been training endlessly, under the guise of mastering the Great Nailsage’s teachings. Oro wonders if Mato can harden his heart just enough to kill his brother when the training is done.

Meanwhile, Oro neglects his nail, abandoning himself. When the day comes and he loses to Mato, he will finally be worthy of something.

Oro enters a graveyard, and his shadow becomes nothing.

“Grief does not sleep. It does not laugh, it does not weep. Do not heed the dead, for ghosts are fools who wander the world in a dream, too cowardly to accept their own deaths. I will be no exception.”

It’s Esmy. Until it isn’t. Until it wasn’t. And none of them have ever been the same.

His path is his alone. For the first time, Oro knows where it leads.

✦ ✦ ✦

Someone is shaking him, rousing him from sleep. Oro wakes up with a groan as all the pain hits him at once, making him feel as though his body had been trampled underfoot of a stag.

“Hey, brute,” a nasally voice says. “For a supposed warrior, you sleep through every noise and snore loud enough to attract every predator’s attention. You must really want someone to stab you in your sleep.”

“Fool,” Oro breathes. He has never been so thankful to hear so grating a voice in his life.

He opens his eyes to see Tiso hovering over him. Something tender blooms inside his chest as the sight of the bug, alive and well. This quickly changes, of course, when Tiso starts poking Oro’s face, flaring pain in every touch. The Nailmaster hisses, batting away small hands.

He notices, then, the little vessel sitting nearby, looking at Oro. Not dead, either.

Oro laughs. It’s a quiet, broken thing, but sometimes that is the form happiness takes, and one can only accept it. Tiso stares at him as if he were mad.

He sits up. Looks around. The three of them are gathered in a small room with scarlet fabric walls, pillows of every shape and color piled on the floor. The ceiling of the tent sits low, which meant that the entrance was nearby, where they could continue their journey. But for now, it’s far too warm and comfortable to even consider the thought.

“What happened,” Oro questions quietly, and with a claw, plays with a long strand of Howl’s unusually dirt-free cloak. The vessel looks at him as it cradles a freshly-polished nail, empty expression somehow content.

“I’m uncertain of much,” Tiso admits, and his voice is steady. “I was asleep, yet… awake, in some horrible dream. You carried me and the pale one, until you came to this ghastly place and collapsed, like a stumbling oaf with his legs cut. It was a rather shameful display. Or so I can imagine. I was, of course, inside of the sack.”

Immediately collapsed…?

“What horrible dream, might I ask?” Oro presses, feeling ill enough to ask permission. Tiso looks as though he regrets bringing it up.

“A warrior does not whimper and quiver in his sleep,” Tiso sneers, but weakly so. At Oro’s silence, he looks away.

When Tiso speaks next, it is a testament to the stubborn, strange, foolish friendship they two unexpectedly share. 

“I was… back at the Colosseum, that most glorious of places. Fighting, of course, with the strength of one hundred warriors, as my kind are renowned for. Glory was becoming my very blood. And then…”

Tiso trails off, hugging his chest, fingers tapping where several thin scars wrapped around his armor, his chest. At his side, Tiso’s shield sits untouched as he rejects its comfort. Clearly, in the dream, such a mere thing did not save him.

“And then… it ends,” he whispers. “The weight of the world crushes me, and my broken body is thrown into the acid pits, abandoned to vermin. I die, and the world scarcely takes notice. I-I was laying on that cliff for so long. Until the world itself ended.”

The breath inside of Oro is still, and he cannot manage to rouse it, not even to offer words of any size and comfort.

A movement stirs the room, pillows shifting as Howl crawls to sit beside the Fool. Very slowly, as if in the presence of some skittish creature, it rests its head upon Tiso’s shoulder. Immediately, the Fool’s hackles rise as he jerks and sputters, appearing ready to throw the vessel off of him before he visibly forces himself to relax, quivering like grass in the wind. Oro lightly chuckles at the comical scene, and Tiso seems to remember something.

“I am sorry, you know,” Tiso bites suddenly (Oro takes a secret pleasure in the fact that those words seemed to cause him pain). “For– for my previous words, back in that ashen grave. I was a bit mad, I confess, and I… lost myself. I regret reading that journal to you. I do not even know for what reason that I did.”

Oro waves his hand, and although the bleeding does not stop, it is a near thing.

“Forgiven and forgotten,” he says, and he surprises himself by meaning it. “Though I, for one, do not regret the opportunity to shut you up with my nail.”

Tiso smiles, a sharp and crooked thing, and it is genuine.

The three sit in companionable silence, pain and relief, wounds coming to a close.

After a moment of idle staring, Oro notices, then, the fresh bandages wrapped around Howl’s head. The gray pinpricks where soot-covered claws touched the cloth. It’s a small detail, but the Nailmaster realizes with daunting terror that the three of them are very much not alone in this nightmarish place.

Oro struggles to get up, his shell aching.

Tiso easily stands, and the vessel after him. He walks to Oro (who dwarfs him even while kneeling) and offers his hand, pointedly refusing to meet the larger bug’s eyes. Oro makes an expression that some might claim to resemble a smile.

He takes his hand and, without actually borrowing Tiso’s strength, stands straight before he suddenly pulls the ornery bug into an embrace. Tiso is taken off guard for only a moment before he scowlingly pulls away, fingers tapping on air. For once, the bug has no words to offer.

“Onwards,” Oro says with conviction. He reaches down to take the vessel’s hand, his nail in the other. Together, the three of them duck warily under the doorway, nails and shield.

The hallway of the tent twists into several, shadows seeming to rearrange on a whim. Oro keeps a keen eye for the blue light of darkness, the scent of outside air, but every light he catches disappears into the flame of a lantern, every scent into the stench of smoke. 

It doesn’t take long before the three are lost. Throughout, none of them dare to speak, wary of things nearby that might be listening. 

Then, the blanketed ground changes to something more solid, more metal. The walls disappear, and the darkness stretches into everywhere.

“My friends,” says a voice from the shadows, and the very sound of it is Fire itself. “I bid you welcome to my stage.”

Startled, Oro nearly shouts when a being materializes without warning in a screech of smoke, almost as if from a dream. Hanging lanterns stutter to life, brilliant and blazing, and a vast stage is illuminated, rich velvet banners and carved horned pillars.

A slender, very abnormal looking creature observes them with an upturned head, a pair of bright, scarlet eyes and a cloak of ash-colored wings. (Perhaps most important, Oro notes, is how this bug is very tall, far more than himself.)

When the creature shifts to peer down at the vessel, Oro moves to stand protectively in front of Howl, hiding it from view with a sullen look.

“You,” Tiso hisses, shoulders raised. He reaches swiftly for his shield and brandishes it about as threatening as one could while holding a thin dinnerplate. “You…!”

“Peace, friends,” says the creature, holding up a blackened, long-fingered hand that shined with silver rings. “I am Grimm, master of this troupe. Welcome… to my most grand of stages, on the earth of this fallowed kingdom.”

He inclines his head as if to bow, but falls short.

Oro makes an expression of disdain, twitching to do the same, but refuses. What kind of master does not bow properly to its guests?

“Where is the exit to this blasted place?” he demands rudely, not bothering to introduce himself. Grimm seems to fade further into darkness.

“Everywhere, for some,” he crackles, in a changeless tone. “Others, however, are not so fortunate.”

“Cease your riddles, soothsayer,” Tiso snaps, brandishing his shield further before hesitating, peering around at every shadow. “What is this place, anyway? At first, I had thought this a house of paltry carnival spectacles, but…”

He taps the ground with his shield, a hollow drumming of shell against the maroon ground. It is decidedly not the ground of a mere tent; nor, for that matter, of Dirtmouth.

“This place… it holds the sacred motifs of the Arena. The ground tempered in blood, the iron claws hanging over the doors, the scent of excitement in the air…!”

Tiso closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as if reveling in the scene. Oro cannot tell if the Fool is excited or frightened. Perhaps both.

“Such as a flame changes shape, so too does the stage dance and bend, infinite in its purposes,” is all that Grimm offers. “The same could be said for dreams. Alas, my friends, you are early. For this, I offer my sincere apologies. It seems that our troupe has arrived in the throes of a local holiday, and our stage is temporarily fit for neither act nor audience.”

“Early…” Oro speaks up, growling. “Early for what?”

I sense that you possess one as well. A master, that is. You will know why, then, you are early.

He hefts his nail. This time, he does not intend to be ignored, dream or no. Tiso glances at him with trepidation, as though he were not eagerly trying to attack Grimm moments before.

“Why, Nailmaster Oro. For your grand spectacle, of course,” says Grimm, eyes glittering, and Oro growls, panic rising. “Your brother is nearby within the town, reveling along with the rest of your kin. Perhaps you sensed them… when you wandered uninvited into my dwelling. Although, I fault you not for this. The night is cold, and it is endless here.”

The nightmare... such things were woven into the very stitchings and fabrics of this veiled and shadowed place. Despite such terror, these bugs seemed free from madness, from the light of dreams. But of what cost?

“How– how do you know his name? How do you know any of this?” Tiso loudly demands. But his anger does not reach Oro, who merely stands there, dumbly suspended. One thousand thoughts manifesting at once.

“Mato… is outside?” he breathes to the twisted specter. Grimm hums quietly, and the sound roars in Oro’s ears.

“A true vendetta is a curious thing. It weighs heavily, yet nothing at all, tangible on one’s very shell, and acrid on the nose. And a fine burden to relinquish, in glory… or in blood. The stage is set, my friend. You need only enter it, and take your place among the dancing revelers.”

Oro doesn’t understand at first, what Grimm is offering him. Even when he does, he still doesn’t understand why.

“And what exactly will you be getting from this? If I were to accept this offer? ” Oro asks. “I… cannot fathom...”

An intuition told Oro that this creature was beyond the sanctity of Geo.

“Time,” Grimm says simply, “of a very certain kind. And as for my kin… a ‘paltry carnival spectacle’.” At his last words, he gazes pointedly at Tiso, though his air is humorous.

Oro suspects that Grimm is not telling the entire truth.

“My dear Nailmaster,” he says with an air of finality, staring straight through Oro. “A parting thought for you. Go be with those who love you. Who’d mourn you. Do so while there is still yet time.”

At Oro’s stunned, confused silence, Grimm folds his hands and speaks again, sounding politely regretful.

“Alas, there are preparations to do, and my dreams await. Brumm, minstrel of this dread troupe, will show you the way to the outside world.”

Grimm bows to them, properly this time, wings raised and folded. When he stands, his eyes fix upon the vessel standing behind Oro’s back, and he does not look away. 

“Until our next meeting.”

With a hiss of flame, he twists into a cloud of fading scarlet smoke; the stage lights and lantern fire die in unison. 

Meanwhile, Oro is numb. His two small friends watch him, one wordlessly, the other voiceless. The minstrel, Brumm, silently awaits them at the edge of the stage, staring and staring. He holds a long torch, and a many-legged accordion hangs idly from his back.

Oro recognizes this bug, immediately, as the one from his nightmare. He prepares to confront him, but Brumm doesn’t spare the Nailmaster a single glance; instead, he looks only to Howl, and Oro falters.

“...Hrmm. Your fresh bindings. Do they still wrap comfortably around your head?”

The vessel stares up at Brumm, and its shell bathes in red in the light of the minstrel’s small flame.

“Good, good. My techniques are still worthy,” Brumm drones. He pauses, but says nothing more, leading the three out of veils and shrouds. Somehow, it only seems to take a few turns before bitterly chilly air fills Oro’s lungs once again. As they stand in the gaping maw of the entrance, Brumm appears again to hesitate.

“Yes?” Tiso sighs petulantly. “Speak, then, before we perish from the cold.” The bug immediately looks down upon Howl. He kneels in front of the small vessel, puppetlike in his movements, but his air is warm and sincere.

“Remember this, discarded one. You will never heal back the part of you that is lost. But that does not mean you cannot still become whole again. Hrmm.”

And then he is gone, and in the distance, an eerie melody resumes its haunting song.  Oro isn’t entirely sure that it ever stopped.

On their slow, wary way back to Dirtmouth, Tiso is the first to break the silence.

“So, Oro…” he sneers playfully, though his tone is tired. “Next time, when you drag me half-mad into a nest of freakish creatures, do so in a different tent. Especially if you plan on slumbering. Or I really will stab you in your sleep.”

In the corner of his eye, he sees the Fool look hopefully up at him, clearly expectant of a smile or any sign of good humor. But Oro is as far from laughter as he is from his house at the edge of the kingdom. He does not even muster a grunt.

The three of them walk in silence again, for a time. It is not something Tiso easily tolerates.

“So…” he remarks. “Your brothers. The two Nailmasters, I presume? That ghoulish creature remarked that they were here, together, celebrating one of this kingdom’s quaint little holidays. He then offered you precious use of his arena. I can only imagine these things to be connected.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Oro intones dully, eyes never leaving the road. Tiso pauses to think.

“A real warrior,” he begins, and Oro internally groans, “does not hesitate to confront the battles that lie ahead. No matter how long the road, or frightening the prospect. And brothers die by the nail just as easily as any other,” he adds.

It is Tiso’s way of offering comfort, Oro knows. But that doesn’t stop the anger from swelling.

“You are full of strange notions of what makes a warrior, despite not being much of one yourself,” Oro replies with vitriol. “Your death would have been a testament to that.”

Tiso’s face falls, and hardens.

As always when Oro says things he regrets, his heart trickles with blood, another wound discarded onto the pile. He wonders of bugs whose shells were composed entirely of scars.

He sighs. Tiso walks, drawing his hood farther down upon his face, and does not look at him.

“I… owe my brother a debt,” he offers, sorrow and regret, and Tiso perks up. “Penance for crimes committed long ago. Kin we are, yet we may as well be enemies. He… he swore to kill me, once he became stronger. And I…”

Oro stops speaking.

I will bury you. If it means my end. If it buries me, too. This is the last thing Mato said to him; it was when Esmy’s blood was still wet on Oro’s nail.

“...I wonder if my death will be enough to redeem myself.”

He fantasizes Mato standing mightily before him, mercifully withholding his nail just long enough for Oro to tell him why, why.

That’s why I fled like a coward. That’s why I hid myself in that ash swept grave, down where the world ends. That’s why I chose to tread this path without you. That’s why my nail haunts me so.

After a moment, Tiso chuckles, his own misery seemingly forgotten, and Oro glares at him.

“Ehh. Do not give me that look,” Tiso says, and his smile is sad. “It’s just, well… you call me the Fool, and yet…” He trails off. 

The little lights of Dirtmouth town emerge from the fog, safe from scarlet smoke and flames. 

Oro’s heart sinks into the ground when he sees them gathered in the square, the brightly-lit houses and the small bustling crowd of creatures great and small. Most of them are unfamiliar to him. But even from a distance, he recognizes the two hulking figures, identical in looks to Oro.

(It is All Soul’s Eve, he realizes. The solstice of the earth, carefully celebrated by the late Pale King, where bugs exchange gifts and revel. That is likely why Mato had deigned to descend from his home at the top of the world, and Sheo from his green kingdom of thorns.)

But what Oro does not expect to see, however, is the Great Nailsage himself among them. He’s dressed in blue instead of red, and his great nail is nowhere in sight. Oro suddenly feels as though he were on the verge of collapse once again.

Then, the Nailmaster comes to a decision.

He swallows his burning cowardice, but it crawls back up his throat, choking him.

“Tiso,” he says hoarsely, and the bug looks at him. “Tiso. Listen closely to my words. Are you listening?”

“That depends highly on the message,” he replies, faltering at Oro’s urgent tone.

“I need you to enter that fading town, and give a message to my brother, Mato,” Oro says lifelessly, a gravestone for his every word. “Tell him… to meet me in the tent of Grimm. Tell him… that I am finally ready to give him what I owe.”

Tiso only stares at him, mouth agape. But Oro has already turned away from him, and looks to Howl.

“Go with him,” he instructs with a shameful tremble in his voice. “Go with Tiso. And do not look back at me. F-for if you do, and I look back upon you also, I will run again from my fate and never come back, and die a lowly, honorless coward.”

Oro kneels on the cold, hard ground, in the most revering bow there is. He takes the vessel’s hands in his own, and they are the smallest he’d ever seen.

“Perhaps maybe, in rescuing you, sheltering you, teaching you the way of the nail… I have redeemed myself, if only a little. In the way that truly matters most,” he intones. “Now, I go to settle my debt once and for all.”

Howl looks up at him, and the wind is silent.

Oro leans forward, and bumps his forehead against the vessel’s in the way he and his brothers did as children. For a moment, their horns tangle. When he looks into the empty eyes of his broken vessel, who was no longer quite so broken, he imagines reaching his hand inside and pulling out its soul, thrumming and alive.

“Oro, wait…” Tiso whispers, but Oro is already standing, and walking back from whence they came, claws tearing at his heart in his hand. He does not look back, and he is not followed. The wind blows lonely, and Oro sympathizes. 

The music, it awaits him, calls to him from the wasteland. He enters the gaping maw of Grimm’s tent, and this time, he has no trouble at all in finding the stage. Alone in darkness he stands, accompanied only by his nail, though he is not quite afraid. Fear is not an adequate enough word to describe the thing that he feels.

Finally, he sighs, weary of waiting in the dark. He sheathes his nail, adrenaline hollowing his body.

With some nimbleness, he climbs the wall where the audience would spectate from above, rows and rows of seats, empty of everything but shadows. He wonders how exactly Grimm’s kin will fill them, and how they will know when it was time. Oro claims one of the seats farthest from the stage, and sits heavily, his face in his hands. 

He did not say goodbye before. Not really. Not properly. At the moment, it seemed to be for the best. But now it is becoming one of his greatest regrets.

Go be with those who love you. Who’d mourn you. Do so while there is still yet time.

Why on earth did Oro decide that he was out of time now?

The sheer silence becomes a tangible creature, teeth and claws dragging against the floor, mouth breathing in his ear.

Oro, admittedly, is not surprised when Grimm soon materializes from the shadows, a single lantern illuminating the darkness to announce his presence. He sits down next to Oro, who wonders for the first time why the audience’s seats lacked a separate throne built in opulence for the master. (Could it be that Grimm himself was part of the act…?)

Grimm looks below, and his gaze appears for all the world like a king surveying his kingdom. When he speaks, the very shadows stop to listen.

“So often does it feel as though so many things are ending at once, and that not enough beginnings are occurring to balance out the endings,” he says, “and so often does it feel as though the world itself is taking a toll. Is… ending.”

“Hmph,” Oro grumbles irritably. “What is the meaning of your twisted words?” 

“I am saying that this,” Grimm gestures to the stage with a grand flourish, “does not have to be your end, my friend. Unexpected things occur often on the stage, and improvisation is a necessary skill for any actor. Instead of ending, you might even find yourself… beginning, in a manner of speaking, should you desire it. I, of course, would assist you, and be glad for it.”

The troupe master’s tone indicates that he is again offering Oro… something, but this time, Oro doesn’t have the will to ponder the words of this most unusual of creatures.

“It matters not what happens after,” he replies dully. “Just that it happens.”

Grimm hums. A hush falls over them.

“So… where is your kin, then?” Oro asks, for the mere sake of conversation. “You had led me to believe they would be here.”

“They will be. When the time comes,” Grimm promises. He pauses, head tilting in thought.

“A precious thing, to have kin,” he croaks wistfully. “Most are not so fortunate, to have ones like them, and to be loved by them in turn. You might have thought certain members of my troupe to be my blood, but alas. I am the sole member of my breed. There is no one else like me.”

He waves an airy hand, conjuring a flame in the palm of his hand, as though the two of them were sharing a dream. The heat from the fire burns Oro’s face, so perhaps not.

“Of course, there can be certain strengths in being alone. Invulnerabilities. But oh,” Grimm laments, “so cold. I think you, of all creatures, may know of what I speak.”

“Hmph. You would somehow know, wouldn’t you? Blasted creature,” Oro hisses. “Although, your words ring true. For the longest time, I cowardly hid myself away at the edge of the world, and considered myself a mere ghost outside of its grave. Until…”

Until certain creatures wormed their way into his life, forcing him to (mostly) set aside his selfish ways. Tiso, and Howl. A vessel, and a fool. Each of them half-dead, abandoned by the world. Perhaps that is why he kept them, because they were so alike. To save himself from loneliness, such as how a fire battles away the cold.

Family, he thinks, his tongue running over the teeth of this begrudged, bloodied word. Kin.

As usual, Grimm appears almost able to read Oro’s thoughts.

“I noticed your vessel discarded, enveloped carefully in your care. A creature of fine craft, more so than you realize,” Grimm says, his eyes burning bright. “If I myself were to have children, I would not live to raise them. In fact, rather than death, I would find myself reborn, with no memories of my previous existence… except for one.”

In the palm of Grimm’s hand, the flame pulses, and it is hauntingly beautiful. The two of them stare into the fire in unison. Grimm continues.

“One may think fire able to feel its own heat, but I find that the opposite is true. During such rituals, at the very moment of my death, I feel, for a brief moment, a warmth. And every time, it makes such stasis almost bearable.”

Does it hurt to die? Oro almost asks. Nevertheless, Grimm bows his head in what may have been assent, or may have been nothing at all.

“Who are you really, Troupe Master Grimm?” Oro chuckles, but doesn’t really expect an answer. “For all the world, I have never met another such as you. You speak and breathe as though you were born in a dream… as fire itself.”

There were so many things in this world that he didn’t yet understand. And now, never would.

Grimm seems to smile at this. Of usual, his answer answers nothing.

“Fire lives and dies, yet can be reborn in an instant. As long as any are willing to light the lantern within a darkening world, I will be there. To dance… for as long as I am able.”

“Hmph. I see,” Oro says, though he actually doesn’t. He looks from the fire and down into the stage, imagining Mato below with his nail drawn, waiting and waiting. “I suppose that is the discipline of living. Those who dance to survive, and those who do not. From kings and masters to mindless vermin. Everyone together in the arena of life.”

Are you ever afraid to die? Oro almost asks. 

“That is the nature of nightmares,” Grimm answers. “Fear with nowhere to go but within. But within, perhaps… is where our true selves hide.”

Oro ponders this. Another moment, and Grimm raises his head.

“Your kin arrives,” he simply says. “And mine.” As he speaks, the shadows begin to grow bodies, masks with slitted eyes, staring and staring. Somehow, with Mato standing on the stage below, it is the least frightening thing in the room.

The stage is set, as it was and always has been. A familiar music takes shape in the air; Brumm must be nearby. Oro had never thanked him for his kindness to Howl. Too late, too late. And yet, his death arrives a lifetime too early.

Oro takes his place. When he looks back at the audience, Grimm is not among them. The scarlet fire of lanterns dance, and do not stop.

Across the room, Mato stares intensely at him, and Oro knows that his brother is carrying one thousand words on his tongue, bursting at the seams to be spoken. But now is not the time for words. It is the first time in an age he has laid eyes on his brother outside of a dream; fitting that it should end inside of a nightmare.

A sudden hush falls over the audience, anticipation written in their very hearts. This is what they were born for.

When Mato suddenly shouts, lunging at Oro with all of his strength and conviction, Oro does not move. He armors himself in regret, waiting for the redeeming edge of a nail to pierce his shell. For worthiness to spill out, and make a mess of the floor. Mato will make his death swift. If Mato is reliable for one thing, it is that he possessed the softest heart out of anyone.

Oro waits until the world itself ends. However, the blow of the nail never comes.

Suddenly, a weight like a barreling tram hits him full-force as Mato crashes into him. He takes Oro firmly into his arms and collapses them both onto the floor, shouting unintelligibly all the while.

Then, a sheer blow hits him square in the forehead as Mato rams his strong head against Oro’s in the way they did when they were children, stunning him even more than he already was. His brother is laughing, and his brother is weeping. It is very nearly the same thing.

The wind is howling—or perhaps it was just the audience. It takes a long moment for Oro to return Mato’s tight embrace. But once he does, he never quite lets go.

When the loveless wind blows, it does not speak to him. Another thousand of Oro’s dreams come and go, each of them as lightless as the last. And a thousand more.

✦ ✦ ✦

[plague-of-insomnia]

what kind of accents do you think the cast has? im a dub main for various reasons (one of my friends had a reading/memory disability so i ended up watching dub w them) so im kinda used to everyones dub accents.

but bards defo got an american accent right? (not in the dub, but im thinking manga terms?)

and ik soma & agni have barely a trace of an accent but does that mean they sound basically british?

and does finny have a german accent? sieglinde? diedrich?

idk food for thought?

❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

(Sorry it’s been a rough couple days and I didn’t realize I hadn’t published this yet.)

Hey anon… so I’m a bit confused as to if you’re asking about the Japanese accents in the various anime, the English dub accents (or some other dub), or just my thoughts on what their various accents would be like based on the manga and independent of the anime.

Now I have only watched Kuro in English bc that’s the only thing that was available/that’s available on what I have at the moment (though I’m finally getting the blu rays for BoM and BoA so I’m hoping they’ll have the Japanese to try that out for once), so I can’t make judgements based on that. (And I’m not a good one to ask about Japanese accents anyway, lol.)

I also favor dubs bc of my disability. I love hearing the Japanese but it can be hard for me to follow sometimes, and even english alone without captions I can struggle with (please fix this, CR!!! Grr), so I feel you there.

Also not sure which characters you had in mind with this ask (other than the ones you specifically mentioned). Since kuro has so many, I guess I’ll just focus on a few. I want to make clear I am American and Latine, so I am not an expert on British regional accents by any stretch, or the historical accents of the Victorian period, so I’ll just do my best. Some may be partly inspired by how the characters are written in Japanese, since there’s a bit more… complexity to the Japanese language in regards to things like formality, rudeness, etc, that may not convert into English when translated in writing.

This is a long post so I’ll use a readmore to keep it a bit less chaotic. Below the break I’ve broken down my hypotheses on how some of the major players might talk:

Sebastian

As a high-ranking servant who regularly interacts with the nobility, Sebastian would have a high-class accent, and it is reflected in how his Japanese (and even his English) is written. It is a fairly neutral, polite manner of speaking. I’m sure the Victorians probably had a term for this accent (a high-class servant accent), but if they did, I don’t know it lol.

Ciel

Most nobles like him would be educated in a public school like Weston, like his father was, and those schools taught a standard accent that often varied slightly from school to school. So everyone who went to Weston would have a similar manner of speech. Ciel has been “home schooled” his entire life, aside from a short time at Weston for the investigation, so his accent might have been slightly different than his father’s. Nevertheless, especially under Sebastian’s tutelage, he would have learned how to speak properly (if he didn’t already). Still, unless Sebastian intentionally had him learn the Weston/public school accent, anyone who speaks to him would know he did not go to school, but was taught by tutors/governesses instead.

Bard

Yes, Bard is American despite his dub accent. We don’t know where he’s from exactly, but we can assume it was probably somewhere west of the Mississippi (that’s about 1/3 of the way west if you’re looking at the US map, going east to West, if you’re not familiar with our Geography).

I say that bc the river was the first real demarcation of the frontier. It’s likely he was living somewhere like Texas or Oklahoma. Ofc where he’s from would affect his accent, but I imagine it as a kind of cross between a more neutral southern midwestern accent (“no accent”) and a subtle Texas or OK one. Which that’s hard to explain unless you really know regional US accents, bc most of Texas doesn’t sound like most people think it does. The accents really change depending on what part of the state you’re in, since it’s such a big place. But basically not too heavy an accent but a bit lazy, definitely coarse and brutish since he was a soldier and a farmer. Lots of slang and not big on politeness. (Which he definitely is in Japanese.)

Mey Rin

She’s interesting because she’s one of the few characters who has a couple different ways of speaking. She has her “maid” voice and her “assassin” voice. The first one stutters a lot and uses imperfect grammar, as reflected in the English translation when she repeats things, like “I’m not one to talk badly about my betters, I am.” The second does not have this quirk. Not sure if the first is meant as an affectation as part of her idea of what a maid is, or if she just has such a divide he her personality/personas that she speaks differently when she’s wielding a gun. Since that wasn’t really mentioned in her subarc, I doubt we’ll get an explanation. We do know she was likely a child of immigrants from China, but not whether she was born there or in England before she was orphaned. But it is unlikely she has any hint of a Chinese accent since she was orphaned so young. She definitely has more of a working class accent, especially when compared to someone like Sebastian.

Finny

I had momentarily forgotten that Finny didn’t speak English when he first came to the manor. It’s likely that he would have had some kind of German accent, but I expect that Sebastian would have drilled it out of him, considering how strict he was with Sieglinde and Wolf, and Ciel didn’t blink an eye.

Finny’s accent in English never struck me as particularly high class, either in the manga or anime, but in one of the recent chapters, Theo makes a point to compliment his “upper-class accent.” It does seem highly probable that Sebastian played a hand in how he speaks, since he probably was the one who taught him English.

However, the fact that it came up in this sub arc could indicate his way of speaking is significant, somehow tying into what’s going on with Undertaker and the orphanage. Either way, his accent is apparently closer to Ciel than Mey.

Snake

Snake is tricky, because he almost never speaks as himself (I’m still not 100% sure what pronoun he would use for himself in Japanese, and even he doesn’t seem sure lol). He speaks via his snakes, and they all have different ways of speaking (which I think the dub does a decent job of, personally). So I can’t really say, but for the most part I would probably say his accent(s) would be closer to working-class, but he might have gotten some lessons on speaking from Sebastian, since, as a footman, he would have been expected to speak at a higher-class level than other, below-stairs servants would.

Undertaker

Like Mey, UT has two manners of speaking. He has his “humble old undertaker” accent, which is Cockney-esque (I don’t wanna do a disservice by saying it IS that), definitely a lower class accent. Then he has his “revealed” voice, or how he speaks after he reveals himself on the Campania. I have not read this arc in Japanese so I cannot base this judgement on how this shift is portrayed by Yana, only based on the translation. But it definitely seems to be a higher-class accent than the other one. It’s likely that it’s his “real” accent, while the other is part of his cover persona. However, we don’t know anything about him or his background from when he was alive, or even how old he is. For all we know, that accent could be an affectation too.

Agni & Soma

I know their dub accents annoy a lot of people, since Yana specifically mentions how they don’t have an Indian accent. I expect both of them would speak with a British accent, probably something close to how Ciel speaks, most likely, since Soma would have been educated by tutors and Agni probably was as well, since he came from a very high-caste family. I would expect that if their dub accents has been closer to Yana’s intent, they would sound more like Hakim in the dub of the anime Emma. That’s how I imagine them, anyway.

Sieglinde & Wolfram

I expect both would have German accents when they speak English, especially Wolf. Sieglinde might do a better job of working to improve and lose it, but I don’t think Wolf would, partly because of his animosity toward Sebastian. I like to imagine he sounds like Hans in the English dub of the anime Emma, and I really hope we eventually get the Green Witch Arc animated and dubbed so we can get a hot German English accent 🥺.

Diedrich

Dee, on the other hand, I think would not have a German accent in English, especially not in the present. I think he probably was educated in English before he went to Weston, likely by a private tutor, probably someone British, and then when he went there would have acclimated to the public school assent there. So probably he would sound like Vincent did, but I expect he’d throw in some German every now and then, especially when he gets irritated, lol.

Lau

Lau is originally from China, and his accent (as far as I know?) has never been remarked upon in the manga. We also know nothing about his background except that he rose quickly and at a young age to be head of Quin-Bang. I would assume that he speaks English very well, and the only hint at his origin that I’m aware of in the Japanese is the kanji (character) for the pronoun “I” he uses, though he doesn’t pronounce it as it’s normally done in Japanese nor does he with a Chinese pronunciation. I would take this to mean he probably has little if any hint of a Chinese accent when he speaks English, and since he keeps company with nobles and was able to pass as a doctor, he likely speaks in a high-class accent.

I hope that satisfied, anon. This was a fun and different ask. I apologize I didn’t publish it sooner.

[planetary]

oh im so mad i have a cavity in my tooth and like what the fuck i brush my teeth twice or sometimes three times a day i literally Have to or i cant relax enough to sleep i floss after eating like anything and before i brush i have special mouthwash i use in the middle of the day too i am Obsessive about my teeth. and i get a fucking cavity. WHAT IS THE POINT GRRR IM SO SICK OF DENTAL WORK two abcesses a wisdom tooth and that whole debacle with my stupid fuck of a dentist shoving a broken piece of my tooth INTO MY SINUS CAVITY and now i have to get a FILLING maybe multiple bc who knows there could be others LIKE wtf. just take them all out at this point whatever omfg.

AND MY DENTAL INSURANCE DOESNT COVER SHIT so this will be probably like a thousand dollars again hopefully not more and what else? yeah i cant stop thinking of that fucking episode of CatDog where they went to the dentist because when i first saw that episode like 10 years ago i got so fucking mad i still have a screenshot of me bitching about it. heres an excerpt from the episode sypnosis

“When the dentist opens Dog's mouth and examines it, he finds his mouth perfect, which surprises Cat. Then, he checks Cat's mouth and notices that his mouth is unclean and loaded with all sorts of decay. The dentist scans CatDog through an X-ray and discovers that whatever damage Dog does to his teeth will affect Cat's teeth and vice versa.”

so thats fucked right now let me go transcribe the screenshot i have from 10 years ago. ok heres my thoughts from 2014

“before i send this i would just like to say that ive been watching a lot of CatDog recently and it's on now and im SOrry. but it needs to be said. have you ever seen catdog? it was on TV about ten years ago and it's about this cat and this dog that were attached to each other. ive got some concerns about it. the show isn't ever fair to Cat. especially in this one episode, where CatDog goes to the dentist. Cat eats very good food and Dog eats literally shit. Cat brushes and flosses after each meal and Dog is still eating shit. but because of some logic that has no scientific backing at all, whatever one does to his teeth affects the other. so Dog just gets to be a shit-eater and be rewarded while Cat is punished no matter how hard he tries. its just... so unfair. you get where im going with this?”

LIKE DO YOU GET IT IM LITERALLY CAT RN AND IDK WHO DOG IS BUT WHEN I FUCKING GET THEM IM KILLING THEM sorry this is long but im not putting it under a readmore you followed me so you agree to see me complain on the dash. you love it. I HATE TEETH

[unexpectedbrickattack]

You know, a bonus to designing the oc is that other people will drawn them in the scenarios you share! I know your lore really made me excited to see your little fella ^^) it's so nice to encounter someone eho likes SDV in the wild and your world building makes me want to boot up my computer and deal with the lag to see everyone again. I do have to wonder though, what's your take on how the valley feels about JojaMart? It seems like it replaces extensions on the Vally's magic if you fund it.

TRUE…U ARE SO RIGHT!!! Luckily I have a small little ref sheet for him already made heehee. But ill post it on my sdv blog (when i make it). I can put it here too but ill do that under a readmore 😌

Also. U are so sweet 😭 I am so sorry ur game is too laggy to play but i am touched that my little bit of lore is enough for u to want to brave through that mess anyway LMAO

FIRST OF ALL….here is my boy….

His name is June and ive since tweaked some stuff about him. You dont need to know much about him, just that hes a bit of a cryptid among the town for almost two years before townspeople start interacting w him on their own volition. His best friends are Marnie, Kent, and Caroline, and he is really cool w Willy, Linus, and Marlon (old men gang rise up). Also romances Shane which is funny to Me bc whenever shane gets a male farmer to romance i am constantly rotating this image of vincent getting upset and saying ‘gee jas how come YOU get two cool godfathers’

To answer ur question about Jojamart; i feel like it truly wouldnt mess with the balance of magic in the valley. Magic is powerful BUT. It is adaptive. The Junimos harness the magic of the valley to fix things in the broken down community center, but if someone else came along and fixed it for them, well thats one less thing the magic of the valley is used for. Theres plenty of talented people in the valley that dont need magic to get things done 😉 (Robin my beloved)

But i do think jojamart is a big indicator that something is amiss with the town. I think it is a common idea to believe that jojamart is like. Evil. And like. Its totally a soulless corporation, but i think its filling a very specific Need of this town. Pelican town has some very skilled laborers that sell their work and services to help provide not just for themselves, but FOR pelican town; if that still leaves people unable to pay rent/mortgage or groceries, then people will absolutely swoop in and offer ‘solutions’.

I have more Thots but basically……magic is powerful, but it cant do anything on its own. Its utilized by magical beings to make tangible change in the world. But humans are capable of making real and tangible change without the use of magic. Jojamart says ‘here, give me money and time and ill fix this stuff 😉’ and that is not anymore different than Robin, Clint, the junimos, etc saying ‘give me some money and time and i can do this thing for u 😉’. Jojamart is like. Bad. But bad in the same way Pierre owning the only grocery store in town wo employing anyone is bad, and how Lewis is okay with all of this Mess. Its indicative of a bigger problem in the valley that magic cant really fix

[robotnuts]

are there any rvb fics you still think about all the time? like i dont think a week goes by without thinking abt qed and how it def changed me on a molecular level, do you have any fics like that?

oooh good question. the most important fic is at the bottom of this post so just scroll to the final paragraph if you only want one, true recommendation of the only rvb fic that really matters.

QED is fantastic though its more of @shotgunslap's thing than mine. the partner to that is also obviously QoQ, the only rvb fic ive been able to make almost all my friends read. i think about the south/north characterization every day of my life. caboose and carolina mean so much to me, etc etc. thats a pretty easy pick though so im cracking into my ao3 bookmarks to look for more niche picks.

i know there was actually a lot of rvb fic that was just posted to tumblr that i think ive gone back and tried to reblog at some points but i never organized it, i should have archived it, people who wrote good femslash and rvb women liked to just post it under a readmore on their tumblrlog and you have to go digging through decades old tags to find it now

okay. the big one i actually do still think about all the time forever and ever is saltsanford's stuff about epsilon/wash's relationship. this is the big one i still think about that centers on their backstory, but also, put my guns in the ground, which is one of the Big fandom tuckington longfics, also has such good washpilon stuff in it and they're so fucking juicy. when tucker asks wash how many times he's broken his ribs and he says four and epsilon says "actually it was five" before realizing How Bad of a Move that would be. Hello? Hello?????? i want them to be forced to reimplant and have weird mind brain trauma sex SO BAD sorry im normal. this is another one that takes place during/after the chorus era

on the spectrum of fics that i actually dont yet feel ashamed reccomending, primtheamazing, who wrote QoQ, also wrote some other good stuff. i am a HUGE fan of this fusion fic, the punchline to the tucker/caboose fusion is HYSTERICAL. this one where grif forgets who simmons is due to temple shennanigans and flirts with him is also very like. trope-y but i like that shit so this goes here too

ok. now onto the stuff that it is actively embarrassing for me to be recommending. but. prim's logrimmons fic is hysterical and was the stepping stone to creating the lolixgrimmons mind palaces with my friends so its worth it just for that. but also its really fucking funny. so is the one where locus has to listen to them have sex and gets himself caught

the truly embarrassing one for me to have here is the piece of softboy grimmons content i participate in. sadly i do enjoy s15 content sometimes for the softboy grif sensitive emotions exploration i will admit to being a hypocrite there and i really liked that one and reread it frequently (just realized this is written by the QED person so! you might already know of it)

and then finally. the most important red vs blue fanfiction of all time, guns are for shooting. it has it all. sarge. washington. sarge again. kismesisitude. grif and simmons acting like rosencrantz and guildenstern (are dead). locus being invisible and getting caught by lopez with a bag of flour. it's written by the person who wrote QED. You want to read it right now. Read it right now. READ IT RIGHT N

wait no the cute bit about sarge declaring war on gravity and upending a bag of flour onto lopez isnt in guns for shooting. what fic is that from