#tell me the hunting down of the ancients or the drawn out war against the 5 flower kingdoms + tower natives isn’t ethnic cleansing

[silkhy-john]

TTGFHs as an allegory for colonisers and their actions—almost ALL their actions—as an allegory for colonisation in its many facets?

“More likely than you’d think” doesn’t BEGIN to cover it.

[cyclicalaberration]

Naught But A Fool In The Body Of A God

(Gore + existentialism warning) A foolish gamers... character study? I think?

Totems were funny things. Made of gold and emerald, looking both very much and not at all like their creator. You could go your entire life never seeing one of them. It is a rare person who needs to to face a powerful and dangerous raid, or to track down a mansion, all of which are filled to the brim with Illagers, just to get lucky and catch an Evoker off guard.

Totems are particular about who they save, seeming to despise their own holders. Evokers almost always held one, but they couldn’t seem to use them.

They seem almost heretical, as though Death herself is only tolerating their presence. She does not seem the type to let a method of escape slide. Though, she is simply a collector, and totems can only be used once. Perhaps she created them, to give some sense of hope as she waited at the finish line, merely extending the bridge into the void.

That is not the case, however. The creator was a young god then, full of spite and bloodlust. He carved them in his image, gave them to those who followed him through lava and storms, across oceans and land. He was not a god of death but a god of dying, a conglomerate of souls of those slaughtered in his name. He is of much the same stock as gods of war and blood, power growing from violence and destruction.

He was older, though. Older than the concept of war. War implies thought behind destruction, implies plans. Dying is a natural aspect of life. Everyone is dying, ever so slowly. He was an intermediary, an active force on the field of Death, who, for all those who fear her, is quite passive.

You, most likely, do not fear death. You cannot, for you do not know what awaits you in her loving embrace. You fear dying. Your last breath leaving your body, laying still, moving for the very last time, thinking your very last thought. You fear the unknown and the end, the change. You do not know what comes after death and that strikes fear into your heart. You do not know what it is like to take your last breath, and that haunts you.

This young god, so new and so primordial, hunted. If he stopped moving, stopped hunting, stopped killing, he’d fade away and die. He sent his followers to hunt, to pillage, his need for souls insatiable. They hunted, and they warped, skin greying and eyes darkening. They began to shift from human to something else, something other. Infused with his power, they hunted, leading groups to hunt down more sacrifices to their god.

He grew in power, grew in strength. Death herself watched, for he was just like his creations. He was a totem, serving a greater power. He was sculpted from gold, inlaid with emerald eyes, given the wings of all her favored creatures, and he engraved himself with stories of his past, his triumphs, his losses, things he wanted to hold close to him forever.

--

Blood runs through the canals of those engravings, a trident plunging into the chest of the next breathing mortal, and the god, whose name has been long since lost, laughs. Another one came for him, not learning the lesson of its companion, and a sword is driven through their heart, buried up to the hilt, freed moments later by the golden flames eating at its nervous system, reduced to ash in seconds. He brushes them away as one would brush away eraser shavings.

Bodies lay strewn across the field when he’s finished, a one-sided war, headed by a mortal he’s already forgotten, over some sin he no longer cares to remember.

A chuckle rings out from behind him, and he whirls, sword drawn. “That’s quite the display.”

They were half-buried in a fog, extremities concealed in the mist that he knows for a fact wasn’t there. Their eyes glow with hunger, with spite, with a thousand emotions he couldn’t even begin to untangle. It hurts to look them in the eyes too long.

“A lot of flair for some bodies nobody will even see. Nobody but me, of course.”

“What can I say, I’m an artist.”

“Or a zealot.”

“What’s the difference? You won’t have the breath to tell anyone.” He swings his sword, runes glowing. Whoever they are, they will soon be ash, soaked by their own fog, as fire eats them from the inside out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My father wouldn’t be happy, he’s not nearly as forgiving as me.” He whirls again, seeing white eyes and a ruffled shirt, mere feet from his face, leaning back against nothing. He gets the feeling that they’re looking at him, truly looking at him, and he chokes, breaking his gaze away from swirling, dancing white, blank but never empty.

“How-”

“Foolish, that’s what you are. A fool.” The mortal- No, they are not mortal. No mortal stares a god in the eyes and calls him a fool. “Why do you fight?”

--

His companion smirks at him. He grins right back, rows of teeth glinting in the light of the enchanted blades. Centuries of fighting together made them a well practiced dance, a machine of blood and souls. Three arrows pierce the hearts of the guards, falling wordlessly from their towers. That’s all the warning they get. Before the night is out, blood flows so thick it sits for years, soaking the wood and drowning the now-ashen grass.

His companion’s footsteps wither and rot the wood on which they stand, warping it beyond recognition. They work their way to the center of the fortress, people charging to their deaths, impaled, sometimes, by naught but the thorny whips of their enchanted armor.

The stone crumbles beneath their feet, and the god would feel the effects, if he were not himself a statue, life breathed into him by the very goddess who steals it, made of pure gold, which doesn’t tarnish, doesn’t decay. Tapestries crumble to dust as his companion runs their hand along them. The god tosses a mortal to the side, its body lying crumpled, its soul buzzing as he adds it to his own. Another voice layered over his own, another voice to buzz with every angry word.

His companion grips a guard by their chin and laughs as it crumbles to dust beneath their hands.

The general of the army falls, and they dance in the blood of their enemies, spin in the blood of their victims. The hem of the smaller god’s dress sprays droplets of blood as they twirl, the god of dying laughing as his friend grabs his hands, dancing in victory, in elation, in completion. They propel themself into the air and spin him. They move as a unit, as they did in the heat of battle.

Later, the god will sit, stare at his companion, and say “You once asked me why I fight.” That day is not today. Today they will both fight, dance in the blood of their enemies, and move on, the fortress a shell of its former self, growing over with vines, breaking apart.

--

Two gods, a god of dying and a god of withering and ash, rest in a small village on the bank of a river. The withering god rests against a tree, long ago struck with lightning, telling a story to the village children, as the god of dying laughs, interrupting them with his own commentary on just how comically wrong they’re telling it.

It has been decades since they drew first blood, traveling for weeks at a time, collecting, remembering, rather than destroying. Fights found them, of course, mobs never learn, but fewer mortals have fallen to their stained hands in the past century than in their best year previous.

They still delight in the occasional bloodbath, if the chance arises, but as the world shifts towards calm, they drift away from senseless slaughter and towards traveling.

They pass by cities, or the ruins of what once were, and they ask themselves, “Was that our doing?” and they do not know, hundreds of civilizations having fallen to their blades, their arrows, and their fire.

But they sit, ancient, immortal warriors, telling stories to children, their hands still caked in more blood than these children will ever see.

Later, the god of dying will say to his companion: “I fight because destruction is control. Nothing exists that I cannot destroy, nothing exists that I cannot control,” but that day is not today. Today they laugh at incorrect accounts of tales they experienced, true histories lost, new memories formed. Today the god of withering and ash closes their eyes, and the god of dying makes the skies dance with light for the descendants of people they long-ago killed.

Later they will reflect. Today they will reminisce.

--

Two gods part ways, on a mission from Death. They will meet again, but it will not be the same. The god of dying, of storms, and of the ocean and all that that entails smiles down on his old friend, their white eyes glowing with hundreds of memories.

“I’ll see you soon, Old Pal.”

“See you soon.” They turn down different roads, one a path of explosions, of wars, of power-grabs and monarchies, and one down a path of self-reflection.

Their paths take them to the same destination: Redemption. Neither take the same road there, and neither path is straight, but it never is. And redemption is a place not easily found, but easily lost, easy to slip back into old ways for moments at a time, on a godly timescale.

The god of dying takes the name Foolish, a reminder of his past. He arrives in a strange land, full of holes and trauma and death. The place reeks of hubris. It makes him sick. It makes him hungry. The hunger curls in his stomach and the stench gives him a sickening headache, so he runs. Runs far away, and he builds.

Builds for control, builds for stability. Builds are his one constant, gigantic pyramids and sculptures and he can’t stop. His temple expands. A man, a man he has seen, a man who feels like too much and too little, too much in one body, a vacuum and a black hole, asks him for a kingdom. Simple enough. A child approaches him, telling him to build a mansion, a mansion larger than a country, for him, his husband and their son. He will be paid. He is not paid nearly enough.

--

A demon, a cat, and a not-quite-human man encroach on his summer home. They reek of vines and death, and Foolish loses his composure. They doubt his power. They threaten his home and he smiles with too many teeth and grows, grows to his full size. His eyes glow. They taunt him, threaten him.

“I’m a peaceful man, Ponk. But if I must defend myself, I can.”

“Defend yourself against this, then, Foolish.” Ponk hurls a trident at him, glancing off him, a mortal not strong enough to pierce his skin. He’s a fool, more a fool than the man who took it as his name. That is his weapon, carved of prismarine and ivory, more his domain than any other. For a moment, the god tastes blood.

“I may be a totem of undying, but in the past, I have been a totem of death.” He calls power to his fingertips, lightning in his eyes. “It’s not just one thing, Ponk. It's never just one thing. Have you ever tasted lightning? Smelt the ozone in the air, seen it dance across your skin before you black out from the pain?”

“Do you see where we are, Foolish?” In Ponk’s mind, the name is fitting. He has never seen a storm called from nothing before. Never seen a storm called at all, only harnessed. He disbelieves.

“It does not matter. A sunny day does not matter.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Let me show you.” He smiles, rows of teeth bloodied with the lives of thousands, millions of mortal souls. His voice layers, thousands of voices, screaming to be heard. The crack of lighting lands mere feet from the three. “Now begone from this place, and I don’t ever want to see you here again, am I clear?”

The vines must be resolved. The egg continues to hunger, but he has hope, hope that there is a piece of mortal soul left in them, a piece of morality that wishes to be free. He does not give up hope.

--

The gods’ paths cross again in a city, the totem and the king. A city drowning in red, twisting, oozing vines, calling out for blood. They spend hours weeding, burning red vines and laughing. His friend no longer flies, his friend hides their once-beautiful eyes, but they’re the same. They do not remember him, but they are the same.

“Foolish, have I ever shown you my eyes?” Of course they have, and he says as much. “I’m going to show you again, just in case.” Their eyes dance, with confusion and worries, and a deep-seated fear of rejection.

“Yeah, that’s the Eret I’m thinking of! The one with white eyes, the one with the netherite armor!” Foolish looks concerned, but this is nothing that they can’t fix. They’ve fought armies together, a few missing memories aren’t going to make him give up on them.

They attend a banquet. They dance for the first time in centuries, spinning in circles to the music played by that infernal catmaid. They attend a banquet and it goes south, hard, as all parties attended by gods do. It goes south and he makes use of his totem nature, wrapping around their heart, taking their place. They will not die to the monstrous egg before they get to dance together, and reminisce.

Soon, the god will say to his old friend, that he builds to replace. He builds to counteract the destruction he caused, and it will not replace the lives lost, but it adds something new, something beautiful to this harsh reality, but that is not the truth. The truth is, he creates for the same reason he destroyed.

--

Soon a mortal man in a cardboard mask will tell him that he let him die. Soon, he will be taunted by a mortal man, full of hubris, who says that his builds mean nothing, are nothing, bring nothing to the world, and a part of him will think the mortal man is right. A part of him whispers that he is selfish. That his ways are wrong. That he must pick up the sword once again, bleed mortals for their souls.

He will shove that part deep inside, and he will remind the man that no good comes of blood. He will tell the man that he too once believed that death was the answer, death would give control, but he will tell the man that he was wrong, and that he will be too.

You either die a monster, vengeful and wicked, or you grow. You adapt, you create, you reconcile. Some may never forgive, but many will. Mortals only get one lifetime, he must make the most of it.

He will not say that though. He will sit up against the side of his sphynx and sew hundreds of thousands of tiny dolls, breathing life into each one, giving each one a small hard hat and a job, so he will never be alone. He will build, children safe in the ender cradle, and he will give himself time to think. He will stop moving, for one moment, and he will not die. He may be the god of the seas, but he is not a shark. He keeps moving, a perpetual motion machine, purely out of fear of what his own thoughts bring, and he truly lives up to the name given to him so long ago. Foolish. For he is naught but a fool in the body of a god.

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 3: Oath-Breaker

Sorry for taking so much longer than I thought I would! But I hope it was worth the wait! Please let me know what you think- your comments are seriously what keeps me going. love you all sm ❤︎

word count: 4108

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

It was fresh, and completely unmistakable. Within the past few hours, Lorcan Salvaterre had passed by Mistward, heading for the sea.

Rowan immediately swooped low, following the scent to where it meandered over the forest floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The trail skirted around the edge of Mistward’s perimeter, following a path that was just out of their sightline, but close enough that in the morning, the scouts would find it immediately.

It almost felt like a message.

Rowan shifted in mid-air, landing hard on his heels and already drawing the wind towards him from all directions, searching for anything, any whisper of a dark form, flitting between the oaks, quick as a shadow –

But there was nothing. Only the memory.

Rowan began to run, following the trail westward. Even though Lorcan had passed through these trees barely a few hours ago, the wind couldn’t sense him. He was already gone, miles and miles ahead. Out of the reach of Rowan’s wind.

As the trail solidified before him, Rowan’s stride lengthened, his footing becoming more sure with each step. And he longed to be able to shift again, to use the wind to propel him over the land.

He could fly so much faster than he could run, but then he risked losing the scent – a chance he could not take. So instead Rowan dug his feet into the earth, tearing through the forest mists. A predator on the hunt.

Only one thought in his head.

Why in rutting hell was Lorcan Salvaterre trying to get his attention?

···

Fenrys wasn’t there when she found out.

He was out on a run, hunting through the forests around Doranelle. Chasing down after whispers of the forest-spirits. He knew they were here: the elemental beings, as ancient as the very stones and mountains and valleys. Older than history – than time itself.

Fenrys would hear them in the night – sounds of crashing rock and tearing metal, the felling of trees when no wind blew. Still fighting their ancient wars, either uncaring or ignorant of the affairs of lesser beings. But Fenrys had never seen them, nor did he know of anyone who had.

Every now and again, he would glance a fairy or two. One of the Little Folk, going about their little-great-deeds. But it was never when he was looking for them.

It was something he and Connall used to do as young ones – charge through the forest, hunting for fairies. For the heroes of the tales their mother would tell them, over glasses of sweet fruit juice on lazy summer afternoons. Stories of battles and warriors and the hidden magic of the land. To this day, Fenrys didn’t know whether the stories were true, or if she had made them up herself.

He knew it was only purposeless distraction, and one that he would likely pay for when he returned. But he just had no idea how much.

So no, Fenrys wasn’t in the palace when Maeve found out.

But Connall was.

···

The trail was nearly a straight shot through the woods, barely deviating for trees and boulders. Lorcan was really hauling ass. And as he drew closer and closer to the coastline, and the little market town that was waiting for him there, Rowan felt his suspicions begin to grow.

It was nearing evening when Rowan finally began to hear little signs of approaching civilization – the neighing of horses, the soft thumps of an axe chopping wood. But the trail pushed on, breaching the edges of the trees, following over the cobbles through the market, out towards the end of the main street, until it came to a stop. Right at the end of the long wooden dock.

Rowan stood at the brink, right where the path met the sea. And he could feel fury coiling in his gut.

Lorcan had left. And Rowan thought he might be able to guess where his former commander was headed. But before he decided anything, before he made a plan, he needed to be absolutely sure.

Rowan turned on his heels, headed back into the village. His cloak was pulled high over his head, hiding much of his face. He let his body fall into a slump, hiding its powerful shape. Evening was coming on, and if he kept his movements sloppy and wide, he could be just another traveler, coming to wet his throat with watered-down ale.

Outside the pub, a young maid was lighting the lamps, her hair neat and apron clean. When she looked up at him, Rowan caught the glint of sharp eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to go inside the tavern.

“Hello miss,” Rowan said, ever so slightly shifting his accent, letting the words fall from his mouth like marbles. “Might you be able to tell me where I could hire passage on a ship?”

Her face twisted shrewdly, and she gave him a quick once over as she straightened and said, “Depends on where you’re goin’. And how much coin you’ve got t’ spend.”

Rowan nodded, making sure to keep his clothes hidden with the cloak, knowing that an accidental glint of silver from one of his hidden blades might be enough for her to call for help from inside the tavern. And that last thing he wanted was trouble. “When was your last ship headed for Adarlan? And when will you be expecting the next one? It doesn’t have to be fast, or comfortable.”

Her expression tightened, but she answered reasonably enough. “We get a fair few ships headed to the western continent this time o’ year – the sheep’ve just been shorn and ships head that a-way bearing wool to trade for furs from the north, and steel from the south. I’m pretty sure we had a ship go through this morning.”

“And the next?” Rowan prompted, his expression schooled into neutrality.

“If you ask around the dockyards, I’m sure you might find another ship headin’ that way – once the tide comes in. And if not, then I’m sure there’ll be another come tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Rowan slipped the girl a coin. “By chance, you didn’t catch another traveler come through here today, heading the same direction – asking questions? Tall, dark hair, harsh look?”

The shrewd look fell into a scowl. “Maybe. Either way, my answer’ll cost more’n just a copper.”

Rowan slipped her another couple of coins, and she pocketed them. But her scowl didn’t soften.

“I might’ve seen your man. Came through around mid-morning, in a massive rush. Massive man, at that. Huge. Musta been six, nearly seven feet? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that tall. And he nearly knocked me over coming in the pub to ask after passage to Rifthold. Kept his face covered though, so I couldn’t be sure.”

Rowan nodded again, but before the maid could turn to leave, he asked, “Oh – and do you happen to know a place where I could send a letter?”

“If you give it to me, I can get it to my mother and she’ll give it to the courier when he comes ‘round in the mornin’. You gonna come in for a pint?”

The maid held open the door, and Rowan followed her in, thinking it much easier to just go along with the girl, and far too wrapped up in his thoughts to come up with a polite refusal that wouldn’t leave her even more suspicious than she already was.

The tavern wasn’t bustling, but it was far from empty either. A few farmers sat at a table in the far corner, enjoying a few beers after a long day’s work, while a few younger boys, perhaps their sons, were laughing and joking across the room. There were a few other individuals – travelers like himself, or people who lived and worked in the village. But the majority of the bar was filled with sailors – teasing and joking and climbing all over each other, celebrating their last night on dry ground for many weeks to come.

Rowan headed for a quiet corner, flagging down the waitress and settling onto a creaky wooden bench. He ordered some bread and ale, which she had brought over in mere seconds, and he began to pick at it mindlessly.

There could be no doubt. Lorcan was heading for Adarlan, for Rifthold. For Aelin.

Maeve had sent him to go after Aelin. And she had ordered him to pass by Mistward, Mistward specifically, so that Rowan would be drawn into the conflict. Maybe they were planning on using him to get to Aelin, to follow him in order to find her.

The question was, why only Lorcan? Where were the twins? Gavriel? Vaughan? Would they follow Lorcan? Were they already headed for Adarlan?

Rationally, Rowan knew that Aelin was safe. That she was still somewhere in the middle of the ocean, on her way to Rifthold. But it took all of his self-control to keep himself from shifting right there, in the middle of this tavern filled with mortals, and fly out into the ocean skies to find her.

What really worried him was the idea that he would get there too late. That even if he got on a ship right at that moment, he would get to Rifthold after she had already been found, taken, overwhelmed. The idea that there were already forces there, waiting to seize her.

And no matter what, Lorcan would arrive in Rifthold hours or days before Rowan would be able to, and well before Aelin could read any letter he sent. Not that he even knew where he could send a letter. All he knew was that she used to own a hidden apartment in the slums, and that for the past six months, she had lived in a stone tower in the castle.

It seemed unlikely that she would return to either. Both were compromised, the castle being an obviously insane choice. Unless of course she had something hidden up her sleeve that she had kept from Rowan. Which felt distinctly possible. And Arobynn had to know about the apartment. She had nowhere safe to go, and Rowan had nowhere safe he could send a warning.

So the only way he would be able to tell her about Lorcan would be to go there himself. To break his oath.

Rowan knew that he could, and without much difficulty at that. But it still felt wrong – a violation of trust. If he left Wendlyn without being told to by Aelin, he would be going against her wishes. He would be taking advantage, both of the flexibility of their bond and of her trust in him.

And it definitely didn’t make things any easier that he so desperately wanted to leave in the first place. It felt like he was exploiting the opportunity to be close to her again, no matter how rationally necessary it might be. And there was a chance that she might not forgive him for it.

But no matter how much that might sting, he couldn’t live through following her requests to the letter, and Aelin dying because of it.

So, Lorcan was headed for Rifthold. And soon, Rowan would be heading there as well.

Rowan tore into the bread, newly reinvigorated. He didn’t see any reason to return to Mistward, there wasn’t anything there worth sacrificing another day for. But he did feel bad about leaving without any notice. Deserting Emrys and Malakai, and…Luca.

So as he ate, Rowan dug out a piece of paper from his pack and began to write.

Emrys,

I’m sorry. Something came up. Tell Luca to remember to practice swings off his left side just as much as his right, I don’t care if they hurt more.

When I see her, I’ll tell her you say hello.

Then he folded up the paper and sealed it, leaving it unmarked. Hopefully, even if someone – such as that suspicious maid – opened the letter to see what it said, what he wrote would be meaningless.

He spent the rest of the evening listening to the sailors’ conversation, until he heard mention of a crew headed for Rifthold. The barmaid hadn’t lied – it was a ship bearing crates of wool heading to Adarlan to trade for steel. This was their last night ashore, and they were setting sail sometime in the early morning, just before the tide shifted.

So Rowan waited a few minutes more, then left the waitress his fee, gave the maid his letter, and walked out into the lamplit village, his jaw squared and his shoulders set. Determined.

···

Fenrys returned to broken furniture. Splintered wood and broken glass. Twisted metal and shattered stone. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the silence. It stretched its fingers through the walls and corridors and archways, until it brushed through to his skin. Until it was the only touch he could feel.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Where there should be sound.

The third thing he noticed was the bodies. Their touch was even colder than the quiet. There was no red, no black. None of the usual gory signs of death. Just nothing. An absence.

Fenrys worked his way through the wreckage, his hands empty of feeling, his heart a stone in his chest. His intestines resting somewhere near his toes.

Until he reached their rooms, and found Connall in a dark huddle across the sea of space, and he was still breathing and it felt like Fenrys could breathe again too, but then Connall spoke and sound returned to the world, “Why did he leave? Why did he leave us?” and his voice was so full of fear that Fenrys felt tears sprout from his eyes like wings.

“Who?” Fenrys asked. “Who, Con? What happened?”

But then the palace stones began to thunder, and the questions that had seemed so important only a moment ago fell from his mind on a scattered breeze.

···

Rowan flitted into a dark alleyway around the back of the tavern, and once he was sure there was no one there to see, he shifted into his hawk and flew out over the small village.

From his eavesdropping earlier, he had learned that the ship headed for Rifthold was an old galleon vessel near the edge of the docks, bearing white and yellow flags. It had a large enough cargo bay that hopefully Rowan would be able to find a place to stow away, but wasn’t so large that the journey would take even longer than it should. Which was already far, far too long for his liking.

Rowan circled high above the ship a few times, making sure that he appeared as nothing more than just another sea bird, hunting for its dinner. Although most of the crew, including the captain and first mate, appeared to be drinking away their pay on the floor of the tavern in the village, the ship wasn’t completely empty.

His winds told him that at least three men were asleep below decks, their rumbling snores echoing through the wooden beams. But a few lamps still shone, and with their light Rowan could see a few flickering shadows just beneath the upper deck that made him think not all of the sailors were yet asleep.

So Rowan would have to be extremely careful in making his approach.

He waited for long minutes for those lights to vanish, and shadows to disappear. And the second they did Rowan was sailing down among the rigging, twisting and turning around the sails and masts until he could be absolutely sure that there weren’t any watchful eyes to mark his presence.

Then Rowan was swooping down into the maze of rooms below decks, making sure to avoid the various sleeping quarters, kitchens, and officers’ cabins. Heading towards the hold at the very bottom of the ship in as straight of a path as he could.

Rowan found a dark corner behind a case of flour and barrel of barley, and then shifted back into his Fae form. Once they passed the halfway mark between Adarlan and Wendlyn, magic would stop working, and he wouldn’t be able to move between forms. He had to find a place he could hide in during the day that was large enough for his Fae body. A task far easier said than done.

A ship like this had a crew in the dozens, and quarters were cramped all to hell. Every piece of available space was used, from every corner to closet and even the toilets. Only the captain would have room to stretch his legs, and even then, it was barely by a few feet. Nothing like the space he would need in order to not attract attention.

Rowan looked over the hold once again, scanning for anything that could possibly be large enough. Then he nearly huffed a laugh when he realized exactly what he needed to do.

···

When morning came, Rowan was crammed into a wooden case lined with wool. The back panel carefully pried out and its nails removed, but then leaned carefully back into place to allow him a quick exit. And the majority of the wool was now taking a trip down the coastline.

He had spent an hour or so that night carefully removing armfuls of the fiber and tossing it overboard, using his wind to propel it from the shipyard and out to sea, leaving only just enough room for himself. It was crammed, scratchy, uncomfortable, and smelled like sheep dung, but it would do.

Now, as the ship slowly meandered its way through the reef and out into open ocean, with the occasional shouts and curses of the sailors toiling above, Rowan had nothing to do but think.

For the next month.

It might just be the longest month of his life. At least he couldn’t complain about not having enough time to plan.

Aelin certainly would have a strategy, and by the time he reached her, she would have been working away at it for nearly two weeks. And while he could only guess at her aims, he knew that when he reached her, he would do whatever he could to help her reach those goals.

The question was, should he reach her at all?

Rowan knew he needed to warn her about Lorcan, but once he was actually in Rifthold, that could be done in many ways – not just by contacting her in person. And deep in his bones, Rowan knew that Lorcan had dragged him here on purpose. That the male had wanted him to follow, to pursue. There were faster ways to travel from Doranelle to the sea than to go by Mistward.

So wouldn’t it be playing right into Lorcan’s hands to join up with Aelin? Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Lorcan wasn’t familiar enough with Aelin’s scent, nor with the city of Rifthold, to track her down by himself. He would be digging in the dark – except for the trail that Rowan would give him, as easily as handing over their lives like so much coin.

Perhaps Rowan could go to Rifthold, warn Aelin anonymously, and track down Lorcan by himself. And the faster he rid himself of his former commander, the sooner Rowan would be able to reunite with his Queen.

The pain of that future made him physically flinch.

And it wasn’t only the idea of being in the same city, or even just on the same continent, as Aelin and not being beside her. It was the thought of Lorcan, Lorcan, his commander of nearly three centuries, someone he had almost once thought of as a brother, or even a friend, Lorcan, as someone he needed to dispose of.

Someone who was his enemy.

It was a heavy, uncomfortable weight. It felt strange, and wrong, to have someone he had so trusted become such a dangerous enemy. No matter how necessary he knew it might be, Rowan couldn’t really think of killing him.

It would be like destroying a part of himself, an old part, but a necessary one.

Without Lorcan, he wouldn’t have become the person he was today, wouldn’t know the things he knew, or understand what he now did. About war and sacrifice and leadership and teaching.

Lorcan had been a pillar in his life when he needed one. And while Rowan hadn’t loved him, he had respected him.

And now they were enemies.

Rowan scowled, the crate somehow becoming even more uncomfortable.

What he did know was how Lorcan worked, how he operated. If Rowan did decided to reunite with Aelin, then he would have to keep his distance. Because Lorcan was expert at finding pressure points, and using them to his advantage.

Lorcan already knew that Aelin had turned Rowan away from Maeve, knew that Rowan had chosen her over his oath, over his life.

Idiot. He was such an idiot when it came to her.

If Lorcan found out that there was anything more, that there were other, deeper feelings –

No, Rowan could keep his distance. He could keep those thoughts under control because he had to. Not only because they did no good, but because they might get Aelin killed. Or worse, captured and taken back to Maeve.

But Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be able to deal with Lorcan without her – that he wouldn’t be able to return to Rifthold without reuniting with her. No matter how much easier it might be to keep her safe if he stayed away.

The only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought that at the end of this journey through hell, stuffed in this tiny rutting box that smelled like dung, unable to lay down properly for weeks, was an image of Aelin’s face. Even if she wasn’t happy to see him, even if she didn’t forgive him breaking his oath.

For the first time in weeks, he was heading towards her, instead of away.

So Rowan curled up and turned on his side, and tried to get some sleep, as the shouts of the sailors above him faded into the rising dawn.

···

Across Wendlyn, Emrys was stirring a large pot of rabbit stew, listening to the potatoes crackling as they fried on the stove. It was a lot of work, feeding this many people each and every day. But Emrys loved it, caring for this large family of his. Making sure they were all fed. Taking in strays.

Aelin Galathynius had been such a stray, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t miss her. But he knew that she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. No matter what that prince said, or how much he tried to hide, Emrys knew that Aelin had survived her encounter with Maeve, that they both had escaped. Together. And now she’d moved on to other – perhaps even greater – foes.

Even when she was all the way across the ocean Emrys was worried about her.

The old male just sighed, then shuffled over to the counter to begin chopping scallions to add to the stew.

But before he could start, he was interrupted by the afternoon courier, bearing a letter for him – of all people.

Emrys wiped his hands off on his apron, and took the letter from the boy’s fingers. It was unmarked, but the paper was old and worn. As if it had lived in someone’s saddlebags for some time.

Emrys ripped it open, then read through it. Unable to keep a smile off his face.

That scoundrel.

He began to untie his apron, then headed out of the kitchen to go find Luca. Emrys couldn’t really find it in himself to be disappointed in the prince, even if he had abandoned them. Had left Luca with his grief and his guilt.

The boy had finally told him and Malakai about what had happened, and they had talked and cried together into the wee hours of the morning. Even so, Emrys had really hoped that Rowan might be there to help Luca through that grief. He knew that Luca had too.

But it was not to be. Perhaps they might see each other again, in years to come. Perhaps Rowan might even be their king one day.

Emrys almost wanted to laugh. He could already see the scowl that would twist Malakai’s face when he told him the news. Rowan, gone off to chase the future. Leaving them to tend to this little piece of the present.

When Emrys told Luca what was in the letter, the boy smiled too.

···

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···

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[dragonrajafanfiction]

If you’re still accepting requests, I got a challenge: “I just want to be held for a little while” with Herzog x Bondarev or CaesarxJohann :3💙

(Thanks for the Challenge! You are rewarded with a Cross-over!)

The lighting was minimal in the the ancient 11th century castle in the middle of this small Eastern European Country, so it was easy for Caesar and Johann to hide their identities among the uniformed soldiers of this illegal lab in the mountains.

This lab was run by a group that named themselves after the legendary Hydra. From the murky waters of the swamps near a place called Lerna, the hydra would rise up and terrorize the countryside. A monstrous serpent with nine heads, the hydra attacked with poisonous venom. Nor was this beast easy prey, for one of the nine heads was immortal and therefore indestructible.

The second labor of Hercules was to kill the Lernean Hydra. Caesar Gattuso considered himself a dragon slayer of that caliber. After coming from his adventures in Japan and facing a different beast of a similar name, the SheQiBai Clan, who named themselves after Yamata-no-Orochi, an 8-headed serpent of Japanese Legend, he figured this was just one more head.

Hercules set off to hunt the nine-headed menace, but he did not go alone. His trusty nephew, Iolaus, was by his side. Iolaus, who shared many adventures with Hercules, accompanied him on many of the twelve labors. Legend has it that Iolaus won a victory in chariot racing at the Olympics and he is often depicted as Hercules' charioteer. So, the pair drove to Lerna and by the springs of Amymone, they discovered the lair of the loathsome hydra.

Likewise, Caesar wasn’t alone. Next to him, Johann Chu marched through the gate, flashing their falsified credentials. The two had gotten along much better after their shared adventure. But getting closer meant exposing vulnerabilities. After the mission was done, they no longer invited each other to any sort of shared bathhouses. That was for certain.

Together, they had been helicoptered into to the sparse surrounding woods. After being warned of landmines it was amazing they didn’t set any off parachuting down. The place was being torn apart by a civil war, thought to be stoked by this Hydra organization. They were taking test subjects from the ensuing refugee disaster.

The plan was simple. As far as they could tell, this facility wasn’t staffed by hybrids. They were normal humans and needed to be taken out of the way humanely for questioning and memory wiping of all dragon knowledge if needed. So rather than burst into the facility, guns and swords drawn, they would infiltrate, destroy the lab, free the prisoners and the the Secret Society handle the rest of the investigation.

One of the biggest questions was how these people got ahold of dragon knowledge in the first place. Their similar name made Caesar assume that perhaps they had some connection with Herzog, but as he looked around the place, there was no sign of anything Japanese or anything familiar. The uniforms weren’t the Yakuza’s dark trenchcoat with Ukiyo-E on the lining, but simple camo army uniforms. And the symbols they used on those uniforms had nothing to do with the Cassell’s world tree or even of the actual mythical Hydra. Emblazoned on the chest of each of them was something more like an octopus.

He paused in a corridor and opened his golden eyes. The Scythe Ferrets of his Soul Skill released and swept like phantoms, mapping the entire space like echolocation.

“There’s a lot of empty rooms. I see what’s probably two prisoners. The rest are workers. I know where the computers are. I’ll head that way and get Norma to hack in. I need you to buy some time. We’ve got company. Fourteen, ...fifteen heartbeats headed our way.”

“Stop! Put your hands up!”

Caesar nodded once. In an instant, Johann Chu whirled and drew his pistol and fired one round. The man dropped in a heap, rendered unconscious by a Frigga bullet. “How long do you think it’ll take you?” Johann asked.

“Mmm… give me fifteen minutes.” He loaded a few more bullets into his Desert Eagles

Johann looked up at the taller man sharply. “That is forever.”

He clicked his gun shut and sneered. “They’re just humans. I’ll be dealing with the hybrids. One of the captives is a lady.”

Johann Chu sighed and his eyes narrowed further.

“Don’t give me that look.” His cocky smile turned into a scowl. Caesar had reason not to trust Johann Chu with a rescue task of this sort. He was more than willing to kill Shavee and turn Erii over to the mercy of the School Board.

Johann’s look held just as much cold disdain and without a word, he invoked what happened last time Caesar decided to stick his neck out to rescue a woman. Johann had ended up set on fire and nearly dying and Caesar had gone berserk with Blood Rage and littered the street with mutilated people.

The woman died anyway.

Not willing to give Johann a chance to bring that up, Caesar made his way up the metal stairs while Johann dashed away to deal with their company. The Scythe Ferrets brought him shouts and gunfire that lit up in his ears and he smiled again.

It was much quieter ahead. He pulled an earpiece from his pocket and tucked it in his ear. “Norma, we’re inside. The operation has begun. I’m on my way to the computer room.”

 Caesar kicked open the door and spotted a man hunched over the computer. When the man saw him, he raised his arms to shield himself, “No! Please!”

Caesar didn’t bother negotiating, and just put a Frigg bullet into the man's torso without even breaking his stride while he looked around. “This isn’t anything like Genji Heavy industries. Everything here is… decades old tech. Who… uses floppy disks?”

He reached over and picked up a piece of paper. “German…?”

He paused in front of the computer screens. “Hopefully it’s not too incompatible with you, Norma.”

The female voice spoke in his ear. “So long as there’s a USB port then I should be able to copy all their files.”

Caesar nodded and stepped over the unconscious man to get to the computer tower. He slipped in a large device into the USB port.  Norma would handle the rest of this job, but questions swirled in his mind about who this Hydra organization really was.

His superhearing ability was telling him that the wall to his left hid a corridor behind it. The whisper of a hollow wind and the whir of fans became clear to him as he approached. He felt along the wall until same thing gave in and pushed it. Sure enough, the wall swiveled open. Even this was no fancy technology but a hidden passage built into the castle itself.

Caesar radioed Johann. “Norma is working. I’m heading down to the captives.”

This corridor was even darker, lit only by yellowing cagelights in the ceiling. Caesar proceeded cautiously, one hand on his pistols, resisting sneezing against the dust that kicked up from its layers on the floor.

“This is too easy.” Johann’s voice came into his ear.

“I just got the same feeling.” He murmured, eyes scanning the room.

“Are you detecting any signs of explosives or booby traps?”

“Not yet, but I am keeping an eye out. Dress those goons up for easy pick up and post sentry outside, be ready when I call you.” Caesar pulled his pistol out as the corridor began to widen into a larger chamber.  “I… think I found the lab.”

It was messy full of half filled metal shelfs and discarded drop clothes. Caesar raised his eyes toward the huge cathedral-like ceiling. There a black curled claw the size of a car was suspended. It looked thin and wasted, mummified. Caesar lifted his phone and began to take pictures. It was surrounded by scaffolding. On closer inspection, he could see where pieces of it had been sheared off.

Even this large space was cramped and cluttered, full of blind spots and places to hide, but his scythe ferrets were doing their job. When he stepped around the corner, he knew there was no one there. What the ferrets didn’t tell him was that he would be met with the sight of bodies, in various states of dismemberment, laid out on tables. Men, women, children, skin pale and cold in death. Some had their body cavities open, but there was no blood. Looking further, he could see tanks of fluid where more bodies had been preserved for dissection. It was enough to turn his stomach.

On a table amidst it all was an old book made of ancient parchment. Even from this distance and in the dark, Caesar could see if was old alchemy. “Was this book here when you arrived?” He asked, turning to the woman standing behind him. “Oh, you didn’t think I would know you’re there? I know you were following me the minute I stepped in his room. You’re fast, but… your heart still beats.” 

She was fairskinned and dressed, not in a prisoner’s or a soldier’s uniform but a black shirt and dark colored jeans. But what gave him a little tickle of mirth was that she had red hair. What was it with him and red heads?

The woman glared at him, with a fearless threatening manner. She wasn’t afraid or startled by the horrors around her. “Are you responsible for all this?” Caesar asked, waving a gun cavalierly. “Or are you a victim of it?”

He heard what he thought were whispers and saw her eyes glow red. He gasped but then a familiar scream made him turn and raise his pistols. “Nono?!”

He blinked, shaking his head, Nono wasn’t here. She was back in Italy. How… why was he seeing her on the examination tables? Torn to pieces? Naked… Violated! On another table, his mother. The sight was like a spear through his heart. Not again, not her. Not again!

The Scythe Ferrets told him that the other woman was still there, her heart beating fast, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the two most beloved people in his whole life, meticulously torn apart and used in death, just like they were used in life. Disbelief at what he was seeing tugged at his mind but he was drawn to confirm this sight. Nono’s red hair spread out from her face, her eyes stared in an empty expression, blood trickled from her mouth as he reached out to touch her cheek.

A sharp crack made him flinch. The claw had come to life and flexed its fingers before lowering to the ground. The sharp tips dug in and the ground trembled as a reptilian head broke through the stone floor and blinked its golden eyes at him. The eyes were like fire, molten. Burning!

The vision suddenly ended. Caesar blinked, his heart racing. The claw had returned to its mummified state. Nono and his mother were gone from the table. He was sitting on the floor, sweaty and exhausted.

Johann was calling him. “Where are you?”

“I’m here in the lab.”

“Still?”

Norma interjected. “I’ll guide you to him.”

“That girl. She’s a hybrid. She… she’s not on our side.” He felt wet and looked down to see his uniform patched with dark round spots. He ran his hand over it and it came back red on his fingers. “She shot me.”

“Where is she now?”

“Don’t know… be careful. You’re close. You should… be nearly here.” Caesar could hear the other man’s boots coming down the metal stairs. He saw his dark shadow among the debris. Johann wasted no time looking around, hurrying to his side.

“She got you.” Johann dropped to one knee but Caesar pushed him away.

He grit his teeth. The pain hit him arresting his breath and sending trembling through every muscle. “Get the book on the table. I’ve already taken pictures.” Caesar grunted to get up, finding the strength in his dragonblood to stand, leaning on the table. He coughed, and tasted iron. He wiped his mouth and saw blood there as well. Johann ducked under his arm and lifted him up slightly.  “Norma, we’re going to need somewhere we can stay for a while. Caesar is suffering multiple gunshot wounds. I can get transport. I just need a place.”

“This will only take a moment.” came Norma’s reply.

Caesar turned his head back to the table where he saw the vision of the dismembered Nono. His heart sank. The vision was so real, not even his Soul Skill could overcome it. That scream echoed in his ears.

“I have acquired all the information I need. The clean up crew is on the way.” Norma said.

Johann took him into a garage with old jeeps. Johann carefully lowered Caesar into the front seat of one and lifted the hood. After a few moments, he slammed it shut. Then he got into the front seat and opened the steering wheel to expose the wiring.

While he worked he murmured. “Caesar. Stay with me.”

“I’m still here.” He said hoarsely. Dizziness was starting to cloud his mind. The vision was emblazoned there like a memory. It was seeping into his subconscious. No matter how much he said it wasn’t real, it affected him like it was real. The feelings of loss and helplessness made his heart flutter. 

“What happened.”

“Some sort of hypnosis.” 

“What did she look like.” Johann’s grounded questioning was the only thing keeping him moored into this reality. He was sure he was only doing it to keep him conscious, but he clung to it like a life raft in stormy seas.

“Like… Nono, only with darker red hair.” 

The Jeep roared to life.  Johann put on the flimsy seatbelt more out of habit than safety concern. He lifted Caesar against his shoulder, mindful of what effect a seatbelt might have on his injuries. “I’ll do my best to hold on to you.”

Much to his surprise, Caesar’s arm snaked around his back and his head rested on his shoulder. Johann could feel the blood soaking into him even from that contact. He down shifted the car and sped out into the dark forest. Norma was in his ear, directing him to out of the maze of trees and onto a main road. “Caesar… you…”

“I just want to be held for a little while.” He muttered. Even now, pride wouldn’t let Caesar look him in the eyes. The pain of his injuries was fading, but the wounds from the Soul Skill she used had run deeper. They were like barbed wired on his psyche. The moment he tried to break free of it, the more painful he became. He could only shrank away from the memory of that cold and frightening loneliness that he was truly on his own. There was no family to rescue him. It was him against the cruel world that had wronged him.

Johann’s arm tightened around him.

[gloves94]

Sunburn [Prince Zuko] 25

Warnings: None   Rating: PG-13   Pairings: Zuko/OC   Summary:   “You have everything you’ve always wanted.” “No.” He said softly. “Not everything…”  His golden eyes looked at her with a melting intensity she had never witnessed before. “I guess not.” She responded with glassy eyes as tears welled up threatening to break the dam of her eyes.

My fanfiction: M A S T E R L I S T

For some reason sleeping on a royal mattress and sleeping in the ground felt almost the same to Zuko now a days. He really hadn't been sleeping well since he returned to his kingdom. Often, he was kept up by confusing nightmares about dragons, his uncle, the girl with red hair and whispers about what was right and what wasn't.

He was still in turmoil after having received that ominous note the other night. It was a note that sent him on a scavenger hunt to the Dragon catacombs where he learned the truth about his inner demons. Uncle Iroh had finally spoken to him and he had not been able to shed the words from mind. "Because understanding the struggle between your two great-grandfathers can help you better understand the battle within yourself." Iroh replied patiently, watching as his nephew sat down and hung his head, "Evil and good are always at war inside you, Zuko. It is your nature, your legacy. But, there's a bright side.

"What happened generations ago can be resolved now, by you. Because of your legacy, you alone can cleanse the sins of our family and the Fire Nation. Born in you, along with all the strife, is the power to restore balance to the world." He had realized that his conscience. The one that told him what was right and what was wrong had taken the terrible embodiment of his ex-girlfriend and the more he ignored it the more it seemed to nag him.

Zuko stood with his arms outstretched as two servants helped him into his outer robe before he turned and allowed one of them to button it up. 'Can't button up your own shirt?'She judged as she sat on a chair with her legs crossed. He decided to ignore the comment.

"Fresh fruit, Prince Zuko?" Another servant asked as he held up a bowl of fruit with his head bowed deferentially. 'Do you need them to chew your food for you too?'

Feeling guilty Zuko put his hand up and shook his head in the negative and another servant stepped up to him, "May I wash your feet, sir?" Zuko repeated the gesture and another servant took a step towards him, "Head massage?" Zuko shook his head once again and walked towards the door but paused when another servant stepped up to him with a plate of steaming towels on it. He felt smothered by this life.

"Hot towel?"

He stared at the towels for a moment then sighed quietly and picked one up, wiping his forehead with it before placing it back on the tray and walking out of the room. He quietly exited the palace and walked towards the gates, stepping outside. Zuko smiled slightly at the small crowd of Fire Nation citizens standing around seemingly waiting for him. He watched in bemusement as one woman became overly excited and was led away by two palace guards then he went to take a step down the street.

"Prince Zuko, is something wrong?" A servant asked from behind Zuko and he gestured towards the palanquin he was standing in front, "You didn't take the palanquin."

Zuko turned to look at the servant curiously, "I'm just going to Mai's house. It's not far." "It's not a prince's place to walk anywhere, sir." The servant stated respectfully and Zuko glanced in the direction of Mai's house which was only a short walked away. Then he walked over and climbed into the palanquin. The servants picked the palanquin up and walked the few yards to Mai's house and Zuko peered out of the palanquin curtains, smiling slightly when he saw Mai standing by the doors to her house. The darkly dressed girl waited for him outside.

Zuko stared at the doors to Mai's house for a moment then sighed and stepped out of the palanquin. "You should leave," she said to him with her arms crossed over her chest. Her lips drawn into a serious thin line. He guessed she was still upset at what had happened in Ember Island. "I already said I was sorry Mai," he apologized. "It was all the fire punch. I had that night. I just got my words messed up," he spoke sincerely. "For some reason I find that hard to believe." There was no edge to her tone, as per usual no emotion. She closed her eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath. "I already told you! It was an accident!" Zuko said sounding more agitated. "I know." Was all she said. Her tone remaining as ominous as ever. "Know what?" He asked taken aback honestly perplexed at her comment. Mai didn't say another word and turned away retreating to her home. "Mai," He pleaded. "I know you're in love with her," she said painfully. It was the first time Zuko saw an honest glimpse of pain reflected in her dark eyes. "Things have not been the same since you returned from your banishment. I know it. I can feel it. And I will not be a part of this. Tsai spoke to me already and I understand everything now." "What?" His eyes went wide. "What- what did she say?" "She basically told me her whole life story and gave me a lame speech about supporting each other." She ran a hand through her hair. Yeah that sounded a lot like her. “I can see why you like her.” She was quiet, and he had no words for her. "This time we are done for good," Mai said lowering her eyes and mumbled a goodbye before shutting the door on him.

Xxx

Tsai found herself looking for an eight-leaf clover in the royal palace's garden. One which was beautiful and composed the heart of the Fire Nation's family palace. It had a nearby turtle-duck pond and ancient trees that bloomed beautifully. She was currently kneeling on the grass with her nose pressed against it when a pair of shoes came into her vision. She looked up and saw Zuko standing before her with his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing his royal robes and had his hair done up wearing a regal crown holding his short hair up. He finally looked like the perfect prince he had always wanted to be. "What are you doing?" He asked with an arched eyebrow.

She was sick of fighting and as much as she hated to admit it Ember Island had really helped in getting rid of all of that pent-up tension and anger the two had been carrying. "Your sister has me looking for an eight-leaf clover," she rolled her eyes. Zuko let out what sounded like a humorous huff. "You'll never find it." "Nothing is impossible," she said optimistically and leaned back on her hands looking up to meet his gaze. "Aren't you supposed to be at the war meeting?" She asked. He slightly jerked in surprise "War meeting? What are you talking about?" "Oh?" She brushed her hair out of her face a habit she had now formed. "Azula's at a war meeting. It's supposed to take all day long, which is why she has me here… doing this… I assumed you'd be there we well you know preparing for the day of the black sun." "I guess I wasn't invited," he muttered bitterly and looked off to the side his jaw clenching slightly. "Where did you say my sister was?" xxx Zuko clenched his jaw as he stalked into the Royal spa, where Azula was getting her hair done.

"Hello, Zuzu." Azula cooed without opening her eyes as two servant girls combed her hair in the water, "If you've come for a royal hair-combing, I'm afraid you'll have to wait."

Zuko ignored her as he came to stop a few feet from the spa, "So I guess there's a big war meeting coming up, huh? And apparently I'm not welcome there."

"What do you mean?" Azula asked with false interest as she opened her eyes, "Of course you're welcome there!"

"Oh yeah?! I guess that's why no one bothered to tell me about it!"

The Fire Nation princess sighed in exasperation, "Oh Zuko, don't be so dramatic. I'm certain Dad wants you there." A smile twitched at the corner of her lips as she closed her eyes again, "You probably just weren't invited because it's so obvious you're supposed to be there."

"Well, were you invited?" Zuko asked, trying to keep his voice neutral but failing.

"Of course!" Azula laughed lightly, "I'm the princess."

"And I'm the prince!"

"Exactly," She chided smugly, "So stop acting like a paranoid child! Just go to the meeting."

"Forget it!" He barked angrily as he spun on his heel and began walking away, "I'm not going!"

Xxx

Tsai lay on the lawn toying with a clover she had found. However, it did not have eight leaves that Azula had demanded. She had rolled over and was gazing up at the cloudy sky.

This had always been one of her favorite things to do. Simply lay in nature and take in the warmth of the sun, the scents of the outdoors, the sound of the birds chirping- "Give up so soon?" That was not a bird. She opened her eyes and saw Zuko standing where he had been only some moments ago. Knowing his body language. He looked aggravated. "I'm taking a break," she said bringing the clover to her nose. "Fine, take a break with me then," he asked. "No," she rolled over so she wouldn't have to look at him. "Don't waste your breath. I already told you to leave me alone." "I need to talk to you." Was all he said his tone was serious. She looked at him with a questioning look really not wanting to talk about them. As far as she knew that was over. “It's not about that." He groaned.  She turned to look at him with concern. "What about your girlfriend?" She asked snidely.

Some moments later Zuko and Tsai sat under the same tree by the turtle duck pond where he had once sat with his mother all those years ago. The spot made him melancholic and only worsened his mood. Some moments ago, he had sent a servant on an errand. "They are so cute," She leaned over and looked at the turtle ducks lovingly. It was as if a dagger was being twisted on his heart. "I used to feed the turtle ducks with my mother," he suddenly said.

Tsai paused for a moment. The smile wiped off her face immediately. Zuko had never spoken to her about his mother before. Now that she thought of it, she had never heard anything about the Fire Lady. She now guessed the woman was out of the picture… "She disappeared the day my grandfather died, and my father became Fire Lord. That day my life changed…" He said solemnly. "To this day I don't know where she is or if she's even alive, but I know I'll find her someday," he spoke determined looking away from her. Right… The way he felt about her mother, that's how she felt about her brother. She was more than familiar with that feeling.

"I know my father knows where she is, but he won't tell. Hell, he won't even have me at his war meetings." He said bitterly. "You were right, when you said my father doesn't want me? Back in Ba Sing Se." "I said a lot of things in Ba Sing Se," she mused, raising both her brows awkwardly. She hugged her knees and looked at him resting her head on them. "It's just a meeting Zuko, big deal." She rolled her eyes. "Prince," a servant said placing a basket next to them and bowing down lightly before retreating. "Here," he said handing him a basket with some loaves of bread. He handed her a loaf of bread she took it and said thank you before taking it in her hands and taking a bite.

“It’s not for you,” He couldn’t help but let out a rare laugh. “It’s for the turtle ducks.”

“Oh,” she let out sheepishly and couldn’t help but smile a little. She couldn’t help it. She was always hungry. Specially now living the life of a servant. She tore off a piece and threw it at the pond. In exchange he leaned his back against the tree and taking a loaf of bread began lazily tossing bits of bread at the ducks who now swam closer in the edge of the pond. "This is nice," she spoke. "Us. Being… friends," she said after a moment. "Yeah," he smiled back a little bit. "I still don't think I'll ever forgive you," she said darkly after a moment making the faint smile on his lips vanish.

He averted his gaze from hers, feeling a pang of guilt on his chest. "Why? My sister still treats you better than she treats me." He rolled his eyes. "Right, I'm stuck here while Iroh rots in a jail cell." She said coldly. "Tsai," he said lowering his head. "I don't know what's right or wrong anymore. Everything I once believed in- I'm not sure what to think. I have nightmares that keep me away at night. Two dragons tug and pull at me… And I found out-" He paused for a moment. "I talked to my uncle. Sozin might've been my great-grandfather but so was Avatar Roku." Her eyes went wide at the revelation. "He said that evil and good are always at war inside of me. It's in my nature. It's my legacy." Well.…that was loaded. "So what are you going to do?" She asked turning away from him. He was silent. "I.. I don't know." Again, there was that heavy silence between them. "My grandfather would say that there is good and evil in all of us. Or a good dragon and a bad dragon. He would say that who we become depends on what dragon we choose to feed." A strong wind blew by. "So which one are you feeding?" He looked at her wise beyond her years. There was still that faint smile on her face. "Also, about my grandfather. You're right. I still haven't come to term with it... With his passing. I miss him." She said sadly. He saw the way her hand reached for her neck and suddenly his uncle's words sounded in his head. "Let her go. If she doesn't come back it was never meant to be." "Here," he said slowly.

She turned to face him and saw him fishing something out of his pocket. She let out a small gasp when he fished out a sunstone hanging of a long golden chain. It was her family's necklace! The chain was different, but the stone was the same round orange one.

"Azula broke it," he sounded apologetic enough about it. "How?" She looked at him in shock asking more about how he had the sunstone more than how his sister had broken it. "I.…" He said slowly. "I couldn't say goodbye, but I also couldn't bear leaving without you. So, I took it from you. As the Blue Spirit." "And you just carry it around?!" Her tone became rougher, angrier. He still held the necklace in his hands in her direction. All this time he had just been carrying it around in his pocket like just that? It was then that she suddenly felt a deep sorrow. "You know what.." She softened her tone. "Keep it." She said taking his hand in hers and closing it over the family heirloom. "What?" He asked shocked. "Really. Keep it. It's yours." "But Tsai- it's yours. your grandfather gave it to you." He looked at her hands in disbelief. He couldn’t believe she was giving her the last trace of her family. Her identity. A bit of her soul. Her most cherished possession. He saw her eyes becoming glassy.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You have everything you’ve always wanted.” There was a small smile on her face. “No,” he said softly. “Not everything…” His golden eyes looked at her with a melting intensity she had never witnessed before. “I guess not.” She responded with glassy eyes as tears welled up threatening to break the dam of her eyes. With that she stood up and began walking away before the tears threaten to spill.

"Prince Zuko," The servant interrupted respectfully as he dropped to one knee and bowed his head interrupting "Everyone's waiting for you." Zuko stared at the auburn-haired girl's retreating figure. He looked at her, the heirloom on his hand and back to the servant. "The high admirals, the high generals, the war ministers, and the princess have all arrived." The servant replied without lifting his head, "You're the only person missing."

"So," Zuko frowned slightly, "My dad wants me at the meeting?"

"The Fire Lord said he would not start until you arrived, sir." A smile pulled at his face. He turned towards the girl and saw that she was the distance she had formed between them.

“Would you look at that,” she bent down. “An eight-leaf clover…”

xxx

Zuko attended his father's meeting. A meeting in which they discussed the strategy for the incoming attack that would happen during the solar eclipse.

He looked down at the necklace which he wore under his robes. The thin chain creeping around the edges of his neck. He could feel it resting against his chest. It was a heavy burden. Everybody welcomed him when he went to the meeting. It was unbelievable. Even his father had saved him a seat next to him. He was literally at his father's right hand. The most prestigious seat in the entire meeting. Even closer than Azula. He was finally the perfect prince. The heir to the throne. The son that Ozai had always wanted. He had everything he had always wanted… But.…it wasn't him…

xxx

FIRST https://gloves94.tumblr.com/post/621142853126602752/sunburn-prince-zuko-1

NEXT https://gloves94.tumblr.com/post/621610303421022208/sunburn-prince-zuko-26

PREV https://gloves94.tumblr.com/post/621609431202971648/sunburn-prince-zuko-24

[ruensroad]

@psychopathiccomposer wanted a continuation of the Dragon God AU, thank you for prompting me!

Prompt from this list here!

Prompt 10 | “You look so much softer, so much calmer, I wish you could see yourself as you sleep.” | Wangxian

He’d lost track, over the centuries, how many had fallen into the Burial Mounds. Many were warlords, or politicians, or those burning with petty vengeance. They wished to harness him, his cursed magic, for their own means, and offered sacrifices of blood and bodies as though that were a worthy exchange.

He killed them, of course he did, because such evil had no place in the world, and his Burial Mounds further filled with screams he could not escape.

The Wens had come in the aftermath of a war, jumping to him for safety, protection, and the desperation of survival. He’d kept them, because letting them back out into a burning world was no option, and for a long time he was content to be with them, allow their laughter to soothe the whispers that haunted his mind and sleep, making him forget, if only a little, that he had trapped them here with him too.

He was cursed to this place, at least for now, and the control over his sanity and mind was a daily battle. The magic here was ancient, violent, and overwhelming, but he was stubborn too and forced it to his bidding, even at the cost of his own freedom.

It was either that, or allow the magic to spill out onto humankind, infect them worse than it already had. The start of evil lived here and he was determined to be the cork that bottled it in forever.

As such, he’d long given up on his mate, for he was no Dragon that deserved such luck or happiness. What could he offer in this place of death and shadows, anyway? He could not hunt, or showcase he was any worthy Dragon in the usual ways. He had always been odd, always against the grain, and Fate had therefore been unkind. And why shouldn’t it? He fought it at every turn.

Lan Wangji was everything he’d dreamed of, and then some. Beautiful, frosty, strong. He looked at this dark world and seemed determined to fix it, finding small ways to make their lives down here just that little bit brighter, that little bit more real.

Wei Wuxian was no fool, no matter what his brother thought. Cursed as he was, he could see the hearts of all who crossed his eyes and his own mate’s heart was no different. Lan Wangji’s intention had been to bind himself so he could visit his own brother, to have that key that unlocked all of earth’s hidden places in the name of love and family.

Fate was truly cruel, indeed, to send him to a place he could not leave. Well, not yet.

He also didn’t seem to like Wei Wuxian, which was fair. After all, the line was clearly drawn: this marriage was selfish and pure, all at once, and Wei Wuxian was just a stepping stone on the way to his brother. It hurt to know that, but it did not surprise him, and he did his best to keep his smile on and add to that laughter he brought to Wei Wuxian’s own found family.

It was a shame to know Lan Wangji would never stay, once he’d gained enough immortal strength to free himself from the Mound. Wei Wuxian had hoped for friendship, if nothing else, because they had been fated for one another from the start of time. He’d hoped for camaraderie, understanding, perhaps some compassion. He got none of these things, or at least that’s what it seemed.

Lan Wangji’s heart was a battlefield of conflict the longer he remained with Wei Wuxian. Like a story being written, chapter by chapter, there was something new and hidden each time Wei Wuxian caught a glimpse. The beginnings of despair and frustration - easily remedied with heartfelt promises to help him be free, thankfully - which sparked a confusion of warmth and bewilderment whenever their eyes met.

If Lan Wangji didn’t know how to feel about him, Wei Wuxian certainly didn’t either. And just when he’d thought being able to read Lan Wangji’s heart would help!

Still, he did his best to be a proper host, if nothing else, because Lan Wangji had the air of a guest that wasn’t staying long and Wei Wuxian truly hoped the best for him, that he’d be free one day and with his brother as he wanted. In the meantime, he hoped the Wen Clan could be a surrogate family, for they loved Lan Wangji on sight and had adopted him on the spot.

As they swept him hither and thither, Wei Wuxian used what he learned to make gifts for his husband, as best he could. A roughly put together guqin, which sang in delight each time Lan Wangji reverently touched it. A collection of books, which he transcribed from the earth’s whisperings, everything from the true creation to what music water made. Random things that furthered that confusion in Lan Wangji, but also lit his heart with something like joy, so he continued.

He sewed him a blanket from the finest strips of smoke and shadow, silken smooth and light, but forever warm. Made him a bed of clouds and pillows of down. Lan Wangji seemed to enjoy his sleep, given how religiously he rose and put himself to bed every day at the same times. There was no notion of day or night in the bowels of the earth, but that didn’t seem to stop him, and Wei Wuxian could sense the comfort such a schedule eased into his soul.

He loved it best when Lan Wangji was asleep, if only because he looked so peaceful and calm, no furrow in his brow or serene mask in place. Wei Wuxian watched over him as a good mate should, curled around his bed in his coiled dragon hide, and counted every breath, every heartbeat.

“I wish I could tell you how beautiful you look, like this,” he murmured into the dark more than once. “I wish you could see what I see when I see you like this.”

If he could pull his own feelings for the man into a solid mass and present it, he would. But he could not. All he could do was hope and wish and dream, so he did, and fell asleep beside his husband, lulled by the music of his dreaming.

[unrestedjade]

fic writing meme: 1, 12, 17, 18, 21

Oh dang, that’s a lot! Think I’ll put this behind a cut to spare everyone’s dash.

1. The first fandom I wrote and posted for was Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. But! Somewhere in a landfill is a notebook with a very overwrought Animorphs fic about Ax falling in love with my very cool, original-character-donut-steel alien bat-centaur who can tell the future. Every day I thank the universe for not letting my family have internet access until I was 14. Actually, maybe the universe should have held out longer, but you can peep the cringe for yourself over here: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/173909/Fortuna

Yes, that is my old ff.net profile. My only regret is that I didn’t get a chance to back up my ask fics before the site suddenly decided to make a rule banning them and deleted them all. (Me, still salty over that 15 years later? Why, yes actually.)

12. A trope I haven’t tried yet but really want to? It’s hard to narrow it down; there’s a lot of “cliche” fanfic tropes I never let myself write that I want to indulge in this year. I’m thinking about finding one of those bingo cards to use or something. But since I grew up sneaking my mom’s romance novels, I think an arranged marriage would be fun to try if I have to pick just one.

17. The fic I’m most proud of should come as no surprise, lol. I still can’t believe I finished something as long and plotty as finaglc. Would love to manage it again someday. :’)

18. Line/scene dvd commentary: okay okay okay! So there’s this more-or-less abandoned DaphGan Legend of Zelda fic I was writing back in the day, that was just a loose serious of vignettes in chronological order. I had ideas for like 20 chapters and fizzled out because it turns out only about three people on the whole earth give a shit about DaphGan and I can’t write in a complete void of feedback. Anyway, I researched medieval boar hunting techniques because I desperately wanted an action scene culminating in a ~bad omen~ and here it is, so scroll by if you just want to see the last question in the batch:

Within minutes, they were deep enough that the forest canopy closed above them, far above Ganondorf’s head.  In the cool and the dim, and with the rustling of leaves in the breeze overhead sounding almost like waves, Ganondorf felt as though he were at the bottom of a great, ancient lake.  Mist lay in a thick blanket on the ground as high as the smaller horses’ barrels, and a carpet of dead leaves and needles deadened the sounds of their movement.  The hunters had fallen silent.   About that, he had no complaints.

(I recall being inordinately fond of the underwater imagery, because I’d been struggling for how to conceptualize a thick forest for a person who’s spent most of his life in the open desert.)

Save for ferns and scattered herbs, there was little in the way of troublesome plants or low branches beyond the border of the forest, and Ganondorf realized that King Daphnes’ suggestion the day before had, in truth, been polite censure of his clothing rather than any practical concern.  He frowned, and put the thought aside.  It did not matter.

(I was not at all subtle about the Hylians picking at the Gerudo envoy’s appearances, which I think I could handle a little better now, but alas...)

He thought instead on the many sounds surrounding them, his ears straining to hear every one.   There was birdsong, in patterns and notes he had never heard.  Small creatures rustled in the trees.  Water gurgled somewhere out of view.   The woods were full of life in every direction, and Ganondorf quietly marvelled at its richness.

All of this, for the sport of one family?

(This piece of writing is old enough that I was still using the now-defunct “two spaces after a period” rule, wow. Also, hello there, years-old misspelling. :/)

They kept to a walking pace for an hour or two, hushed but alert.  The dogs picked up a scent, the party wheeling around to follow after them.   Ganondorf rode alongside King Daphnes.  The man’s eyes were alight as he looked down the deer trail ahead of the dogs; a small smile of anticipation grew on his face.  "They have something, eh?” he said, in a whisper.  “What did I tell you!”

The lead dog threw its head back, baying.  It launched itself forward and the rest of the pack followed suit, tails held high like flags.

An enormous boar, all sinewy muscle and bristled hide, burst from a nearby thicket and was driven ahead of them.

“Aha!" The king spurred his horse to a gallop, the rest of the party just behind.  Ganondorf quickly found himself bringing up the rear.

The stallion seemed to find this as unacceptable as he did, for without his urging it picked up speed, long strides eating up the ground until the pair were level with the king once more.

(This bit started with the rest of the hunting party giving G-dawg mad shit for insisting on riding his stallion instead of a more appropriate horse, so I had to vindicate him, of course.)

Ganondorf’s eyes were now fixed on the boar.  He crouched low over the stallion’s neck, free hand fisted in the tangles of its mane.  They pulled ahead to run with the dogs, until even the dogs were falling behind them.

"Stay with it!"  The king’s bellow carried over the thunder of the stallion’s hooves.  "Keep running it!”

They ran.  The boar was fast and nimble, leading a chase through dense copses and over fast-flowing streams.  The world fell away until all that remained was the path they weaved through the trees, the rolling strength of the horse beneath him, the forest rushing by in a blur of green and loamy brown, and the boar.

Ganondorf laughed like a child, his heart light for first time since he’d come to this impossibly green land.

The chase ended when the boar made to leap over a fallen log and could not clear it, tumbling end over end.  The beast scrambled to its hooves, brandishing its long tusks.  It had reached the point of exhaustion, steam rising from its hide, muscles quivering with exertion.  It could run no longer.

Ganondorf held it at bay, keeping the point of his spear trained on it.  He did not wish to incite it to charge and risk his horse.  He simply looked at it, watching the boar watch him with wide, red eyes.  Foam gathered at its mouth, and he wondered whether it would die where it stood, if its heart had burst in its chest.

The baying of the dogs was not far off.  The hunters were closing in.

(Still a little puffed up over the juxtaposition of hunting being legitimately thrilling but cruel. Catch my bro getting swept up in the excitement.)

“Excellent work!"  Daphnes was at the head of the party, as he had been to start.  "Oh, well done, man!”

As the dogs circled, barking and snapping, the boar stood its ground, head lowered.  It made a few feints at the dogs foolish enough to attack, but as the hunters closed in it had less and less room to manoeuvre.   Ganondorf could see it rallying for a final effort, weariness flowing into terror and rage.

It roared, lunging, scattering the dogs.   Blood streaked its tusks.  A horse reared when its leg was cut by sharp hooves.  For a moment, it looked to Ganondorf as though it might break away again and escape.

In one practiced motion, Daphnes leapt from his horse and sunk his spear deep into the boar’s side.

Ganondorf’s racing heart froze.  Pain keener than any he had ever felt lanced through him, choking him on a silent cry.  He clutched at his chest, groping for the spear-head that wasn’t there.  His own spear fell from numb fingers to the forest floor.  Terror and agony, all-encompassing, swept over him in a crushing wave.

None of the other hunters noticed his distress.  All eyes were locked on their king’s struggle with the beast.  The boar screamed, running against the spear as if it would happily run the length of it to reach Daphnes with its final breath.  The cross-tree of the spear and the strength of the man wielding it kept the boar’s tusks far from its target, however, and for every drop of blood that spilled from its side a portion of its strength bled away with it.

After what felt far too long, the boar collapsed.  It’s screams had faded to rattling breaths, and when Daphnes stepped forward, knife drawn, it did not resist.

It was on Ganondorf that its red eyes rested when its throat was cut, in some mute accusation or seeking solace, he could not say.  The pain in his chest receded when the final gout of blood ran out onto the dark earth.  By the time Daphnes stood from his task, wiping his hands and blade clean on a rag, Ganondorf might have believed that the pain had been a trick of his imagination.

(This thing with the dead boar was meant to keep coming up in small ways throughout the rest of the vignettes as a harbinger of G-dawg’s ultimate failure and doom along with being an illustration of how he twists and suppresses himself for the sake of pleasing Daphnes, but of course it’ll probably never happen now since I’m five years out. I really did like this idea, though, and this scene was super fun to write. Except for now I’ve noticed another old typo. T_T)

21. The fic that got away? Lots; I actually have a horrible track record for finishing long fics. The one I’m most bummed out by, that I still think of from time to time, was actually a fill for the old Transformers Anonymous Kink Meme on LJ. It was Animated-verse pre-war Ratchet/Ultra Magnus with a detour into Ratchet/Megatron. I was about two thirds of the way done when something happened in the community that I can’t recall anymore derailed me, and I never ended up finishing it. Sometimes I think about scraping it off the meme to at least archive what I had done on Ao3 or something, but I probably won’t lol. It would take forever to track it down since this was back in like, 2012.

[radiodreadzone]

Pieces of You

WC: 2,316

TW: Death mentions (Fragments)

"C'mon...C'mon!" I hissed under my breath, shifting the pin in my hand carefully. I glanced up and around, keeping an eye out for any approaching Sleepers or Lucids that might happen upon me messing with the Daycare's locks. Learning to lock pick had been...interesting. Dax and Gwen had made sure it was a skill in every kid's arsenal. I'd picked it up fast, but on some nights, I still struggled with getting the tumblers to line up in the dark.

The lock finally gave, and the screwdriver twisted, the deadbolt sliding free with a tell-tale 'click'. I puffed out a sigh of relief and shouldered the doors open. Old Growth was the bane of my existence, requiring a lot of time and effort to move around in. My friends tended to think a boot was a better option for navigating it's classrooms. I was inclined to agree, so long as I had the foam to muffle the signs of my passing. But if I had the picks, I'd go with them every time. It kept...things from noticing I'd been here.

There was hearsay that there'd finally been sightings of fragments within the walls of Old Growth. Long ago, I'd heard rumors that Thee-I-Dare had told a few individuals that he'd once lost hosts here. Many hosts. It'd stood to reason that we'd come across them. Eventually.

But Old Growth had remained empty. Whatever ghosts had haunted its halls had remained out of sight, as if fearful of the new eyes and feet that tread here.

But when we'd started to find them...it'd been in droves.

The numbers were astounding. Someone reported three in one building, and another at the lonely gardener's shed up the road. It'd been some time since I'd come across any of his fragments myself, and I'd thought, perhaps, this would be the best time to begin looking again.

I told myself it wasn't for lack of trying to find them. It really wasn't...but there was also something to be said for the weight of it, when I picked up fragments. Especially so many in a short amount of time. They took a toll, in some small way. But the method and manner was...hard to describe.

I slipped quietly through the light and shadow of the daycare, my eyes sharp on the windows for the figures of Lucids outside. Every now and then, I let my attention slip away, looking for the places I'd been told to seek out fragments.

They weren't there.

I muttered a low expletive under my breath, turning away from the last known location of the wing, ducking back into the first floor. I'd seen some supply crates, and knew it was time to stock back up again. I had other places still to dig through before the end of the night and I called the mission ended. My mind wandered as I saw myself through the far corners of the classroom and then upwards towards the bathrooms that faced the sonic fence and trees outside.

Sometimes in a mission, I don't quite...blackout..so much as I set myself on an autopilot. In that moment, it felt something like that. Except instead of my usual path, I changed directions. In retrospect, maybe I was drawn. Or maybe it was just dumb luck.

Rather than leaving through the door I came in, as would be easiest, I cut across the broad swathe of windows, glancing at both windows and stalls as I passed. Only to stop dead at the wisp of something against the wall in the back of the stall.

A fragment.

What a terrible place to die.

It was the first ludicrous thought to drift through my head, quickly followed by the realization that I hadn't heard anything about this one. Dread and sorrow coiled up in my gut.

Thee-I-Dare was frequently asked stories about his fallen Hosts. They seemed...to take a toll on him when they were brought up. The weight of grief. It was a familiar one. Even now I stared at the name fragment in trepidation, both afraid of what it meant and of what it would do.

I had told myself I would never ask Thee-I-Dare about his Hosts. Not the fallen ones. I didn't want to probe at old wounds, fresh or scarred. Curiosity did not forgive callousness. But I had given myself one stipulation.

If no one else had ever found them, if I was the first to find the end of their story, I would let him know they'd been found. Would let him know that they were here, and that they had been recovered. It seemed the least that I could do. My hands clenched at my side a moment, one slowly sliding into my coat pocket to pull out my phone.

"Hi..." My words were soft as I studied the wisp against the wall. A part of me felt a touch ridiculous for talking to it. But the majority of me didn't care. This was all that was left of a person, someone who had passed here.  If people could talk to gravestones, I could talk to a fragment. "I'm sorry." I murmured, pulling up my flashlight and closing my eyes.

Braced myself.

For the sheer number of name fragments that we know of, for the amount of people that are lost across Hoadly and the Maze, the stories of those we do know are sparse and far between. But the sensations that come with them are always similar, save a few outliers. As important as it was to me to continue to help Thee-I-Dare...despite things that happened, there was a reason that I took breaks in my fragment hunting.

One never quite got used to the sensation.

Hot and cold, heavy and light. Ephemeral and ineffable. It was the sensation of holding onto something that was Not Meant For Me. A part of something bigger, greater. Ancient. And yet like an undercurrent it rang with things all too familiar. Human.

They were memories. They had been just like me once.

Panic. Grief. Anger. Relief. Any one or even all of them had been expressed by fragments collected in the past. I tried to focus past it, to see the silhouette that burned against the back of my eyes, the impression of this person before they faded and I took them in for safekeeping. Reaching, grasping for something.

I opened my eyes, a hand fisted in my shirt against my chest. I was shaking a bit as I tried to steady my breathing against the tide that slowly stemmed, quieted. It was unsettling every time.

"I'm sorry." I said again to the space it had been.

Sometime between one blink and the next I found myself in the boxcar again. A Light was in my hand as I stared uncertainly at the mirror.

We still hadn't spoken.

Well...I had. But the silence was ringing again. I tried not to let it bother me. The hard questions still sat in my chest, waiting to be unknotted. Waiting for the doubt and uncertainty to be allowed to give way. Waiting to stop...being afraid. A long exhale of a sigh out of my nose, and I sent the Light.

I let him know that I had found them.

A report and nothing more. My silent war with myself kept off the table.

---

I found more as the nights stretched by. More within the walls of Old Growth. In the places that people had told me of. It was as if the floodgates had opened in the finding of that one lost soul. One here in a room with an instrument and closed feed television. Another in the counselor's office. A third in the main classroom pressed against the wall. All carrying the weight and emotions of their last moments, leaving me shivering under the passing weight.

I let my own stay buried, deep down where I'd left them. Behind that door I'd locked and barred.

A time and a place, Sparrow. Not here. Not now.

Instead, I allowed myself instead to focus on the fact that I'd managed to make headway after months of standstill. That I'd finally started to pick up the pieces of Thee-I-Dare's name once again. Progress was progress, even if it came with the cost of knocking me loose from a more stable balance.

Stable. Right.

I tried not to scoff at myself. Thriving and stability weren't words I would use. Surviving, ironically, worked well. Exhaustion clung. The daylight hours dragged into the night. The conflicts raged on as tempers grew short on lack of sleep. I tried to rest where I could. But it wasn't sustainable. I knew it. The others knew it. We could see it in each other, running like a fearful undercurrent in all of us.

No one talked about it.

I continued to run the Maze. I kept finding sad stories.

Dream Therapy...I'm not sure if I'll ever say that I like any part of the Maze. But that place...it's interesting. I'll give it that. It had plenty of places to use as a vantage point. Shadows and light. The twisted, organic forms of false trees. Aside from the fact that you could lose a favorite boot to a few of the nooks and crannies, I found it a preferable and quiet spot to be. The low, green light reminded me of long mornings spent on the back trails. I could almost let the images superimpose if I let myself.

But that was too close. Too close to letting the illusion of the Maze creep over reality. It was a waking nightmare buried beneath our feet. It needed to stay here. If not be sealed away forever.

A time and a place. I repeated to myself.

I eased down one of the false trees of Dream Therapy, eyes casting from the ground to the distance for anything nearby that would hear my drop to the planks below.

Just like before, it was a complete accident that I even saw it at all. I thought it was a trick of the light.

In the yawning chasm that the facsimile of a forest in Dream Therapy oversaw, a yellow pipe stretched across the gap. It was a treacherous crossing, but it was a quick and easy way to avoid the grasp of Lucids and even the Shape if you were careful and fast. They knew better than to tread upon it, both for fear of it giving way, and for the lethal slip into the abyss below.

It was at the bend of that yellow pipe that I thought I saw something from across the distance. The low light made it hard to tell. Curiosity ate at me, and I slipped through the shadows to get closer. Across the planked floor, onto the catwalk. I crept carefully past the red door, my eyes firmly glued to it, watching and waiting in case something decided to come forth. It remained immobile, the warding eye staring balefully back.

From the edge of the catwalk, I could already feel my stomach clench at the tell tale sign of the wafting mist. Another one. One I'd never even seen or heard of before.

Another tally for your list, kid.

I crept out onto the pipe, being careful of my footing. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened to this one. The chasm below me, the location at the edge of the pipe. It all spoke for itself.

I slipped carefully down from my feet to a sitting position, straddling the pipe. "Found you." The words were sad, even as I gave it a small, tired smile. "You poor thing." I trailed off on a long sigh. Up came my phone, on came the light. I hesitated only a moment before I closed my eyes.

Panic.

Raw, and sheer like the cutting edge of stone. It hit me in the chest and made me gasp before it was gone.

I shuddered, gripping the pipe tighter. A silhouette, tipped forward over the abyss.

They fell.

I stared at the wall where the fragment had been, shivering even in my dad's jacket. I stayed there for a long time, staring at the wall, afraid to move. My  hands were grasped tightly on the rivets of metal in the pipe. If anything came and went, I was too lost to the aftershocks of the experience to notice them.

It was the buzz of my phone that finally drew me out of my stupor.

A part of me cringed in fear of seeing an unknown number on my home screen. But no, it was the group text with Kyle and Muse. They were wondering where I was. I had to get up and I had to move again.

I shifted, carefully sliding myself back in the direction of the catwalk. I didn't fully trust my legs in that moment. I didn't want to try to stand until there was a buffer between me and swift end. Even then, I sat in the shadows for several long minutes, trying to just breathe.

Another Light to send. I would have to do it when I got back to the boxcar.

I could barely concentrate. I was glad that I'd already finished my objectives by the time I'd found this one. I don't think I would have been able to actively do things without drawing forth unwanted attention. I crept quietly and carefully out of the Maze, wishing not for the first time that I had a grappling hook, just so I could leave through the broken path up the cliff rather than risk the deep belly of the Maze.

The journey back to the boxcar, the Light, me going home. All of it a blur. A wash of light, color, and vague memories. A silent night muddled by circumstance.

I curled up in my bed at home buried under the blankets.

That's enough Fragments for a while.

[chimaerakitten]

What is it Good For?

Of all of them, Zuko might have the most understanding of what they're really asking Aang to do when he faces Ozai.

(kind of an exploration about how Aang's lingering guilt about the North Pole informed his thoughts on Ozai. Also an exploration of my thoughts on Zuko, namely that he was in command of a navy ship in a time of war, and even if they were just fruitlessly hunting for the avatar they had to have gotten involved in some fights)

this doesn’t technically fit in canon because of the timeline of the episode (Aang just runs off to mediate and then vanishes) but like. I wanted it. so here it is.

On AO3

Zuko finds Aang on the roof, looking out to sea. The boy—and he really is a just a boy, the events of today remind everyone of that—sits hunched over, with his knees drawn into his chest and his face hidden. Momo chitters and tugs on the loose drapes of Aang’s clothes, but he doesn’t respond.

Zuko sits down beside him silently, letting Aang have the first word.

“Zuko, have you ever killed anyone?”

Zuko hesitates. “Yes.”

Aang shoots him a look. He’s startled, Zuko can tell, but not truly surprised. “How?” He asks, “why?”

Zuko is just glad he didn’t ask who.

“I was in command of a fire navy ship for two years. People went to their deaths on my orders, people killed on my orders.”

“But you’ve never killed anyone with your firebending.”

It’s not really a question, but Zuko answers anyway. “No. And not with my swords, either.”

Zuko is glad he didn’t let Katara chase after Aang. She doesn’t exactly have experience with this sort of conundrum.

Aang turns back to his knees as if that was the answer to all his questions.

“I don’t think there’s much of a difference,” Zuko says as gently as he can manage. He’s not good at this. “It’s my responsibility. Not taking responsibility for...things like that is part of why the Fire Nation has gone so wrong in the last hundred years.” He realizes his hand is creeping up towards his scar and buries it in his hair instead.

“I think I killed Zhao,” Aang mumbles, “at the North Pole. I had a dream about it.”

This, Zuko can offer genuine comfort. “You didn’t.” How to put this delicately. “He killed himself. He would’ve lived if he’d just been less stubborn.”

Aang looks up, eyes wide. “You were there?”

Zuko nods. “I tried to save him, but he wouldn’t take my hand.” He yanks his hand through his hair, dislodging tangles and a leaf that must’ve gotten there on his climb up here. He never liked Zhao, but it still hurts, being so disgusting to a person that they would choose death over taking his help.

Aang is looking at him with sympathy now, and this is not how this was supposed to go. He needs to get back to the point. “People die in war.” He thinks about the casualty lists he’s seen since coming back to the Fire Nation. “A lot of other people died in the North, too.”

Aang flinches hard, and oh, that was the wrong thing to say.

“Aang—“

“I KNOW, I KNOW, OKAY! THIS WHOLE WAR IS MY FAULT AND NOW I’M SUPPOSED TO END IT BUT I CAN’T JUST KILL SOMEONE IN COLD BLOOD!”

Zuko tastes sparks. “It’s one death to prevent thousands. Nothing else will work, can’t you just see—“

“THERE HAS TO BE ANOTHER WAY!”

“THERE’S NOT! NOTHING ELSE IS PERMANENT! DO YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST LOCK HIM UP? HE HAS SUPPORTERS—“

“I DON’T CARE!”

The declaration echoes across the slope of the roof and Aang stills, chest heaving. “I’m not going to do it.”

“Aang,” Zuko tries, hearing Uncle’s voice in his head urging patience, “nobody wants to force you to do something you don’t want, but it has to be you. Nobody else can end this. I—I’ve thought about this a lot. I had an opportunity on the day of black sun, but it’s not my destiny, it’s yours.”

“You’re scared of him and you want me to get rid of him for you,” Aang says, emotionless.

That cuts. Zuko has never seen Aang like this before. “That’s not what I—“ he cuts himself off because the old rage is stirring inside him and the last word would’ve been punctuated by a puff of fire and that would not help at all. He grits his teeth. “This isn’t about me,” he forces out, “and it’s not about you either—“

“Of course it is,” Aang snaps, standing in one fluid motion, “if it wasn’t, nobody would be asking me to murder somebody!”

“Aang!” But the boy is already gone, dropping over the edge of the roof and out of sight.

Zuko almost breaks a finger punching the roof tiles. He never thought this would be the hard part. He’s not sure if it’s anger or fear or sadness or all three that cause the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He scrubs them off with his shirt sleeve, feeling the rasp of the fabric against the rough scar. He doesn’t know why he thought it was a good idea to come up here.

He’ll just have to hope Aang cools off by morning.

It’s only after—after Ozai is in prison and Zuko has the ancient crown messily pinned to his hair and Aang is back and he took Ozai’s bending away—that they talk about it.

“I’m sorry.” Aang says out of the blue, between two new batches of scrolls to read. The old ones scatter across the desk between them, lists and figures telling them all the things they need to do to truly bring this war to an end. “About what I said. I didn’t mean that.”

“I’m sorry too,” Zuko says, “And I don’t know that you were entirely wrong.” It costs him a little, to say that.

“I was,” Aang insists, “you’ve proven yourself plenty brave, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

Zuko lets out a puff of breath. No sparks. “I’m glad you found another way.” It’s only after he says it that he realizes it’s true—for Aang’s sake, if not for his father’s.

Aang grins and lunges across the desk to pull Zuko into a slightly inconvenient hug.

“Me too.”

[pinesconessecrets]

Secret Santa 2018- Christmas Eve

((Secret Santa to lazyunproductiveme.tumblr.com Who asked for either Librarian au, confessing under the Mistletoe, or dorks sleeping together. I decided to do a combination of the two. Was going to do all three, but I like what I have so far. I hope you like your secret Santa gift. If not, just tell me how I can make it better.))

((Enjoy! And Happy Yuletide!!!))

—

The bells above the door jingled, and a blast of cold air came rushing in from the outside. A young man slipped inside, quickly shutting the door behind him. In the sudden warmth of the library, the man unwrapped his scarf and pulled off his tan bomber cap, freeing his messy brown curls. Stuffing the hat and scarf in his backpack, he unzipped his puffy vest and took another step inside. Towers and towers of books surrounded him on all sides; Dipper took a deep inhale, taking in the scent of old leaflets and even a slight cinnamon undertone.

Even since he’d moved here, Dipper found himself drawn to this homey library, tucked away in town. They had all kinds of books he could want. A section just for science fiction; favorites like Ender’s Game, A Wrinkle in Time, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and of course, Star Wars. Large, dusty tomes far in the back, recollecting all of ancient history. Classic literature, Gothic horror, whimsical fantasy. And most importantly, It’s own mystery section, ranging from murder mystery, to cryptic legends and findings. It was Dipper’s favorite place in the whole library.

Well, almost favorite.

The only place better than the mystery section, was the front desk, where a certain handsome Librarian worked.

A man in his late 20’s, the man wore a simple white button up, brown slacks, and (currently) dark green suspenders over his button up. Dipper upon entering, saw the man sitting at his front desk, flicking through a well loved copy of The Great Gatsby. Of course, when the little bell rung, he momentarily stopped and looked up, meeting eyes with the young adventurer. He gave Dipper a nervous smile, and mumbled a very timid, “Good tidings, Mr. Pines. Book hunting again, are we?”

Dipper felt his own face flush several shades of vermilion. He reached back into his backpack and pulled out three books, all finished and ready to be returned. He stepped up towards the counter and passed the handsome man his books, trying not to shiver when the man’s elegant fingers briefly brushed against his in the trade off. Glancing down at the laminated nameplate on the desk, the name read Wirt Fischer. Even his name was debonair. “I just finished another great set, and I couldn’t wait to come back for more.”

Couldn’t wait to come back and see your face!

“I’m surprised someone is as passionate about reading as I am. I thought I was the only crazy one, keeping a bookstore open on Christmas Eve. I didn’t expect someone equally crazy would want to check out books on Christmas Eve.” Wirt put his head in his hand, smirking.

Dipper shrugged, wondering if the librarian could hear his heart jackhammering in his chest. “What can I say, there’s thousand of books to read, and I only have a limited time on this earth. I gotta retain as much knowledge as I possibly can.” He shuffled towards the mystery section, as expected.

Wirt watched him, clearly amused, “Typical. Off to the mystery section, I see. I’d figure you’d at least check out a book tied with the holidays. You know, a little festive reading?”

Dipper snapped his fingers at the other, internally regretting such a cheesy action seconds after it was too late. Attempting to salvage some dignity, he quickly turned on his heel and disappeared into the aisles of literature. He did not catch, nor hear, Wirt’s breathy chuckle. And he completely missed the look of endearment in the librarian’s eyes.

Wirt returned to his copy of The Great Gatsby. He knew it took Dipper a while to decide what to check out, even if they were books checked out thousands of times before by said adventurer. Wirt knew not to bother him on his hunt, though he hoped the young man would make a reappearance soon, as he quite enjoyed Dipper’s eccentric company.

Not to mention a rugged build that Wirt also didn’t mind admiring.

He waited and waited, forcing himself not to glance at his wrist watch. That would only make time move slower. No, no, he kept his eyes on the page, though after what felt like hours, he came to the realization that he had reread the same paragraph more than once. With a sigh, he closed his book, thoughts preoccupied.

Blissfully, Dipper returned, a new stack of books under his arm. He marched up to the counter, looking more confident than when he left and dropped the books in front of Wirt.

Curious, because he was always a bit snobby about what his patrons checked out, he subtly glanced at the titles of each book. “Yetis: The Arctic cousins of Bigfoot? The Christmas Heist of 1943? Table for one: True story of the Donner Party? And…Krampus, the Anti Claus.” Wirt glanced back at Dipper, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

Dipper grinned cheekily back at him, “You said check out something festive!”

Wirt rolled his eyes, but grinned affectionately, “Not exactly what I had in mind. Was thinking more along the lines of Charles Dickens, Chris Van Allsburg, O. Henry–heck, even Dr. Seuss would have worked.”

“What can I say, I live to exceed your expectations.”

Wirt’s cheeks turned a soft rosy hue, and Dipper realizing how that sounded, felt his own face heat up in embarrassment. “So, um, these books should be fine,” he mumbled.

Wirt nodded, swallowing the nervous lump quickly forming in his throat. Taking the books, he scanned each of them, signed them off, and then passed them back to Dipper.

As Dipper was putting them away, he kept going back and forth on whether or not he should continue talking. In fact, there was something on his mind, something he’d been meaning to say since he first entered. The trouble was actually gathering the confidence to ask the handsome man in front of him.

Fighting monsters, solving mysteries, and vanquishing demonic forces was nothing.

Talking to cute people was the real nightmare.

“Anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Pines.”

“You can just call me Dipper. I think I’ve been around enough times that we’re on a first name basis…I mean, of course, unless you don’t want to–”

“No, no! That’s…that’s perfectly fine, Mr. Pin–Um, Dipper. I think that’s a reasonable assessment.” Wirt nervously fiddled with the cover of his book, trying not to seem overly eager at being on first name basis with the adventurer.

“Great!–I mean, that’s good! Wonderful! Um, anyway, I um…there’s actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you, if that’s okay?” Oh dear god, he was flubbing, and badly.

“Of course, what can I do for you today?” Ugh, that sounded so robotic and work professional! Wirt tried not to openly cringe, his fingers nervously drumming on the cover of his book. When Dipper looked down, distracted by his drumming, he slammed his palm flat on his book to stop himself.

“Well, I was just wondering…do you have any plans for Christmas Eve?”

Wirt shook his head, “Not really. I’ll be working till five tonight–don’t want to be open too late– then I’ll close up, and head for home. Maybe pick up some take out for me and my brother on the way home? But other than that, nothing big planned. May I inquire why?”

He inquired, not asked. Dipper liked someone with a large vocabulary…oh god, he’d been single for too long, moving on. Fighting the hot blush off his face, Dipper continued, albeit with less enthusiasm, “Well, I was wondering. My family is having a little Christmas Eve get together, and it’s nothing big, but there will be food and good company, and I just, if you don’t have anything, maybe you’d like–if you’re interested–if it’s not too forward–” Dipper’s words stuttered off.

Wirt, thankfully, put him out of his misery, “Are you asking me to come? Is this the new way of asking people out? Are you asking me out?”

Dipper wanted to spontaneously combust on the spot, “M-maybe. It doesn’t have to be a date, just a simple hang out. It’s the holidays, holidays are nice to share with people.”

Wirt nodded in agreement, but he also seemed conflicted, “I wholeheartedly agree. Which is why I must politely decline.”

Dipper tried not to appear too disappointed, “Oh yes, alright. I’m sorry for bothering you about this–”

But Wirt was not finished, and quickly retreaded, “Oh please don’t think it’s anything against you. I would be more than happy to tag along. But like I said earlier, I’m spending Eve with my younger brother, and if I went with you, then he’d be all alone.”

The puzzle pieces were finally starting to fall into place. “OH! OHHH! Well of course he’s invited too.”

Wirt looked surprised, “Really? You’d let him come as well? You don’t even know him?”

Dipper nodded, relief washing over him now that he’d figured out the real reason for Wirt’s refusal. “Oh absolutely! The more the merrier. My wacky twin is hosting the party, and she loves meeting new faces, and making new friends. If you’re worried about your brother being alone, then there’s no need to fret, because of course he’s invited by extension. Both of your can come and enjoy yourself!”

Wirt pondered it for a moment. On one hand, it was a huge risk going to someone’s party, especially one you barely knew. Dipper, while being extremely cute to look at, was by all intents and purposes, a complete stranger. Who knew if he was actually who he said he was. Dipper could be an insane sociopath, and this party was just a guise to kidnap Wirt to do awful things to him! …Okay, maybe that was a stretch, he had to lay off the murder mystery section.

On the other hand, Wirt wasn’t getting many handsome suitors chatting him up or inviting him on outings. He didn’t meet many people who came into the library close to his age, and even if so, showing any desire towards him. Or have that desire be mutual. And he was definitely mutually attracted to this strange guy. Had been since he first saw him in his plaid button up, mud caked jeans, and bomber hat. Had been since Dipper had first awkwardly smiled back at him, then turned cherry red and disappeared into one of the aisles, muttering to himself. He was a nervous ball of energy: Exactly Wirt’s type.

Melting under Dipper’s charm–and to be perfectly candid, he wanted to come more than anything–he relented, “Then I’d be honored if you had us. Just send us the address and we’ll arrive around seven.”

Then in a stroke of confidence, he grabbed Dipper’s wrist, tender but firm, picked up his sharpie, uncapped it with his teeth, and neatly scrawled his number across Dipper’s skin. Satisfied, he released Dipper and recapped his marker. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

Dipper stared wide eyed at the number on his wrist, desperately trying to remain calm, when inside every nerve was humming vibrantly. “Yes, s-see you tonight!”

And with that, Dipper bolted for the door, waving back behind him. Once outside, and down the large cement steps, Dipper let out a loud whoop and holler, his spirits soaring. He almost skipped for home. He didn’t of course, but the sentiment was there. Tis the season.

Back inside, Wirt let out a hearty giggle, and danced awkwardly in his seat. Until he realized what he was doing, to which he calmed himself once more. Still, the one thing he could not tame, was the large, childlike grin on his face.

—

Dipper walked back and forth, stopped to stare at the front door, then resumed his circle trailing.

“Dipper you’ve been at the door for almost 40 minutes. What are you waiting for?” Mabel walked by, stopping to stare at her brother, incredulously.

Dipper stopped and turned to her, “Sorry. I just, I’m wondering if Wirt will actually show up.” Dipper looked down at his feet, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. He once more glanced at the door.

“That cute librarian you’ve been talking nonstop about?” Mabel placed her hand on her hips, smirking.

Dipper nodded, keeping his head down so Mabel wouldn’t tease him about the red flush on his cheeks, “Yeah, I invited him, and he said he was coming. Ugh, but what if he was just humoring me? What if he was never planning to come at all? Oh god, he probably thinks I’m a creep! I can’t even come back to that library again; he’ll probably call the cops on me as soon as he–”

“Dipper!” Mabel rushed forward, slapping her hands on his shoulders. Dipper’s rambling came to a halt. Mabel continued, “You’re freaking out. Calm down bro bro! He’s probably just running late. Or he had to do something first. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he’s not here yet. And hey, if he did decide to leave you high and dry, well he was an asshole to begin with and not worth your time!”

Despite her best efforts, Dipper groaned at the prospect that he had been stood up.

Mabel rolled her eyes, “Listen bro bro, you’ve seen me go through all my awful boy crushes, and now I’m here to help you through all your awful boy crushes!” She patted him none too lightly on the shoulder.

“Ouch!…but thanks, Mabel. I can always count on you.” He reached over to give his sister an appreciative hug.

Ding Dong!

The moment the buzzer sounded, Dipper pushed past Mabel at a lightning speed, nearly sending her toppling.

“UGH! THANKS A LOT!” She yelled at him as he rushed for the door.

He mouthed an apology, took a second to collect himself, and then opened the door to the mist of two men in the middle of a heated discussion.

“Now be on your best behavior, because we’re guest and I–”

“–I know! I know! I’m not a baby anymore Wirt–”

“–Well you’re certainly acting like on–”

“Ugh, you’re so high strung, it’s annoying! Is it because of your dat–”

“–GREG, Shuuuuu–”

“—No, you shuuuuuush–”

The two came to a dead halt upon noticing the twins staring at them in the doorway.

Wirt straightened up, while the teen slumped a little lower, both of them clearly embarrassed. “Um, good to see you again Mr. Pine–Um, errr, Dipper, I mean. Good to see you again, Dipper.”

“Nice to see you again, Wirt.” He hoped he wasn’t swooning. Judging by Mabel’s not so subtle eyebrow wiggle, he figured he was definitely swooning.

Wirt turned to Mabel next, offering her his hand, “And I assume you must be Dipper’s twin sister, the host of this celebration. I would like to thank you for offering your home to us and Greg during the holidays. I hope we’re not interrupting anything important!”

Greg added, “Home? More like a mansion, you must be loaded!” He gazed up at the manor with eyes the size of dinner plates. Wirt smacked him on the head. “Ow! Hey!”

Mabel chuckled at the brother’s antics; reminded of her own sibling quarreling. She waved Wirt’s earlier comment away, “I’m glad to have you two. And no trouble at all. It’s family and friends, so don’t think you’ve intruded on anything. Me and Pacifica love having guests. Well, I do, but Paz is coming around quickly.  Also, pleasure to meet you, my name is Mabel Pines, the more beautiful and majestic of the twins!”

Dipper glared, but she pointedly ignored him.

Stepping back inside, she waved them in. Greg quickly ran inside, wanting to get a full glimpse of the place. Wirt once more apologized for their intrusion before stepping inside as well. Mabel glanced once more at Dipper, took the hint, and turned to Greg, “First of all, love your sweater. It’s cute–could use a little more pizazz, but I approve. Secondly, let me give you a tour of the place, you seem like you’d be very interested in touching all the silverware.”

Greg laughed, “I would like to see how a rich bitch lives,”

“Greg! Language!” Wirt snapped.

Greg replied by sticking his tongue out. Turning back to Mabel, who had looped her arm through his, replied, “Please show me the way, Miss Majestic Mabel. I’m Greg Campbell, Wirt’s ‘moody’ little brother!”

As they were leaving towards the dining room, the two young men heard Mabel reply, “Who wasn’t moody when they were your age?”

Now left to their own devices, Dipper and Wirt stood in the foyer, awkwardly avoiding eye contact. Sometimes Dipper would look at Wirt when he thought the other wasn’t look, and sometimes Wirt looked at Dipper when he thought the other wasn’t looking. This usually ended with them both looking at each other, and becoming more flustered.

“I’m…I’m glad you could make it,” Dipper coughed into his fist. God could he be anymore pathetically inept?

Wirt nodded, “Glad you invited us. Greg might not seem like it, but he was excited to come. He’s a sweet kid, and while he’s driving me nuts with his teenage rebellion, I can’t be too mad at him. I was a moody little shit–even worse, at his age.”

Dipper chuckled; he could listen to this librarian talk for hours. “No, no worries. I get it, we all were like that at one point. I’m just glad he has a cool older brother like you to help him through that awkward time.” Suddenly, a new thought entered his head, one that made his mood dampen. “I noticed that you didn’t mention your parents, are they not around or…” Dipper asked, treading lightly.

Wirt didn’t seem fazed by this questioning, “Oh no. My parents are just a two hour drive from here. Greg lives with me because there’s a liberal arts school nearby that Greg got into for his photography work. We’re actually going early tomorrow to visit them to celebrate Christmas, so don’t worry, they’re still very much alive. And as for that cool brother comment, I sadly have to refute such claims.”

Dipper internally sighed, glad to know he hadn’t brought up anything depressing. Changing tactics to something lighter, Dipper winked, “I don’t know, I think there’s merit. You look very cool to me.”

Wirt went as bright red as the stuffed Rudolph’s nose that was chilling in the foyer. “Well, thank you. It’s nice of you to think that. How are those books coming? I doubt you’ve started any, but I’d still thought I asked.”

“To be honest, I actually half way through one of the books,” Dipper said, a little too smuggly.

Wirt was, at least, impressed, “Really?”

“Yeah, probably would have finished it all if Mabel didn’t drag me into the kitchen to help her with the cooking.”

Wirt seemed even more impressed by this, “You cook?”

Dipper laughed, “Hardly. I can grill things up on the stove, but my sister is the amazing chef around here. Well, of course she’s the chef, this is her house. Well her’s and Paz’s, mostly Paz’s. Pacifica was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. She’s cool though, like her a lot better now than when she was a spoiled rich kid. –I’m getting off topic, what were we talking about?”

“Cooking?”

“Yes cooking! But yeah. Most of the food in the kitchen was made by Mabel and Paz. I did help with the ham though, so not completely useless. What about you, do you cook?”

“I do. I make dinner for my brother all the time. I’m not five star, but I feed us every day, and he doesn’t complain, so that should say something.”

“I’d love to try it sometime.” Oh that was a little too forward!

Wirt smirked, “Sure, I’d love to have you over sometime. Consider it a second date, if this first one goes well.”

DATE! HE SAID DATE! DIPPER HAD A SHOT!

Dipper tried not to squeak when he spoke again, “Um, how bout I show you around, we can meet some of my friends and family.” He put his hand against Wirt’s back, gently guiding him into the living room. He tried not to think about it too much. He was just, being a helpful tour guide, that was all. Nothing weird about it. Wirt’s movements also seemed a little stiff after he did that, but Dipper pretended it was just because he was in an unfamiliar area. Yep, sounds good enough.

When he chanced a glance at Wirt’s face, Wirt didn’t seem displeased by Dipper’s touch, just uncertain. Dipper hoped that was a good sign, and not a bad one.

Upon entering, Two old men where lounging on the couch, fighting over the remote. A woman with fall red hair sat on the couch opposite them, face in her phone. Occasionally she looked at the two men and rolled her eyes, back to her phone. Next to her was a Latino man and woman in their late 30s chatting with each other. The man stopped and looked at the two young men as they entered. “Oh hey there dude! And um…other dude!” Soos tipped his hat to them.

“Hey Soos. Melody, Wendy, Grunkle Stan, and Great Uncle Ford. This is Wirt, I invited him to join us for the evening, hope that’s okay.”

Grunkle Stan glanced behind him, “That your boyfriend you keep blabbering about.”

Dipper sputtered. Wendy looked up and failed to mask her snicker. Great Uncle Ford smacked his twin upside the head, chiding him, “Stanley, what did we talk about!”

“Oh hush up, poindexter! It’s my job as his dilapidating uncle to shamelessly embarrass him in front of his crush.”

Dipper wondered if he could get away with senicide. Was that not festive enough? What if he strangled him with tinsel? That be holly jolly enough.

Dipper side eyed Wirt, wondering if his family had scared the librarian off yet. While Wirt did look flustered at their teasing, he had a fond smile on his face, like this was all familiar to him. God he was a trooper. And Dipper might have fallen even harder for him in that moment.

While Ford and Stan argued back and forth, Soos, Melody and Wendy got up out of their seats to introduce themselves.

“Hey dude, name’s Wendy. Nice to meet you!” Wendy pounded her fist against Wirt’s, even though he seemed reluctant.

“Sup dude, the names Soos. I’ve known Dipper since he was just a little dude, so like, be cool to him and you’ll be cool to me…dude.” Soos took Wirt’s hand and shook vigorously, shaking all of him.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Melody, Soos’s wife. It’s really nice to have you. And just ignore the two arguing on the couch, they always do this.” Melody patted his shoulder, giving him a ‘you’ll get used to it all’ look.

Wirt was polite in his introduction back.

As Wirt was chatting with Soos and Melody, Wendy whispered in Dipper’s ear when she was sure only he could hear, “You really like them older, don’t you?”

Dipper thought he would die, “H-he’s not that much older. I don’t think. I’m pretty sure we’re closer in age than you and I are!”

Wendy chuckled, “Okay, true. He looks maybe a year or two older. Could just be his height, too. You’ve always liked them freakishly tall.” She shot Dipper another knowing smirk. He whimpered, trying not to cover his face with his hands and draw Wirt’s attention to them.

Having successfully embarrassed him, she eased up, “I think you have a good shot with this one. He’s dorky like you. You guys will look cute together, and I mean that.”

Dipper still wanted to die. But a part of him was relieved to have Wendy’s blessing. She was always cool like that.

From the kitchen they heard, “Wirt! Holy shit! Come look at all this food!”

Wirt sighed. He shot Dipper an apologetic look, and called back, trying not to shout even though they were rooms apart, “Greg, language!”

Dipper was at least thankfully to know he wasn’t the only one a little embarrassed by their family. He wouldn’t change them for the world, but it felt nice not too be the only one suffering. This might not be such a bad night after all, and if it was, being mortified by your family was a bonding moment, wasn’t it?

At the mention of food, everyone started crowding towards the kitchen, ready for dinner.

It was going to be lively, to say the least.

—

“Tonight was good. I know I’ve said it enough, and you’re probably sick of it, but thank you for inviting us.” Wirt said, bending down to tie his shoes.

Dipper rocked back and forth, smiling, “Glad you had fun. Hopefully my family wasn’t too crazy.”

Wirt glanced up, smirking, “I’m used to odd families. It was fun, nostalgic even.” He stood, dusting off his pants of any dirt he had collected. He looked back, and for a moment, just watched his brother giving Mabel’s potbelly pig tummy rubs. There was a large grin on his brother’s face. “It’s really nice to see Greg smiling more. Don’t tell him, but I’ve missed it.”

Dipper put a finger to his lips, “Your secrets safe with me.”

In the afterglow of good food, light conversation, and plenty of awkward merriment, the two just stood, looking at each other, not sure what to do next, but not feeling like anything else needed to happen. The silence was warm, and strangely, comfortable.

“I should probably get going.” Wirt rubbed the back of his neck. He made no effort to move.

Dipper nodded, “Yeah, it’s getting late, and the road’s will get icy. It be safe to head off now.” He also made no attempt to move away from the moment they had created.

A lone, loud whistle drew them attention upwards. Leaning over the stairs, smirking wickedly at the two was Pacifica. Holding a mistletoe suspended over their heads.

Dipper wanted to die. “Pacifica! What the fuck! How could you betray me like this? I thought we were friends.”

Pacifica shrugged, “Mabel promised me she’d stop singing Christmas carols for the rest of the holidays if I did this. And girlfriends outweigh best friends. Sorry, Dipstick!” She was clearly not sorry.

Seconds later Mabel was down the steps, squeezing next to Pacifica, camera in hand, “I didn’t miss it, did I?” She looked between the two, eagerly.

Wirt smirked, unusually cool. Perhaps it was that single cup of eggnog that had loosened him up. “We were just heading out, so no, you haven’t missed saying goodbye to us.”

Mabel frowned, “Not exactly what I was talking about. You do know what’s hanging over you, right?”

“Mabel~” Dipper growled in warning.

Wirt nodded, “It’s Mistletoe. It’s a Christmas tradition that if you stand under a mistletoe with someone, you have to kiss them. Am I correct?”

Mabel smirked, “Then you know you have to kiss him.”

Wirt shook his head, “It’s a Christmas tradition. Sad to say, I celebrate Yule, which is the old pagan tradition. While very similar to Christmas, there are a few things that differ from the Christian holiday. Such as that little plant you’re holding over us now. Mistletoe back then was used as a way to honor the Winter Celestes, as Paganism is all about appreciating nature. Mistletoe was a way to let the sun know that we appreciated and valued all it had done for us, and even in these harsher environments, it’s love still made life bloom, even under all that freezing snow. So to me, mistletoe has no meaning other than a way to honor the nature of the old pagan holiday, and give thanks to the season of winter.”

Mabel’s mouth fell open in shock. Dipper stared at him with wide eyes. Greg was snickering behind his hands. And Pacifica looked unperturbed by the whole thing. She shrugged once more, then rested a hand on Mabel’s slumped shoulders.

“It’s okay darling, we can enjoy mistletoe the Christmas way,” she coaxed, lifting the mistletoe over their heads and planting a loving kiss on the top of her girlfriend’s bushy head. Mabel smiled, a little more heartened.

Wirt once more thanked the trio, then headed for the door, Greg a few steps ahead. Dipper followed him to the door, closing the door behind him so not to be interrupted.

“I can’t believe you intellectually sassed my sister into silence,” Dipper chuckled at the memory.

Wirt seemed a little guilty, even as he smiled alongside Dipper, “Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but I didn’t like the idea of being filmed on camera. No matter how sweet she seems, I’m not very fond of having my privacy invaded.”

Dipper agreed, “Trust me, I know more than anything. Mabel can be kind intrusive and a little nosy. She means well, always has, but even I get more than a little frustrated with her match making skills.”

“Sad, I don’t think she needs to play matchmaker. I think you’re doing just fine on your own.”

Dipper felt his heart skip a beat. “Yeah?”

A small part of him, really wished Wirt had kissed him. Humiliating as it would be to have his sister and her girlfriend watching, and photographed evidence, the reward of getting to feel Wirt’s lips against his would have been worth it.

Greg, who had been silently watching the two for awhile, had finally had enough. He rolled his eyes and snatched the keys out of Wirt’s hands, “Gross! I’ll meet you at the car. Don’t take too long flirting!” He took two steps and paused. He looked at Dipper, his expression softening, “This was really fun. I hope I’ll see you around more.” And with that, he took off, leaving the two alone.

Dipper could see that Greg meant well; he was even reminded of Mabel in some ways. “Your brother’s sweet.”

Wirt chuckled, “I know. Under his bratty phase, he’s got a real heart of gold. I know he really enjoyed your sister and her house. I hope he made a good impression with her–”

Dipper already knew he had. “Don’t worry, my sister loved him. I’m sure you guys will be invited back.” He made sure to emphasize the both of them; he wanted Wirt to know he was welcomed. Dipper really wanted to welcome him back to his house, but that was for another time.

“I shouldn’t keep Greg waiting,” Wirt replied, clearly reluctant to go.

Dipper tried not to keep him. “Yeah. I wish you could stay longer, but I know I’ll see you again soon. I got library books to return, after all.”

Wirt perked up, “That you do.”

Then, because he was a bit curious, Dipper asked one last thing that had been on his mind since Wirt had mentioned it, “What you said about the mistletoe. Is that really what it means for Yule?”

Wirt smirked, “No.”

Then he leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to Dipper’s cheek. When he pulled back, he was blushing hotly, but there was a spark of mischief in his eyes, “Mistletoe was always about friendship and love. That old tradition hasn’t changed.”

Dipper felt like his heart was going to jump right out of his throat. “Oh…”

“Goodnight Dipper. Have a happy holidays!”

As he turned, Dipper leaned over and pressed his lips against Wirt’s cheek. Wirt looked back, stunned, “Have a happy holidays, Wirt.” He repeated, mischief dancing in his eyes, the same way Wirt’s had.

Wirt felt like he might float off on happiness alone.

The two boys parted, spirits high after their farewell. Hearts filled with hope that their relationship would only grow stronger from here. The holidays certainly were a magical time.

Have yourself a Merry little Christmas,

Make the Yuletide Gay!

[mhornar]

A Defense of the Tau Caste System, Part 3: Caste Mobility

So in part 1 I talked about the overview of the Castes and the biological nature of their separation.  Part 2 focused on the history of the castes and how that influenced their modern social structures.  We also looked at the internal structure of the castes, and discussed what limitations it provided to rising on one’s own merits within the caste. Now we’re concluding by looking at the other traditionally recognized flaw of a caste system, it’s mobility, or lack therof.

Caste Mobility: So here's where we drift solidly into fan theorizing.  We've already discussed the wide population discrepancy between the Castes.  Fire Caste members serve only in the ground forces of the Tau military.  Air Caste members are so committed to orbital and space travel that they have developed physical variation from the basic Tau biology.  Water Caste members serve as diplomats and free traders.  The Ethereals are priest/bureaucrats.  Every one of these professional focuses represent a very small percentage of the total Tau population. Everyone not in one of these Castes falls into the Earth caste.  It's certainly probable that the other castes include civilian populations, but if so we're not told about them explicitly.  The Water Caste would certainly stretch easily into a similar role at home.  Social workers, marketers and shopkeeps would all benefit from the talents we are told are inherent to the Water caste.  The Fire Caste depends on the Earth Caste to develop and produce their weapons, armor, and drones.  However there are positions in that development chain that require consults with people from the field. We already discussed the “who pilots local transportation” when discussing possible Air Caste civilians. Even with those possible “civilian reserves” though, the professional Castes have one glaring weakness.  Where do they get more personnel if needed? Going back to the biology discussion, we are told by the codexes that the Tau have a strict ban on cross-caste children.  In looking at their histories we also discussed how that strict ban can't have been in place in the beginning as the caste stratification would have taken centuries or millennia to settle during the unification of the homeworld. In 1913, Germany had an estimated population of approximately 65 million people.  During World War I they sustained approximately 2 million casualties.  So in the process of fighting a single war they lost 3% of their population (primarily their young, male population at that).  During the war their total births per year cut in half by 1917.  By the 1930s though their population had returned to pre-war levels, and they had an entirely new population of soldiers.  This time their next war killed a total of 6% of their total pre-war population, without even factoring in their genocide against their own citizens. In the Warhammer 40k setting, casualty rates like those that Germany sustained are a feature, not a bug.  The Imperium regularly hurls crusades numbering in the tens of millions of soldiers at threats.  Space Marines kill thousands of enemy soldiers without taking so much as a scratch themselves.  For many of those factions “recovering from losses” is built in. Orks and Tyrannids simply make more of themselves, through spores and biomass.  Chaos recruits from among those trillions of Imperium citizens.  The Necron have huge galaxy spanning armies hidden away everywhere just waiting to be awakened. The Tau don't do that. They make more soldiers the old fashioned way, by raising children into young men and women and asking them to do the impossible.  When they send their Fire Warriors against a major offensive, what happens if they lose?  Hell what happens even if they win?  Losing an entire generation of German soldiers crippled their nation for a time, but they recovered militarily because all they had to do was wait until the next generation grew up.  They still had 65 million people who could produce possible soldiers.  If instead only 10 percent of the population were genetically allowed to serve in the military and a third of that population died in a single war (or even a single battle for something like Stalingrad) then Germany might never have recovered (especially if their enemies planned to exterminate their entire population if they surrendered, thereby denying them time to recover the natural way). The Air Caste is even more specialized.  What happens if a fleet of Hero class frigates and Colony class carriers is destroyed in battle.  It's not like you can pull your remaining crews off the front lines and tell them “all right guys, for the future of the empire you have to spend the next decade having as many babies as you can.”  I mean if you can get a cease fire...definitely do that.  But you need those crews fighting. Of course there is a huge population they can pull from which solves all of these problems.  The Earth caste is the vast majority of the population.  It has to be because they're doing everything else.  However we're explicitly told that it's the Fire Caste the provides the soldiers, and the Air Caste provides the spacecraft.  The Earth Caste are just civilians.  What if we inverted our understanding about Tau society a bit?  I've noted before that within each Caste there seems to be little class stratification and it otherwise seems to work like a professional track.  What if the Castes aren't instruments of genetic purity, and are instead primarily professional organizations? The Tau believe in serving the Greater Good at all cost.  They gladly lay down their lives in order to ensure that everyone in their civilization will do better as a whole.  While the communist analogy is overdone and inaccurate, the Tau do plan out their economy to a degree.  Children born into specific Castes receive education and training in the professions of their Caste.  We're told that Fire Caste soldiers are so good because they have been trained in the hunting strategies of the ancient nomads on their homeworld.  

You know where hunting strategies derived from wide open plains might not be useful?  On spacecraft boarding parties, where the field of battle is three dimensional, cramped and subject to a wide array of environmental dangers.  The folks who probably would have a natural understanding of those environments?  The Air Caste.  Yet for some reason, it's Fire Warriors who do this job.  Most navies, when faced with the challenge of boarding enemy ships, landing on beaches and otherwise fighting at sea developed some form of specialized marines.  So why did the Tau, arguably the best space navy on a per capita basis (god I loved my Tau fleet in Gothic), decide they didn't need this? What makes more sense is that people born into the Air Caste population are chosen and trained as marines, given the Tau's standard battle gear, and inducted into the Fire warriors for service in space.  Being asked to leave the traditions of your birth family to take up a new family for service to the Greater Good is precisely the kind of sacrifice the Tau have been trained to make.  Over generations this would also breed new capacities and skills into the Fire Caste and make them more effective in their own assigned roles. A Fire caste child who shows no knack for combat, but who has the gift to create amazing music would be wasted as a common soldier.  Why would the Ethereals simply throw away a gift that would stand out exceptionally amongst the Earth Caste, merely to fill a private's slot in a unit of Fire Warriors.  How does that serve either the Greater Good, or the Ethereals' planning.  Especially if that child would end up later having children who might also not fit the mold of the Fire Warrior, creating a cascading effect over time. If large numbers of casualties are sustained or expected to be sustained, why not draw replacements from those amongst the Earth Caste who show a potential for the Fire or Air fields.  By the time you have finished training them, they will be Fire or Air Caste, not Earth.  They might still have relatives in the old Caste, but their family will be in their new one. The response of course is that none of the Codexes or other material say that this happens. Now obviously that's why I said we'd be hitting fan theorizing here. My response though is to once again point out that the Codexes are largely written from an outside point of view (and are also almost entirely focused on the military forces).  An outsider sees the Tau Castes and sees an inviolable wall, because to the Tau once you cross that wall you don't go back.  Your service to the Greater Good means letting your old life go and becoming your new self. This theory is also interesting to me because it might in time allow the other species of the Empire to be drawn into the Castes.  A Fire Warrior could, in the end, be a Kroot, Human, or Vespid just as easily as it could be a Tau. So in conclusion.  The Tau Caste system would likely seem oppressive to those of us who grew up in upper or middle-class American or European society, with the privilege to believe that we could be anything we wanted when we grew up.  To the Tau however it is a valuable part of their society, offers the freedom to climb as high as your abilities take you, and may even allow for Caste mobility in service to the State.  Most importantly though, it is how they determine who among them will offer themselves in direct service to the Greater Good, and to the Tau that is the greatest honor they desire.

[jessipalooza]

Of Unseen and Eyes, Part I

Whether people wished to admit it or not, the sea changed from land to land, place to place. In Quel'Thalas, it was fresh and teemed with magic. In Stormwind, it was sturdy and bland. In Booty Bay, it was rotten and unruly.

In Drustvar, it was ancient and stank of blood, fish, and rotten earth. 

Karsteth had manged to find an island off the coat of Drustvar, within sight of the Crimson Forest, tucked down in the south where it should have been cold - but it was not cold...it was damp, it was humid, it was uncomfortable. Nobody wanted to be there, and so it was the perfect place for a man that wanted nobody around him.

With his ship docked on one side of the small island, he trudged along the beach, rounding the large hill (or perhaps small mountain). Even Booker remained back with the ship, leaving the one-eyed, hand-scarred captain alone. He listened to the waves, the cry of the gulls as they circled fish nearby, and the crunch of shells and sand beneath his boots. 

The island was silent of people, his men far enough away that their shouting drowned out beneath nature. But that was how it needed to be in order for his gruff voice to carry as he bellowed: 

"DASIA!!"

Her home had grown smoky with the burning of offerings, and so when she felt the call to sea-soaked climes, she took it. It was simple to her-- when certain clients called, and with such need, she came. There were deals to make, things to win... and she had been hoping to hear this voice through the shady betweenplaces. 

When Dasia' feet touched the sand, though, she gasped softly, full lips parted to taste the air, the mist, the blood thick in both.

Kindred, she felt. Kin and kith alike. Welcome home, the land said. Where you belong. Amethyst-bright eyes flashed over the rocky outcroppings, the thin trees for this blasted and small islet, and she shivered with delight. She took a step, and almost lost her footing. Her magic, so well heeled for centuries, raced and dragged at her leashes, bright and eager for the hunt. She knew this place then, and her laughter filled the wave-wracked wind.

"Oh, my Captain, you always know the best places for our dalliances." She replied to him, her bare feet light on the soaked leaflitter. "My heart sings."

There was a distant call for more tar. The repairs were getting started in full swing, but Karsteth made not even a glance up. He knew where his ship was, he knew what it needed, he knew what his crew was doing...and his crew knew better than to dally. Thankfully, where his ship was wounded, he was not. 

“Cut yer weird shit, Dasia,” he said, as gruffly as ever. “We ain’t here for a lover’s triste. Y’know that well enough. Guessin’ ye even know why I called ye here.”

She hummed softly, eyes tracing over the man's features. He may not want her now, but her appreciation for him was certainly not purely professional and it showed in the smile that curled her lips. "To business then, my Captain." There was always special emphasis on that title; she had helped him secure it, and maintain it-- a possessive shade that lingered when she spoke it. 

"I know what the winds tell me; that you engaged and were so close to your goal that the blood was all but on your lips... when it again, was snatched back."

She tossed her wine-dark hair and stepped forward. "I also know she lived, and that your work is far from done, and that you need something to help you keep your shadow close and tucked neat between your boots, so as not to tip your hand to any." She stepped around him, eyes trailing from his features to his shoulders, circling the man while we words would wrap them in a thick mist.

Soon, even the sounds of his ship seemed to fade in the murk, and the scent of copper permeated, combining with the seasalt and the scent of dried herbs that clung to the witch.

"In short, you wish to make another deal, and my Captain, I am very happy to oblige."

Karsteth looked unimpressed at her 'guess'. With a deep breath in, he ran a callused hand over his face and scratched at his scruff-ridden chin. He unhitched his bow from his back, swung it to rest against a nearby rock, and sat himself down. With a wide spread of his legs, he rest his arms across his lap.

"In short, aye. I want another fuckin' deal." 

He turned his eye - nay, his eyes - up to the witch. One green and wispy with the taint of fel. One all different colors and teeming with her own magic. 

"She had a fuckin' war ship. I could sit around all day and wonder how the fuck that lil' bitch got a war ship, but it won't do me any fuckin' good. I didn't kill her, I know that much. And if she's been huntin' me'n'mine, she'll know I'm comin' next time. So I wanna make sure she doesn't. I want her fuckin' blind."

"You want more than just one girl blind." Dasia corrected, her voice almost chiding. "She hunts you now, but you know that as soon as word rises that the White Widow was wounded, there will be other sharks chasing the chum in the waters." She clucked her tongue to teeth softly. "I know your enemies are many because they are sniffing after anything that will bring them an edge... even seeking witches." 

There was always the risk he would grow violent with her, of course; she liked it, he was chaos made man and she loved that he was one of the few who could end her, wholly, upsetting so many years of planning. Still, she wanted him to know-- she was courted by others, and had not given them nearly as much as she had given Karsteth.

No other had given her two sons, despite the firsts faults. "I have not bothered with them, but they seek anyway." She finished her circling and stood before him, arms crossed beneath her heavy bosom, hip thrust out becomingly. "I will make you a deal to blind them all; they would need to have their soles on your deck to know where you are."

Leaning down, she purred softly to him. "Imagine, Karsteth, lord of the waters... unseen. By any foe. Arrive like mist over the shore, disperse just as invisibly." She closed the distance, stepped up to where he was seated, and recklessly slid her hand over his unscarred cheek. "I could make you this way."

“Who the fuck else is lookin’ for me?” He all but growled, watching her come closer but keeping his hands safely down, dangling between his legs casually. He was a predator and knew another predator when he saw one. He knew better than to take his eyes off of her. 

Without waiting for a response (it didn’t matter, after all, they’d all be dead sooner or later and he had a more pressing matter to handle), he scoffed with a whiskey-scented breath. He leaned back and gestures loosely to the witch in front of him. 

“That’s why I’m fuckin’ here, Dasia. What d’ye need this time? Some rubies, some fuckin’ flour, and the cock of a general or some weird shit as usual? Name yer price.”

As he leaned back, her hand was drawn away, and she clucked. "Other captains, other pirates. You make no friends with your white flag." She shook her head as though sadly, but he could still see her smile. "They circle, but I will help you evade."

She opened her hands to him, and in them red mist swirled. "I need very little this time; hiding is what me and mine are very very good at." Dasia purred and in her palms grew a small stone vial. "Drink this, and follow the tracks of white light amidst the red; you will find what remains of... something I need. Something I cannot get."

Dasia's voice softened, a serious note growing in the dulcet tones. "Use it where your ship is docked against safe harbor, but no step you will need to take. Get me the glowing fragment, and I will make you invisible to all your enemies. I have the stones and bones and things I need to hide you, all I ask is for this one thing; an eye lost in the Nightmare."

Karsteth arched a long brow at her words. She was a woman of deals and didn’t give anything freely. Whatever she required must be valuable enough. She must have been desperate enough. But he wasn’t going to question it and ruin an upper hand. The two had their dance. He would stick with it. 

“Glowin’ remains of what exactly?” He asked, looking to the mist and then the vial as it materialized. “Ye said an eye? How am I supposed to know where the fuck it is in all this place yer sendin’ me?”

"It will glow." She said it with surety. "It doesn't belong there, and the Nightmare is trying to consume it and it is not being consumed. You have the... easy part, it has been moved part of the way to the edge of Nightmare, and just needs the last steps to bring it back to the world of living and breathing."

The danger, of course, was that he would smell enough of her or just enough of life to bring the things that hunter Nightmare to hunt. But she could not traverse those lands for this item; she could not touch it, while within the Nightmare. Her deals had been clear, no matter how she chafed against them these many years later. 

Simpering, she pitched her voice softer. "It won't appear like an eye. I do not know what shape it has in the Nightmare, now that it has been there so long, but it will glow and stand out against the wilds."

Karsteth's attention dipped down to the vial in Dasia's hands. His tongue ran along his teeth again and he leaned back - not just for comfort's sake, but to sit taller, straighter.

"So, ye don't know what the fuck it looks like. Might not look like an eye. But it'll glow. And it'll be fairly fuckin' close to wherever the fuck I dock my ship. But if I take this shit ye got, find the glowin' piece'a'shit, and get it to ye, then ye'll see to it that that fuckin' bitch won't see me comin'. That she won't be able to find me."

Dasia's eyes met his. "I will make it worth your efforts. I want this eye, and you want to be unseen. A trade made by fates, yes? Steal an eye and steal sight with it." She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

If he had not called her, she would have sought him-- or sent one of her other debted dealmakers into the Nightmare. She needed this, and the sooner she had it... the sooner she could begin. Things were unfolding, becoming, far quicker than she had hoped. If Karsteth could obtain this...

"I will do exactly as you say; bring it, and you will move over waters unknown and unseen, until you so choose to be seen." Her tone grew serious, and she leaned in, eyeing his features once more with clear evaluation.

"Do we have a deal?"

As Dasia leaned in, his eyes dipped down briefly to the humorless smile. It was business, and he knew that. But it was something else, and he knew that too. He couldn't shake the feeling that she was fucking him over somehow. He knew she wasn't telling him the whole story, but he didn't give a fuck about what all of these eyes, tongues, secrets, blood, and stones were for. And yet....

Rather than offer her a gruff, verbal answer, he reached up and forcefully grabbed a fistful of dark, wild hair. Tugging her down, he smashed his lips against hers for a hard and open mouthed kiss. There was a sort of hunger to it, one that came from the sheer power of both of them being in such a close space. But he had also not had a whore for nearly a month. 

Releasing her with a bite of her lip and a taste of blood, he made a grab for the vial and tried to stand all at once.

"Aye, we have a deal."

The potion grabbed from her hands, Dasia let herself fall back a step after the rough assent. With a toss of her hair to right the mussed locks, she reached up to touch her bleeding lip with a smile. Chaos made man indeed; she was never caught so unawares as she was with him. Hunger and demand in him was always met with a surge of her own, and she had not the time to delve into such now. Yet, her smile was as genuine as a witches ever could be, and there was smug satisfaction in her words.

"Sealed with a kiss, then." Her fingertip traced in pink, she made a symbol in the air that seemed to trail fire briefly, before burning up-- and in the burning, so too did the mists finally fade. "I would linger for... further amusements, but this spell is in need of reagents, and I have perfect faith you will return to me soon with what I have requested; I would not keep my Captain waiting." There was a note of resignation in the words; she would have enjoyed a dalliance, but he had been right when he said this was no place for a tryst.

"And I don't have any time to waste," he said easily. 

Slipping the vial away on his person, he watched Dasia for a moment longer. He had seen the fire well enough, but he knew better than to question such things with the witch. There was no purpose in it. He would not get a straight answer. And neither did the answer matter. 

"I'll get whatchye need and bring it back here. With the seas as stormy as they are and the fuckin' trolls fightin' the Kul Tirans, they won't come near here. Right under their fuckin' noses."

He already started to leave, but stopped and glanced back at Dasia. "Ye will be here when I fuckin' need it, aye? Or are ye gonna pull some creepy shit and materialize on my ship when I got the eye?"

Her laughter was bright. "Here is well enough; I promised the riding of rough waters to another, I will be here on land for you to find." Dasia took a step away, not bothering to leave Karsteth with a linger glance-- she had what she wanted, and promise of his return.

Maybe they might have time then, maybe not, but she had smarting lips and heat to remember him by and that was enough.

As her gaze slid over the rock, she glanced to the mainland as well, and lifted a hand-- marks, inky and dark appeared on the skin in a rush as she felt the wind that blew from it, and the scent of magics that swirled within. "Oh, I will be here." Her smile grew sharp as she stepped between shadows of a tree, and seemed to disappear, only her words remaining. "Afterall, you brought me exactly where I need to be."

Karsteth watched as she stepped forward. He saw the blow of the breeze, and then he saw the shadows encompass her until she was not but an echo of her voice. He took in a deep breath of the ancient-scented land and sea - the blood and rotten earth of it all. 

"Right where ye need to fuckin' be," he murmured, repeating her sentiments. With a shake of his head, he turned fully and announced himself as he headed back to the White Widow, as the voices and sounds reached his ears once more.

"Get ready to make way, men! We're leavin' within the hour, repairs done or not!"

Part I | Part II | Part III

@thesunguardmg | @stormandozone 

[lordshaxxion]

Dragonlord AU - Conviction

welp. Here comes some good old heartfelt pain

The walk to the Vanguard Hall was silent, Kilgharrah making occasional chitters here and there to Edix in an attempt to drawn some kind of reaction from the distraught Warlock. Edix had wrapped the little dragon up in a blanket before he left his room and was marched to the Hall with Ikora leading the way. Things weren’t looking good and they were about to get even worse as they entered and saw Zavala talking to a small group of Titans.

As he was talking, he heard Ikora entering and clearing her throat. Looking up, the Commander saw a teary Edix holding a wiggling bundle in his arms and a very concerned-looking Ikora next to him, arms crossed. Whatever had transpired, it wasn’t good.

“Everyone leave. This is now a private matter of the Vanguard.” Ikora barked, voice carrying across the room and echoing as the staff and few Guardians quickly left and closed the great doors behind them. She gestured sharply for Edix to move to the war table and set the squirming bundle of blankets down. Once he had done so, he choked back a distressed sob before revealing Kilgharrah.

An audible noise left Zavala as he stared down at the infant dragon, eyes wide as he remained visibly calm otherwise. Cayde-6 was already asking questions in alarm.

“Is that what I think that is?!” He squawked, mouth lights flashing orange. “Where did you get that?! How did you get it into the Tower undetected?” He was in complete shock, the Exo hesitant to move closer to the little beast. It didn’t seem like it could have possibly been a living and breathing Ahamkara, it was so innocent, and yet there it was cleaning its scales and chirping at Edix.

The doors to the Hall banged open suddenly, a thunderstruck Lord Shaxx storming in and staring at the baby on the table.

“HOW THE HELL IS THERE ONE LEFT?!” He bellowed, staring at Zavala behind his helmet though everyone could tell his expression was one of fury. “How could we have possibly missed one?! It isn’t POSSIBLE!” He roared, voice filling the empty room and driving more tears to fall from Edix’s eyes.

“Evidently, Shaxx, you missed not one but two. Edix found the mother on Io. She called out to him through the Awoken mind.” Ikora said, almost snidely. The Commander and the Crucible Handler had prided themselves in their hunt of the manipulative beasts, Lord Shaxx bragging about it every so often in gesture to the skulls that hang as trophies in his area of the Tower. The comment only wound Shaxx up more as he clenched his great fists and stormed towards the quivering dragon, ready to smash it to a pulp in such rage no one in the room had seen either at all or for a very long time. Edix gave a cry and grabbed Kilgharrah, pulling him out of Shaxx’s reach.

“He’s just a baby! You can’t blame him for the things only a few Ahamkara did!” The Warlock shouted at the Titan, eyes filled with barely unshed tears as he cradled the dragon in his arms. No one had ever dared to raise their voices at Lord Shaxx, least of all Edix.

“Give me the dragon, boy, you don’t know what you’re doing!” Shaxx snarled, as the heat of Solar Light radiated from him. Edix shook his head.

“No! You can’t make me! I made a promise to look after him! I’m not breaking it! Not for you, not for anyone in this Tower!” Edix shouted. “Kilgharrah hasn’t hurt anyone! He’s just a baby!”

“Zavala! Tell him!” Shaxx snapped at his old friend, Zavala unusually silent and calm. “Zavala?”

All eyes turned to the Vanguard Commander, watching him stare at the dragon with eyes like a hawk.

“Edix. Explain.” He said quietly.

“I was running a mission on Io for Asher when I felt a presence in my mind. I followed it into a network of caverns beneath Io’s surface before I found an adult Ahamkara. She was ancient and she was a mother. This baby was cradled in her paws, but he was a stillborn. She asked me to care for him and I promised her that I would. She didn’t demand anything, nothing of this ‘great price’ everyone says the Ahamkara ask for. Only that I care for him.” Edix hesitated as he was explaining, taking a breath to steady himself. It still hurt to think about what had happened. “She gave the last of her life to bring him back, using part of my Light to help the process. I could feel her dying, and I could feel him living. I made a promise to the mother and I brought Kilgharrah back to the Tower with me to care for him.”

As Edix spoke, he spoke with conviction, with defiance and determination. When this Warlock made a promise, to anyone, he would do everything in his power to uphold it. Zavala could see the emotions in his face and the shining of his tears only reflected them. He had essentially raised this boy from a young resurrection, he knew Edix well. Now Zavala was faced with a massive dilemma. Kill the Ahamkara and lose the trust and respect he’d gained from Edix, or let him care for the Ahamkara and risk the safety of thousands of lives he’d worked so hard to save.

“The damned thing needs to be executed!” Shaxx snapped in the wake of Zavala’s silence.

“I am in agreement. We cannot allow a live Ahamkara, infant or not, to survive or reside here at the Tower. It is putting everything we have worked towards in peril." Ikora said firmly, arms crossed where she stood at her usual station around the war table.

“No, please. Zavala, please.” Edix pleaded, tears welling up again and streaking down his face. “Kilgharrah hasn’t hurt anyone! He couldn’t hurt anyone! I’m begging you, please don’t kill him!”

Zavala just watched Edix cry and beg, watching how close he held the Ahamkara to his chest. He had never felt such confliction in his long, long life. He cared for Edix greatly, he’d raised him after all, but the Ahamkara were a dangerous threat. More dangerous than the Fallen, than the Vex, than the Hive. Just allowing one to live threatened the safety of the City and it would only take one fully-grown Ahamkara to destroy everything and turn everyone against each other. It would destroy the City in a matter of days.

Zavala couldn’t allow it.

“The Ahamkara will be executed.” Zavala decreed with an air of finality. Edix stared at him before he burst into fresh tears. Anger, ugly and fierce, reared its head in him.

“You monster! You asshole! What the hell is wrong with you?!” Edix screamed, eyes burning with tears and body alight with the flames of the Dawnblade. “You can’t do this! He hasn’t done anything to hurt anyone! He wouldn’t!”

“You have five minutes to say goodbye before the creature is to be removed and imprisoned until we can execute it correctly.” Zavala said, trying to remain cold and indifferent on the outside. Inside, he was in turmoil. He hated seeing Edix cry and now he had just destroyed every ounce of trust the Warlock had placed in him. The Commander just turned to leave, his sentence delivered with conviction.

“You fucking asshole! You monster! You’re no better than what we fight against! You’re worse!” Edix screamed until his throat was raw, heaving sobs leaving him and lungs spasming as he sobbed. “You are blinded by hatred for things you know nothing about! You are a monster and a coward!”

Kilgharrah made a little noise and looked up at Edix, blinking. The poor thing was too young to understand, it hadn’t grown into the intelligence the Ahamkara were known and feared for. As Edix crumple to his knees, he held the dragon tighter to his chest and sobbed. Shaxx stood too close for comfort, the Warlock hissing a venomous ‘fuck off’ to the Titan. He could feel a little presence in his mind, feeling Kilgharrah nose around his face to explore the tears curiously. Edix’s Light and soul burned. In hatred for the Tower, in hatred for everything Guardians stood for if it meant the murder of an innocent life, in distress, in disgust at Zavala’s actions. His chest burned and ached as he cried, wheezing and coughing as his eyes were flooded and his nose ran.

The five minutes went by faster than Edix wanted them to, he was almost sure Shaxx had moved in before the time was up, and before he knew it Kilgharrah had been snatched from his arms. Edix cried out and watched as Shaxx held the squirming creature by the neck, biting back another sob and failing as the Ahamkara was carried out. He couldn’t breathe, everything hurt. Only Cayde came to his side and helped him to his feet, the Warlock pushing him away and glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes and a snotty nose.

“You… You didn’t do anything… You could have persuaded him otherwise!” He snapped, sniffing and glaring at Cayde as more tears kept coming. Cayde sighed, mouth lights glowing a faint orange with the imitated noise.

“You know I couldn’t, kid. You know Zavala’s opinions on these things, you grew up with them.”

“It’s all bullshit! It’s all lies!” Edix shouted at him. “Everything we know about the Ahamkara is wrong! Not all of them were manipulators! Not all of them corrupted! Zavala is blinded by his hatred for them!”

Cayde only sighed again and shook his head, crossing his arms. While he’d never been that close to Edix in his youth, he still cared deeply for him.

“Look, there is nothing I can do to change this.” Cayde said with an air of finality, starting to walk past Edix before slowing beside him. “But all I can say is that creature is going to be taken to the labs to be put down humanely.”

With that, Cayde continued out of the Hall and left Edix behind in his confusion. Why would Cayde tell him such a thing? Unless…

Edix looked down the corridors, checking the coast was clear before he had his Ghost, Spiro, break into the sealed lab. Cayde had given him that information so he could rescue Kilgharrah, and Edix seriously owed him a big one for it.

As the door opened with a soft hiss, Edix found Kilgharrah chained and muzzled on the cold metal table. There was initially no sign of life until the dragon shifted and squirmed sleepily. He’d been drugged with sedatives, but he wasn’t dead. Edix held in a relieved sob as he freed the dragon and picked him up, turning on his heel and running from the labs. There was nowhere on Earth he could go that would be safe. Only Io was safe for Kilgharrah now.

Edix ran for the Hangar, grateful for the cover of the late night and the lack of workers there as he broke into the consoles with Spiro’s help and summoned his ship. Alarms started to go off as the ship came around without the proper permissions, Edix transmatting inside and setting course for Io. They cleared Earth’s atmosphere in mere minutes, the jumpship having them arrive on Io in an hour. They were in the clear.

Asher Mir was working at his station in the strange twilight hours of Io, the Jovian moon’s night hardly a real night. Regardless, it provided him with enough light to continue with his work and that was all he needed. There were footsteps behind him, making him turn. The Awoken hadn’t been expecting visitors.

He turned with a poisonous quip ready on his tongue, his words dying as he saw Edix approaching. His helmet wasn’t on as it usually was, his long white hair falling freely around his shoulders. As the other Awoken approached, Asher could see tears streaming down his face. Then the researcher saw what the other was carrying. A dragon. An Ahamkara.

They sat together on a rock near Asher’s station, Edix crying quietly and the abrasive researcher trying his best to comfort him. The younger Warlock spoke quietly between sobs as Kilgharrah slept in his lap. He was terrified of the repercussions of breaking the young Ahamkara out before his execution, terrified of losing Kilgharrah because of his own carelessness. He was terrified of being hunted down by Guardians on Zavala’s orders. He was terrified of becoming an enemy of the Tower; it had been his home, the only thing he’d known for so long.

Asher just listened to him, sitting beside him with a hand on his back and a look of near-concern on his usually-scowling or frowning face. He knew the severity of the Ahamkara, he knew their history and the dangers they posed. Yet he also knew that Edix wouldn’t have done this unless it was in good conscience; he’d come to know his assistant very well over the years, and he knew that Edix rarely made impulse decisions or decisions at all that weren’t well thought out. He knew the importance of the promise Edix had made to the mother Ahamkara, knew the importance of Kilgharrah’s rescue.

There wasn’t much he could say to reassure Edix. Asher Mir was known for snappy quips and an abrasive, hostile attitude. He didn’t do comfort. All he could do was sit there and just hold Edix gently, both of them sat in silence as Kilgharrah slept peacefully.

[exit-is-everywhere]

The danger is that if we invest too much in developing AI and too little in developing human consciousness, the very sophisticated artificial intelligence of computers might only serve to empower the natural stupidity of humans.

While science fiction thrillers are drawn to dramatic apocalypses of fire and smoke, in reality we might be facing a banal apocalypse by clicking.

The economic system pressures me to expand and diversify my investment portfolio, but it gives me zero incentive to expand and diversify my compassion. So I strive to understand the mysteries of the stock exchange while making far less effort to understand the deep causes of suffering.

So we had better call upon our lawyers, politicians, philosophers and even poets to turn their attention to this conundrum: how do you regulate the ownership of data? This may well be the most important political question of our era.

Each of these three problems – nuclear war, ecological collapse, and technological disruption – is enough to threaten the future of human civilization. But taken together, they add up to an unprecedented existential crisis, especially because they are likely to reinforce and compound one another.

Yet it is precisely their genius for interpretation that puts religious leaders at a disadvantage when they compete against scientists. Scientists too know how to cut corners and twist the evidence, but in the end, the mark of science is the willingness to admit failure and try a different tack. That’s why scientists gradually learn how to grow better crops and make better medicines, whereas priests and gurus learned only how to make better excuses.

Human power depends on mass cooperation, and mass cooperation depends on manufacturing mass identities—and all mass identities are based on fictional stories, not on scientific facts or even on economic necessities.

Religions, rites, and rituals will remain important as long as the power of humankind rests on mass cooperation and as long as mass cooperation rests on belief in shared fictions.

As long as we don’t know whether absorption is a duty or a favour; what level of assimilation is required from immigrants; and how quickly host countries should treat them as equal citizens –we cannot judge whether the two sides are fulfilling their obligations.

If a million immigrants are law-abiding citizens, but one hundred join terrorist groups and attack the host country, does it mean that on the whole the immigrants are complying withthe terms of the deal, or violating it? If a third-generation immigrant walks down the street a thousand times without being molested, but once in a while some racist shouts abuse at her, does it mean that the native population is accepting or rejecting immigrants?

The less political violence in a particular state, the greater the public shock at an act of terrorism.

Morality doesn’t mean ‘following divine commands’. It means ‘reducing suffering’. Hence in order to act morally, you don’t need to believe in any myth or story. You just need to develop a deep appreciation of suffering. If you really understand how an action causes unnecessary suffering to yourself or to others, you will naturally abstain from it.

Questions you cannot answer are usually far better for you than answers you cannot question.

The world is becoming ever more complex, and people fail to realise just how ignorant they are of what’s going on. Consequently some who know next to nothing about meteorology or biology nevertheless propose policies regarding climate change and genetically modified crops, while others hold extremely strong views about what should be done in Iraq or Ukraine without being able to locate these countries on a map.

How is it possible to avoid stealing when the global economic system is ceaselessly stealing on my behalf and without my knowledge?

In a world in which everything is interconnected, the supreme moral imperative becomes the imperative to know. The greatest crimes in modern history resulted not just from hatred and greed, but even more so from ignorance and indifference.

Most of the injustices in the contemporary world result from large-scale structural biases rather than from individual prejudices, and our hunter-gatherer brains did not evolve to detect structural biases.

Even if you personally belong to a disadvantaged group, and therefore have a deep first-hand understanding of its viewpoint, that does not mean you understand the viewpoint of all other such groups. For each group and subgroup faces a different maze of glass ceilings, double standards, coded insults and institutional discrimination.

Should we adopt the liberal dogma and trust the aggregate of individual voters and customers? Or perhaps we should reject the individualist approach, and like many previous cultures in history empower communities to make sense of the world together? Such a solution, however, only takes us from the frying pan of individual ignorance into the fire of biased groupthink. Hunter-gatherer bands, village communes and even city neighbourhoods could think together about the common problems they faced. But we now suffer from global problems, without having a global community. Neither Facebook, nor nationalism nor religion is anywhere near creating such a community.

In fact, humans have always lived in the age of post-truth. Homo sapiens is a post-truth species, whose power depends on creating and believing fictions. Ever since the stone age, self-reinforcing myths have served to unite human collectives.

In practice, the power of human cooperation depends on a delicate balance between truth and fiction.

Humans have this remarkable ability to know and not to know at the same time. Or more correctly, they can know something when they really think about it, but most of the time they don’t think about it, so they don’t know it. If you really focus, you realise that money is fiction. But usually you don’t focus.

Truth and power can travel together only so far. Sooner or later they go their separate ways. If you want power, at some point you will have to spread fictions. If you want to know the truth about the world, at some point you will have to renounce power. You will have to admit things – for example about the sources of your own power – that will anger allies, dishearten followers or undermine social harmony. Scholars throughout history faced this dilemma: do they serve power or truth? Should they aim to unite people by making sure everyone believes in the same story, or should they let people know the truth even at the price of disunity? The most powerful scholarly establishments – whether of Christian priests, Confucian mandarins or communist ideologues – placed unity above truth. That’s why they were so powerful.

One of the greatest fictions of all is to deny the complexity of the world, and think in absolute terms of pristine purity versus satanic evil.

Whenever you see a movie about an AI in which the AI is female and the scientist is male, it's probably a movie about feminism rather than cybernetics.

Many pedagogical experts argue that schools should switch to teaching “the four Cs” – critical thinking, communication, collaboration, and creativity.

Due to the growing pace of change you can never be certain whether what the adults are telling you is timeless wisdom or outdated bias.

You might have heard that we are living in the era of hacking computers, but that's hardly half the truth. In fact, we are living in the era of hacking humans.

The god Krishna then explains to Arjuna that within the great cosmic cycle each being possesses a unique ‘dharma’, the path you must follow and the duties you must fulfil. If you realise your dharma, no matter how hard the path may be, you enjoy peace of mind and liberation from all doubts.

Most successful stories remain open-ended.

A crucial law of storytelling is that once a story manages to extend beyond the audience's horizon, its ultimate scope matters little.

A wise old man was asked what he learned about the meaning of life. "Well", he answered, "I have learned that I am here on earth in order to help other people. What I still haven't figured out is why the other people are here.

Most people who go on identity quests are like children going treasure hunting. They find only what their parents have hidden for them in advance.

Almost anything can be turned into a ritual, by giving mundane gestures like lighting candles, ringing bells or counting beads a deep religious meaning.

Of all rituals, sacrifice is the most potent, because of all the things in the world, suffering is the most real. You can never ignore it or doubt it.

Just as in ancient times, so also in the twenty-first century, the human quest for meaning all too often ends with a succession of sacrifices.

Similarly, you can find plenty of Bernie Sanders supporters who have a vague belief in some future revolution, while also believing in the importance of investing your money wisely. They can easily switch from discussing the unjust distribution of wealth in the world to discussing the performance of their Wall Street investments.

If by 'free will' you mean the freedom to do what you desire – then yes, humans have free will. But if by 'free will' you mean the freedom to choose what to desire – then no, humans have no free will.

The process of self-exploration begins with simple things, and becomes progressively harder. At first, we realise that we do not control the world outside us. I don’t decide when it rains. Then we realise that we do not control what’s happening inside our own body. I don’t control my blood pressure. Next, we understand that we don’t even govern our brain. I don’t tell the neurons when to fire. Ultimately we should realise that we do not control our desires, or even our reactions to these desires.

Many people, including many scientists, tend to confuse the mind with the brain, but they are really very different things. The brain is a material network of neurons, synapses, and biochemicals. The mind is a flow of subjective experiences, such as pain, pleasure, anger, and love.

- Yuval Noah Harari, 21 Lessons for the 21st Century

[hellostarlight20]

Tau Theta 15/16

Yeah, so one more chapter after this!

From wikipedia: In ancient times, tau was used as a symbol for life or resurrection, whereas the eighth letter of the Greek alphabet, theta, was considered the symbol of death.

Part of We Are Never Alone, but can be read as a stand alone 50th rewrite. (Established Ten/Rose relationship, no Master arc, Rose and Martha are BFFs, the River Song arc was taken care of, love, shagging, and family. There, you’re caught up!)

Tau Theta: Rose thought she was meeting her daughter’s new girlfriend when she blinked and ended up on Karn right as the Eighth Doctor was about to drink from the chalice the Sisterhood of Karn offered him.

Time is in flux, people are trying to change the Doctor’s timeline, and Rose refuses to allow any of that. Even if she has to fight all her Doctors to stop it.

Awesome pict below by @fadewithfury for the equally awesome @aeonish, both of whom agreed to let me use it for this story. A million thanks to Mrs. Bertucci for the beta!

AO3 and TSP

15

The Doctor looked up at The Moment. The consciousness, or his consciousness, he couldn’t tell. Or didn’t want to.

 The air in the cabin grew thick and heavy, heavier than it had been when he first walked in carrying the box that possessed the power to destroy all of creation. He moved through it like treacle, each step a struggle, each breath a task, each thought worse than the one before.

 “I don’t want to destroy all of creation.” The words shot through the cabin, but barely left his lips for how quietly he spoke them.

 In the cabin, with time slowing around the rest of the occupants, he saw his next regeneration look at the younger version of his wife. So young, but in her eyes, watching her Doctor, he saw the same fire in the older woman who fought him, for him, on Karn. That woman watched him with heartbreaking understanding, lips slightly parted, hand just starting to reach out for him.

Despite temptation, he didn’t look at anyone else. Merely returned his gaze to the Moment, who watched him with those same eyes he longed to see every day.

 “I know you don’t, my Doctor.” The Moment, the image of his wife, reached out to touch him, but her hand never made contact. “You are so much more than the memories you possess—or have forgotten. You are exactly what the universe needs to survive.”

 Time slowed, stopped. The Doctor idly wondered if it did so across galaxies or just here. He hoped the Moment, who seemed to have that kind of power, stopped all time. Stopped the Daleks from killing and the Time Lords from destroying anything that remained.

 Stopped the killing, even for a moment, the senseless destruction and the blind rage. He closed his eyes against the fall of Arcadia and Davros’s ship flying into the jaws of the Nightmare Child. He’d tried. Even Davros, he’d tried to save.

 The Doctor failed. Every time.

 Opening his eyes, he was unable to look around the cabin, at his future selves, at his selves who remembered this moment—pun fully intended thank you—and those who remembered a different man. He didn’t look at his daughter, the smart blonde who took after her mother, or at his wife.

 Definitely not at his wife.

 “Why show me this?” The words cut like knives along his throat, deep into his hearts. “Why show me these futures?”

 The Moment tilted her head, so much like the very real woman her image portrayed. “Why do you think?”

 “I don’t have time for your games!” He shouted, furious enough to throw the box across the room. It blinked out of mid-air and reappeared directly in front of him. Damn cheeky thing.

 “You should treat your creations with more care, my Doctor.” The Moment tsked. “I’ve waited a very long time to see you again.”

 “You said that before.” He narrowed his eyes at her, all too aware of the other sets of eyes, now frozen in time, yet still boring into his back.

 The Doctor didn’t need to look to know they couldn’t see him, that the stoppage of time affected all of them as well as the rest of whatever the Moment wanted. Still, Rose’s presence burned through him, so close. Never close enough.

 “I said a lot of things.” The Moment winked. “But when you threw yourself into the Looms, all your memories from before—vanished.”

 “Before?” He dug deep into his memory, spotty though it was in this regeneration. Images of a previous life tickled his mind’s eye, but even his impressive talents couldn’t make those images—memories or dreams or visions–clear.

 “It doesn’t matter.” Defeated, the Doctor waved a hand in dismissal. “None of that matters now.”

 Drawn to his wife’s time-frozen face, he swallowed against the weight of grief. His hands cupped her face before he realized he moved. Fighting tears, choking grief, heavy with resignation, the Doctor kissed her softly on her slightly-parted lips.

 “You’ve given me the hope I needed to get through this War, my wife.” The Doctor brushed her hair from her face, an odd move with time halted around her. “No wonder I fell in love with you.”

 Clearing his throat, eyes blurry with tears, he took another breath to collect himself. To look at Jenny, at a younger version of his wife—he couldn’t bear to call her by name when he’d never see her now. Pressing his lips once more to the Rose he met eons ago, hours for her, not quite yet for him, the Doctor stepped back.

 “I’m ready.” He met the Moment’s curious-sad-ancient eyes. “I know what I have to do.”

 “Oh?” She perked up as if they played a game. “What is that, then?”

 “Don’t be stupid,” he snapped. “It’s unbecoming of a consciousness I created.”

 The Doctor wasn’t entirely sure where those words came from, but they settled, right and true, in his hearts. He pushed it all aside.

 “I am Theta. Death. It seems that blasted childhood name had a meaning after all. Eight. Theta.” He looked from the Moment to the box. Still the Moment, he supposed.

 “I was created to end this War.” The Doctor looked at his hands as if they were literally stained with blood. He snorted. “’Lord Krsna said: I am terrible time the destroyer of all beings in all worlds, engaged to destroy all beings in this world; of those heroic soldiers presently situated in the opposing army, even without you none will be spared.’”

 He met the Moment’s gaze. “’I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.’ No matter how you translate it, no matter its origins, it means the same. I created myself to end the Last Great Time War.”

 And then it was there, the words, the memory he didn’t remember but tumbled out anyway. “That’s why I jumped into the Looms. I knew what Rassilon planned even then, before the Time Lords were stupid enough to bring him back. Knew what he was capable of.”

 “The Other’s name was banished from the records,” the Moment said as if he didn’t know that. Hadn’t wondered what someone could possibly do to warrant such a punishment, even in Time Lord society. “Do you know why?” She didn’t give him the chance to answer. “Because you didn’t want anyone knowing you when you returned. That’s why Rassilon hunted you even as you fought. That’s why the upper echelon of Time Lords spurned you.”

 “If I didn’t know who I was, how did they?”

 “Faint echoes of Time. They remain even on Gallifrey. Rassilon left records only the highest of government have access to.”

 The Doctor laughed. “I find it difficult to believe that Time Lords can keep a secret that big, that damning, for this long.”

 “It’s a curse, never to be spoken.” She tilted her head, a faint smile teasing her generous lips.

 Lips he wanted to know intimately. As if she read his mind—entirely possible—her tongue teased the corner of her mouth, a move he’d watched his wife do. A move that, even with their short time together, drove him to the edge of sanity.

 “Are you familiar with the Earth meaning of Tau?” The Moment’s question caught him off guard.

 “Of course.” He eyed the creature or consciousness or his own past awareness. “What does an archaic Earth term have to do with me or you or this Time War?”

 “You focus so much on your present life. The Doctor, always willing to help. The man who doesn’t give second chances—or won’t.” The Moment frowned. “I get confused, past or present, now or then?” She grinned again and winked. “You run from your past always moving. Theta. Death. But Theta is closely linked to Tau. Life. Resurrection.”

 “Also time, a circle constant, shear stress in continuum mechanics, particle physics, astronomy, a whole host of other time constants—” The Doctor stopped. “Oh.”

 The Moment grinned, but her eyes remained sad. “Yes. Oh.”

 The Doctor waved it away. “On Gallifrey, it means nothing.”

 “Theta does. You forget, Doctor, I know all. I see all. I am all. I can see the whole of time and space. Every single atom of every existence everywhere.”

 He’d heard that before, from the same lips if not the same being. As they had then, the words sent a shiver of dread-hope-love down his spine. “So you’re saying I’ll live.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Wonderful.”

 His gaze drifted to his wife. He had to curl his hands into fists to stop from reaching for her. “I’ll lose her, won’t I.” It wasn’t a question.

 “Doctor.” He looked to the Moment and just like that, forgot what he’d just said. “That’s your punishment. You go on.”

 “I don’t want to,” he admitted.

 His chest ached, hearts pounding as if he’d just lost something. Someone. His world, his universe. The Doctor looked around the cabin but saw nothing beyond the abandon crates and the Moment before him.

 Not even his TARDIS stood in this room, silent witness to his terrible deed.

 “You never did say why you chose that form. Who are you supposed to be?”

 Her smile broke and with it something inside him. “To help you chose. It’s an ancient body—and so new.”

 The Doctor looked down at the box, the Moment, the big red button beckoning and repelling, cajoling and threatening and—

 He lay his hand on it. Eyes closed, wishing Romana had been here so he could see her one last time. Her voice still rang in the air. It hadn’t been long since they’d signed off, if he called her back, she’d still be there, the guards wouldn’t have had time to break in.

 “All these years, fighting with no hope, no promise of a future.” He looked at his hands, expecting—another one of his or someone else’s or he didn’t know. A hand to hold, maybe. “I should’ve died a thousand times over. Maybe I did. Or maybe that’s my punishment. Never dying.”

 “Everything must come to dust. All things. Everything dies. The Time War ends.”

 The Doctor looked up at the Moment and frowned. “I know those words.” They shuddered over his skin, familiar and new, just as the voice that said them.

 “It’s your choice, Doctor.”

 “It always was.” He paused. “Why aren’t you stopping me? Why aren’t you offering me another way? If the Moment has a consciousness—” he nodded to her— “which you clearly are, then why are you condoning genocide?”

 “There’s always another way. But is that way better? If you don’t end this War, my Doctor, will the Daleks ever stop? Will the Time Lords?”

 “No. They won’t. The Time Lords brought back Rassilon and who knows who else. I’ve heard rumors they brought back the Master, but Romana never found any solid evidence.”

 He didn’t know what he’d have done if those rumors had been true. His oldest friend. His greatest enemy. What would the Doctor have done if he found the Master, revived, another set of regenerations bestowed upon him?

 “They won’t stop. They’ll follow Rassilon to the end of time and destroy every single universe if that’s what he wants just so they can survive. The Daleks are no better. Two evenly matched nightmares in a never-ending battle.”

 The Doctor closed his eyes against the destruction playing in his mind’s eye. Even now, with the Daleks attacking Gallifrey, it’d never stop. “The Time Lords won’t stop until they win. In that respect, they’re just like the Daleks…” he trailed off. “Never ending battle.”

 “You can destroy them. Yes. Or you can lock them in eternal battle.”

 He looked up at the Moment, surprised at her words, the words echoing in his brain, his hearts. “I can time lock them, but what of the other species? They don’t deserve to be caught in that.”

 “I am the Moment. Every moment. I’m not just a big red button you know.” She winked at him. “You wanted one to make this easier for you, but I’m afraid this isn’t the easy choice. I’m more than the sum of my parts, Doctor.”

 “The Universe will end if someone doesn’t make a stand,” he said slowly. “I am that someone.”  He wasn’t sure where his next words came from, but he knew deep down in his hearts, they were right.  “The Universe needs a Doctor.”

 “Is that your choice then?” She watched him with such sad eyes, the Doctor wondered what she knew. Saw. More importantly, he wondered who she was.

 “The other species don’t deserve to be caught in a war they didn’t want.” He looked at his hands. Empty hands. No one to hold his hand now. “Trapping the Time Lords and the Daleks in the Time Lock will stop them, will save the universe, the multiverse, and keep all of creation safe from two mad species.”

 The Doctor paused, alone in this cabin with only a consciousness he’d created untold eons ago in another life, another body, as another person he didn’t remember. “I’m ready.”

 “Are you?” Her eyebrow raised and her head tilted and an odd familiarity tingled over his skin.

 “For death?” he snorted. “As I’ll ever be.” The Doctor looked around again, half expecting—someone—to be standing beside him. Reaching for him. But he was very much alone. “Time to go on, I suppose. Alone.”

 “You are never alone, my Doctor. Remember that.”

[tsaomengde]

What Is Owed (2)

(Part 1)

           Alia tends to spend her nights in alleyways in the bakers’ quarter, because the heat of the ovens within the buildings radiates pleasantly through their exterior walls.  To reach the Palace, she and her silent escort pass out of the bakers’ quarter – through the gently floating domiciles of the aristrocrats’ way, a pleasant breeze making the buildings bob slightly against their tethers – down Merchant Lane, its midnight stalls offering imported, obscene art, fried, sugared dough, bolts of hand-woven fabric, fortunes, games – past the purple-tinted feytorches of the Pleasure District, its occupants selling precisely one good in all its infinite variations – beneath the airsteel-lined glass domes of the moss farmers’ crop enclosures – around the great circular depressions of the Stone Circuses, relics of less civilized times – and finally, up the Royal Hill, following narrow streets past guard posts and dwellings both afloat and earthbound.

           The Palace of Randra is a gigantic floating fortress, its limestone walls built high and sheer, its towers all straight lines and harsh angles.  Lights burn within its innumerable windows.  Sigils of protection and warning are carved into every one of its surfaces, giving it a mottled, chaotic affect. The airsteel foundations threaten to carry it off into the sky, but it is moored to the Royal Hill by means of three enormous chains, each of the dozens of links the size of a horse, forged in the pre-national times.  Only twice in recorded history have those chains been cast off and the Palace guided into war, serving as a mobile siege engine the size of a mountain.

           Alia remembers the second time quite well.

           Tonight, however, the Palace floats quietly, its gates opened, stair-doors resting against the ground, inviting.  Of course, no one enters without business or an invitation, and those doors are well-guarded.  But her escort identifies themselves and her, and their business, and they are ushered through.

           She bids her escort farewell with a smirk as they hand her off to a flock of servants, garbed in the silver livery of the King, who are waiting eagerly for her just within the arch of the First Gate. The head servant, a rail-thin, sallow-faced woman who identifies herself as Nadia, shakes her head at Alia and clucks. “You are summoned by His August Majesty,” she says, “but you are unfit in your present state to appear before him. You must come with us and let us make you ready.”

           Alia rolls her eyes at Nadia.  “The King has seen me in states far worse than this,” she says. “If he wishes my presence, let him receive me as I am.”

           This draws a surprisingly loud harrumph.  “There are rules,” Nadia says.  “And it is my part to ensure all follow them, old acquaintance of His August Majesty or no. This way.”

           With a sigh, Alia shuffles after Nadia.  She has sobered quite a bit, but she is still feeling too drunk and too tired to want to put up a fight.  If this fretful busybody wants to bathe her and give her clean clothes, she has no serious objections.

           There is indeed a bath, already drawn.  It is pleasantly hot on those parts of her that were not bathed in the Water of Yeda.  The servants, of course, take her age as a sign of fragility and scrub at her tentatively, as though they were cleaning a babe; she snaps at them several times not to worry about hurting her and just to get it done.  Finally, she seizes an ivory comb from the one who is unsuccessfully attempting to deal with the tangled mess of her hair.  She rakes the comb down her back and arms, hard enough to break the skin of any ordinary person, and when they see it has no effect whatsoever, they stop treating her as though she is going to break.

           Nadia, who left at the start of the bath to arrange for clothing in Alia’s size, returns midway through.  She takes one look at Alia’s hair, which is still an impenetrable nest of grayed kinks even when soaked, and begins to berate the poor girl given that unfortunate duty.  Alia interrupts her.  “Spare this one your petty displeasure,” she says.  “Fetch shears and a razor.  It’s more than like to be filled with lice in any event.”

           This being done, she is dried, and presented with a shift and a dress.  Rather than rebuke the woman with the items in question, Alia turns her sneer on Nadia. “As you insisted on this farce,” she says, “you will bring me trousers, an under-shirt, a doublet, and boots.  I am a soldier, not a maid.  And though needs must I surrender it to His August Majesty’s guards, you will also fetch me a blade.  I will not go before him unarmed like a merchant or administrator.”

           Nadia scowls, but obeys.  Clothing is presented to Alia’s satisfaction.  A short, curved blade in a leather scabbard is found and given to her.  A mirror is brought forth, and Alia examines herself in it.  With mild surprise, she thinks that she looks like herself. Older, and thinner, but the effect is nevertheless startling.

           “Follow me,” Nadia says, once Alia gives the sign that she is now ready.

           She lets Nadia lead her through the cold stone hallways, past walls covered in the colorful tapestries of Randra’s noble houses, past checkpoints manned by cold-faced guards, past libraries and armories and kitchens and sleeping quarters, until finally they stand before the great golden doors of the throne room.  Royal guards, clad in ceremonial, gilded airsteel plate – the gilding both for effect, and to keep the armor’s wearers from drifting off the ground – stand to either side of the doors, halberds held at the ready.  One of them extends a mailed hand, and Alia draws her short blade and places it there for him to take.

           “His August Majesty King Stryga the First, Sovereign of all Randra, Peacemaker and Justice-Bringer, will now see you,” Nadia says, and the doors open before Alia.

           The doors close behind her in that vast, unlit hall, and she is alone with the King.

           Alia looks at the man sitting stiffly in the hovering throne, the seat kept earthbound by means of a golden chain.  The only illumination in the entire room, a single dim dwimmerlight of bluish-white, hovers above his right shoulder.  His body is no longer powerful beneath his voluminous white robes of state, but he still has a dangerous air to him, a sense of competence.  His eyes are bright, his skin like dark copper, his expression stern.  His circlet is made of bright silver.

           “Alia,” he says, his voice deep and controlled.

           Alia drops to one knee, the movement only a little stiff. “Your August Majesty,” she says.  “Sovereign of All Randra, Peacemaker –”

           He cuts her off, speaking in the soldiers’ cant.  “Oh, stop that nonsense, you ancient cow.”

           She looks up at him and grins.  “First ‘hoary slattern’ – you can thank your men in the Palace Guard for that one – and now ‘ancient cow?’  My guess is that you need something from me, and thus far I’ve not been persuaded to feel generous about it.”

           “I like ‘hoary slattern,’” Stryga says.  “For such a noble tongue, Fillorel has quite the repertoire of excellent insults.  Get up off your knee and let an old friend have an embrace.”

           Alia gets to her feet, Stryga comes down from his throne, and they clasp one another fiercely.  “I wish you had let me know that your wanderings had brought you back to Randra,” Stryga says after they separate.  “I would have given you a room here in my humble house, rather than inflict you on my poor citizens.”

           She slaps him lightly across his chest, an act which probably bears the death sentence in any other context.  “Perhaps that is precisely why I didn’t tell you.  Perhaps I prefer the streets to houses, even ones as nice as this.  And, once again, I feel it necessary to point out that if you have a favor to ask, you are not predisposing me to be agreeable.”

           Stryga sighs.  “Old habits, like old soldiers, are the hardest to kill, Alia.  We spent so many years insulting one another…”

           “I know.  How did you find out I was here?”

           “My corps of spies, of course.  They are always bringing me potentially useful tidbits in an attempt to curry favor.  One of them recognized the sigil on your face.  How many wandering beggar women are there bearing the mark of Yeda?”

           “Your soldiers thought it was Grond’s.”

           “The sketch I commissioned of you so my men would know whom they hunted showed you with Grond’s.  By the time I noticed, it had already been disseminated amongst the troops.”  Stryga shrugs.  “The artist made an understandable mistake.  They are quite similar.  And you are now here, so it matters little.”

           Alia crosses her arms over her chest.  “Now, Stryga.  Third time pays for all.  What do you want from me?”

           Stryga draws his full lips into a thin line.  He walks slowly back to the throne, seats himself in it.  When he looks at her again, she can feel the difference in him.  Now he is the King, and before he speaks again she already knows it will not be in the soldiers’ cant.

           “Randra,” he says, “has need of you, Alia the Steelblooded.  To you must I entrust the protection of that which is to me most cherished – my thirdson, Prince Andral.”

           Feeling herself stiffen slightly, Alia lays a hand on her empty scabbard.  “I am not a soldier of your realm, Sire,” she replies.  “No oath have I sworn to you or to your throne.  Well do you know who I am and what I have done.  Still you would do this thing?”

           “Even so.”  Stryga gestures around them.  “The wealth of Randra is not in farming, husbandry, or the arts.  Our prosperity we owe solely to one thing: our airsteel, mined from Mount Morrara.  The other powers of the world covet it, and many pay us pure gold for it.  But of what I now must tell you, I hereby swear you to secrecy. To no other soul are you to reveal it, lest your name be disgraced and you be forever known as recreant amongst us. Swear you this thing to me?”

           “I so swear it,” Alia responds.

           Stryga nods solemnly.  “The mines produce less every year.  Nowhere else in the world is this precious thing to be found, and now its veins begin to run dry.  Against such an eventuality, my predecessors and I have set a stockpile, accumulated over the decades.  But the other powers of our continent, by and large, have all that for which they are willing to pay – or have all of that of which we are willing to give.  For mark me: we keep the best and purest ore for ourselves, and wish for none to equal us in the skies.”

           “If this stockpile is to be the last of the airsteel traded to fill your coffers, then,” Alia hazards, “then it must be traded to those places across the ocean, where the metal is yet surpassing rare.”

           “You have the right of it.”

           “What has this to do with your thirdson?”

           Stryga gestures to the east.  “The ocean is the demesne of Oalla.  They control the ports, and they lay rightful claim to the waves and all that sail upon them – or above them.  We must make alliance or make war, and I have had my fill of war – and there is a noblewoman of the royal line in Oalla, of marriageable age.”

           “You command a host,” Alia points out.  “Soldiers sworn to carry out your will.  What need is there for an old soldier, long in the tooth and deep in her cups, to be your thirdson’s shield?”

           “There is trust between us, of old.”  Stryga steeples his fingers.  “Trust, and the blood-price I am yet owed.”

           Alia narrows her eyes.  “Am I to be his shield, or your tool?”

           “A shield is a tool of sorts.  And more than one may wield it.”

           “Be straight with me,” she says, switching back to the cant. “You must have other people capable of this task, and more competent to do it.  You would call on my debt for this?”

           “I would,” Stryga replies in like manner.  “It is simple, Alia: having you there, when he takes this journey, will be the closest thing to my being there myself.  That is why I want you for this.  All things will be quit between us if you agree and deliver him to Oalla to be married.”

           “And then I can go back to drinking myself to sleep at night in the streets?”

           “If that is truly how you want to spend your days? Yes.”

           Alia closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

           “When do we leave?”