#that terrible misfortune will follow you until you return said piece back from where you stole it

[shenzi-hemlock]

Unfortunately this is AI. I’ve actually been to this national park and while it is definitely gorgeous and a stunning site to view, it does not look like this. This is clearly a piece of wood that is still wood and has not fossilized. That’s what that national park is, they call it petrified wood but it is fossilized. And the fossilization process does not express colors like in its natural formulation.

Sad that people would be dazzled by neat rainbow colors and then be potentially let down if hey were visited that park. It’s a lot more red, browns, tans, oranges, and creams than anything blue, purple, or green.

Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona 😲

[lailoken]

‘Dark and Demon Dogs’

“Haunting the coastline from the Wash to the Deben and beyond, and inland along the Peddars Way into the Brecklands, on marshland roads and mudflats, through the Fens and into the Broads, pads the ancient terror known as Black Shuck. For many hundreds of years the legend of the ghostly black hound has been kept alive and is probably the best known of all East Anglian spectres, still appearing to people today. He is typically seen as a huge, great, black shaggy hound, with blazing red eyes and dragging rattling chains behind him, instilling terror into all he comes upon and considered a portent of impending death or doom by most. Although generally called Black Shuck, he is known by many other names too; the Galleytrot, Old Scarfe, Owd Rugman, Shug Monkey and the Hateful Thing being some, although some form of Shuck or Shuggy is most common. Nor is he always a large black hound, appearing as anything from the size of a Labrador (shrinking into a cat!), a white rabbit in Thetford, to a calf or a donkey and even a monkey on a few occasions. Sometimes he was invisible, only his fierce breath, padding feet, fearful howls or the clanking of his chains giving evidence of his presence. Sometimes he could be seen without his head, but always with his glowing eyes appearing in the middle of where his head should be. One tale from Garveston in Norfolk goes;

‘They du speak of a dog that walks regular. They call him Skeff and his eyes are as big as saucers and blaze wi' fire. He is fair as big as a small wee pony and his coat is all skeffy-like, shaggy coat across, like an old sheep. He has a lane, and a place out of which he come, and he vanish when be bev gone far enough.’

Another informant from the village of Clopton, Suffolk, reported, 'a thing with two saucer eyes', on the road to Woolpit. It would not move out of his way but grew larger and larger as it breathed: 'I shall want you within a week'. The man died the next day.

One Christmas day in the middle of the 19th. Century, Black Shuck pushed against a small, blind boy who was standing on Thetford Bridge with his older sister. The little boy plaintively asked his sister to send the big dog away, but his sister assured him that there was no dog anywhere near them. However, the terrified boy insisted that there was, and that it was trying to push him into the water to drown him. The sister then felt the poor boy being carried away from her; she realised then that what he could feel, and she could not see, must be the terrible Black Shuck that she had heard so much about. Just as her little brother was about to be pushed into the water, she dragged him back from the edge and, hand- in-hand, they rushed off back to their waiting parents at home.

Villagers in the Waveney Valley round about Geldeston call it the ‘Hateful Thing', or the 'Churchyard or Hell-beast'. One old village woman claimed that she saw it one night on the road between Gillingham and Geldeston. She tells the story in the following words;

'It was after I bad been promised to Josh that I saw the Hateful Thing. We met Mrs S. and she started to walk with us. I beard something like a dog running pit-pat-pit- pat-pit-pat. "I wonder what that dog wants", I said to Mrs S. I was walking between Josh and Mrs S. and I lay hold on Mrs S's. arm and she say "It's in front of us; look, there it be." Just in front was what looked like a big, black dog; but it wasn't a dog at all; it was the Hateful Thing and it betokened some great misfortune. It kept on until we came to the churchyard, when it went right through the wall and we saw it no more'.

In Norfolk, Neatishead Lane, near Barton Broad, is a favourite walk of Shuck, as is the cliff path from Beeston, near Sheringham to Overstrand. This recalls the old adjuration in the legend of St. Margaret;

‘Still be though still,

Poorest of all, stern one,

Nor shalt thou, Old Shuck,

Moot with me no more.

But fly, sorrowful thing,

Out of mine eyesight,

And dive thither where thou man

May damage no more.’

A more humorous tale involves the grounding of Noah's Ark on Mulbarton Common, south of Norwich. Scoffers had better not go to Mulbarton. When one village elder was heckled on the point, he replied with some heat;

‘Thass trew! Trew as I stand bere. Where else could it ba' grounded? Aren't this the highest bit o' ground for miles around? When Ole Nick see the Ark be got inter a poont (punt), an' curled his tail up under the thwart and come rowin' around jest as Noah had opened the winder to let the dove in. And Nick sings out: "Mornin' Cap'n Noah. Nice mornin'arter the rain". But ole Noah he sees Nick's tail a-curled up under the thwart an' be sings out: “I know you. You're Owd Shuck! You goo to Hell". And bangs the winder down'.

However, perhaps the most famous accounts of the legend are to be found in Holinshed's Chronicle', an ambitious history of England which was updated to include contemporary events, and a pamphlet entitled A Straunge and Terrible Wunder' written by the Rev. Abraham Fleming, Rector of St. Pancras Church. Both accounts were published in 1577, shortly after the events recorded therein. According to Holinshed's Chronicle;

‘On Sundaie the fourth of August (1577), belween the houres of none and ten of the clocke in the forenone whilest the minister was reading the second lesson in the Parish church of Bliborough (Blythburgh), a towne in Suffolke, a strange and terrible tempest of lightening and thunder strake through the wall of the same church into the ground almost a yard deepe, drave downe all the people on that side above twentie persons, then venting the wall up to the venstre, cleft the doore, and returning to the steeple, rent the timber, brake the chimes, and fled towards Bongie (Bungay), a towne six miles off. The people that were stricken downe were found groueling more than balfe an boure after.......". At Bungay the storm "wroong in sunder the wiers and wheels of the clocks, slue two men which sat in the belfrie, when the other were at the procession or suffrages and scorched an other which hardlie escaped.'

However, Fleming gives the account as starting in Bungay church and includes the infamous Black Shuck;

‘Sunday, being the fourth of this August, in ye yeer of our Lord 1577, to the amazing and singular astonishment of the present bebolders, and abhsent bearers, at a certain towne called Bungay, not past tenne miles distant from the citie of Norwiche, there fell from heaven an exceeding great and terrible tempest sodein and violent..... There were assembled at the same season, to hear divine service and common prayer, according to order, in the parish church (St. Mary's) of the said towne of Bungay, the people thereabouts inhabiting, who were witnesses of the straungeness, the rarenesse and sodenesse of the storm, consisting of rain violently falling, fearful flashes of lightning and terrible cracks of thunder, which came with such unwonted force and power, that to the perceiving of the people...the church did as it were quake and stagger, which struck into the hearts of those that were present, such a sore and sodain feare, that they were in a manner robbed of their right wits.

Immediately hereupon, there appeared in a most horrible similitude and likenesse to the congregation then and there present, a dog as they might discern it, of a black colour; at the sight whereof, together with the feareful flashes of fire which then were seene, moved such admiration in the minds of the assemblie that they thought doomes day was already come.

This black dog, or the divel in such a likenesse (God he knoweth al who worketh all), running all along down the body of the church with great swiftnesse, and incredible haste, among the people, in a visible fourm and shape, passed between two persons, as they were kneeling upon their knees, and occupied in prayer as it seemed, wrung the necks of them bothe in one instant clene backward, in somuch that even at a moment where they kneeled, they strangely died.'

After reflecting somewhat on the wrath of God, he continues;

‘There was at ye same time another wonder wrought; for the same black dog, still continuing and remaining in one and the selfsame shape, passing by another man of the congregation in the church, gave bim such a gripe on the back, that therewith all he was presently withdrawen together and strunk up, as it were a piece of lither scorched in a hot fire; or as the mouth of a purse or bag, drawen together with a string. The man albeit he was in so straunge a taking, dyed not, but as it is thonght is yet alive; whiche thing is mervalous in the eyes of men, und offereth much matter of amasing the minde.

Meanwhile, the Clerk of the church, who had gone outside to clean the guttering, was thrown to the ground during a violent clap of thunder; and at the same time, the wires and wheels of the church clock were 'wrung in sunder and broken in pieces.' Inside the church, the Curate exhorted to prayer and 'comforted the people' until the frightening manifestation of the black hound had passed away, leaving behind it marks on the stones and church door 'which are marvellously renten and torne, ye marks as it were of his clawes or talans.'

According to Fleming, next, on the same morning, in the church of Blythburgh, about twelve miles from Bungay;

'the like thing entred, in the same shape and similitude, where, placing himself upon a maine balke or beum, whereon same ye Rood did stand, sodainly he gave a swinge downe throngh ye church, and there also, as before, slew two men and a lad & burned the hand of another person that was there amang the rest of the company, of whom divers wus blustled. This mischief thus wrought, he flew with wonderful force to no litule feare of the assembly, out of the church in a hideons and bellish likeness.'

The marks of his talons, burned into the inside of the north door of the church, can still be seen today.

Interestingly, archaeologists have recently discovered the skeleton of a massive dog that would have stood 7 feet tall on its hind legs, in the ruins of Leiston Abbey in Suffolk, close to both Bungay and Blythburgh. The remains of the massive dog, which is estimated to have weighed 200 pounds, were found just a few miles from the two churches where Black Shuck killed the worshippers. It appears to have been buried in a shallow grave at precisely the same time as Shuck is said to have been on the loose in this instance.

Coming forward in time, there is a legend of a black dog too, at Blickling Hall, Norfolk. In the 19th century, alterations on the Hall were being made by Lord and Lady Lothian, by the demolition of some partitions in order to form a dining-room;

‘I wish these young people would not pull down the partitions', said an old woman in the village to the local clergyman. Why so?' 'Oh, because of the dog. Don't you know that when A. was fishing in the lake, he caught an enormous fish and that, when it was landed, a great black dog came out of its mouth? They never could get rid of that dog, who kept going round and round in circles inside the house, till they sent for a wise man from London, who opposed the straight lines of the partitions to the lines of the circles and so quieted the dog. But if these young people pull down the partitions, they will let the dog loose again, and there's not a wise man in all London could lay that dog now'.’

This tale is interesting in that it links the occurrence or appearance of the hound with a practical knowledge of geomantic function and is the only tale told of its kind, as far as I am aware. It also links the Black Dog with the liminal area of the lake, which, as we have seen earlier in the chapter, is a gateway to the Other/Underworlds, guarded by supernatural beings; it is possible that the Black Dog may be another one of these guardian entities.

The common name for the black hound, Shuck, is generally considered to derive from the Old English scucca or sceocca, which means a devil/the Devil, a demon or a goblin (the 'sc' in OE being pronounced as 'sh'). There is also the likelihood that it comes from the East Anglian dialect word 'Shucky', meaning shaggy or hairy, a marked characteristic of most descriptions of the Hound. The first known use of the term comes from the Norfolk Chronicle or Gazette, in 1805, in an account by the Rev. E.S. Taylor of Martham as follows;

‘Shuck the Dog-fiend: This phantom I have heard many persons in East Norfolk, and even Cambridgeshire, describe as having seen as a black shaggy dog, with fiery eyes, and of immense size, and who visits churchyards at midnight.’

However, the term was obviously already in use beforehand, but for how long beforehand, no one knows. In regards to the appearance of the phantom in, at or near to churchyards and graveyards, there is another old tradition that is worth noting here. It was customry in years gone by, to bury a black dog in any new graveyard, before any other burials took place. The dog was intended to act as a guardian for the dead who were laid to rest there, and to protect the entrance to the Otherworld, ensuring that none came out – or went in – that were not supposed to. This practice goes back many millennia and is still rumoured to continue today in some areas; the dog is said to be buried in the North, or North-East of the graveyard, the traditional direction of the Dead and the Underworld.

Attempts to explain the origins and nature of the Black Hound have been many, some prosaic and some fantastical. He is said to be the memory of one of Odin's battle hounds, brought over by the Viking raiders in the 9th century. Whilst this may sound appealing, Odin did not have any war or battle hounds, but was accompanied by two wolves, a description never applied to Shuck. It is possible that he is the remains of a 'fetch beast', conjured by the Norse shamans to clear the pathways for their invasions, but there is no remaining evidence for this, however attractive; but the pathways theme is pertinent and I will come back to that in a moment. In the Anglo- Saxon classic, 'Beowulf', previously referred to in the case of Grendel's Dam and the Merewives, the monster Grendel himself is termed a 'scucca' and referred to as master of the fens and moors, some of the very places said to be haunted by Black Shuck in more modern times. He is also linked in popular imagination with the Devil and witchcraft, considered to be the Devil in animal form. Whilst there are recorded cases of the Devil appearing in dog or hound form in Suffolk, the descriptions of Shuck's appearances does not seem to fit any of these. He is often linked with Churches and graveyards, as we have seen, as well as crossroads, being described as coming from, passing over or into, or finishing his perambulations at one or the other; this also links in with the fact that the most recorded instances of sightings/encounters of the hound are on paths, roads, trackways, etc. as mentioned above.

It is these latter aspects of the Black Hound that I think give us the biggest clue to his nature and function; this is either as a guardian of the 'ghost roads' - the energetic and spectral pathways across the Land that guide the spirits of the dead on their way, or lead the spirits of living witches and magical practitioners to locations of power or gatherings of their kind or as a 'psychopomp', guiding the deceased on their last journeys to the Otherworld. It has often been remarked that Black Shuck is nearly always seen walking/padding along or beside a path or trackway and that his presence either heralds or initiates a death or near death experience (sometimes also averting disaster if it is not the person's time to die). It seems highly likely that this Hound is a product of the Living Landscape, given form and function, and imbued with the energy to guard/ guide those souls in need over the liminal point between life and death that we all must pass at some point. That he is given such a form by tradition and local culture only goes to show a living tradition stretching back hundreds, if not thousands, of years, as dogs and hounds have been seen as guardians of the gates of the Underworld for millennia, particularly and especially by the succeeding cultures that have inhabited East Anglia and the rest of these Isles. That he is feared, seen as a/the Devil, shunned and reviled, is only indicative of the lack of understanding of most people of the natural Laws and Ways of the Land and their separation from them.”

—

The Devil’s Plantation:

East Anglian Lore, Witchcraft & Folk-Magic

Chapter 2: ‘Mermaids, Giants and Spectral Hounds’

by Nigel G. Pearson

[squid-rp]

River Jones

Angry Blind Werewolf living off of a modest fortune that was shrewdly invested. Respects his alpha (is the most loyal but isn't going to say it openly without good reason), adored his mother and sisters, having to deal with his great-niece showing up out of the blue with her five-year old daughter and keeping them safe on top of everything else going on.

Looking for: His great-niece (just left a bad marriage, has some vague knowledge of the supernatural. Is probably just human, but I'm open).

Bo Brighton

A Regular Ol' Human Hunter in the Circle of Orion, Bo is a diamond in the rough from a midwestern town with a genius intellect who had the misfortune of falling in love with the girl next door when she broke through all his logic and theories of the world with a charming fairytale about falling stars. Vera ended up moving away when her parents divorced, but she and Bo exchanged letters all throughout the rest of their childhood and adolescence . While he didn't look like traditional hunter material in his late teens, Bo was scouted by a set of Hunters who crammed his genius brain chock full of lore of the supernatural and taught him how to fight for himself. He ended up joining the Circle of Orion right as letters from Vera stopped, leading him to wonder if the Supernatural was behind her disappearance.

He's too smart for his own good, tends to ramble, has piss poor social skills at times and has a bunch of knicks and cuts and burns from trying to cobble together some sort of new invention... or make the perfect soufflé (or both).

Looking for: Because I'm terrible, you know full and well that Vera's a GD supernatural. Whoever picks her up gets to pick what she is.

Sarina Corwin

Brackish Siren turned during an adolescent summer afternoon by the river gone terribly wrong. Sarina's sudden change of both diet and demeanor led to great tragedy, leaving her ostracized and out of touch and struggling to learn the ropes on her own. Years spent learning on her own and avoiding hunters has led her to Colorado, where she relishes helping bby supernaturals without a clue find their way in life, while also keeping them safe from hunters.

Looking for: Her concept is still formulating, so she doesn't really have any want ads at this time.

Neriah Hanlon

The Petal and Vine Shop has been a staple of Crow River since the town's inception, all operating out of a dreary-looking Victorian manor owned by the Hanlon family who seems to pass the business and the property from Mother to Daughter throughout the years. These days, the shop is owned by Neriah Hanlon, a Changeling who has secretly been running the shop the entire time. Neriah is something of a town darling -- always willing to lend a helping hand to those who need it, and who would literally give you the shirt off her back and knit you a whole closet if she felt you needed it. In truth, Neriah helps people forget when needed, and as a neutral agent, has probably offered her services to many of the factions within town provided that she gets proper payment of... a secret, a story, a little trinket that has some sentimental value -- anything with meaning.

And for anyone who would threaten her, she'd like to remind you that oleander is such a beautiful bloom, but can be so very poisonous.

Looking for: Still an evolving concept. I kind of want her to be a Mom friend to people, but who can also snap into being TERRIFYING if trifled with. Give her employees at her floral/tea shop/parlor. Give her people she's helped in the past. She's SUPER OLD, and has probably known some of these characters since they were knee high to a grasshopper.

Genevieve Thorne (Née Durand)

Born to a prominent and well-respected family of New York old-money sorcerers, Genevieve was born out of a magically political union and was expected to do the same. While her magical talents were not neglected, Genevieve was always thought of as "less than" when it came to her older brother, even when she proved more capable, more ambitious, and more willing to learn and be more. When the time came, Genevieve ended up showing up to her marriage ceremony, only to end up murdering the groom and most of the wedding attendees (including her own family) with the help of a Vampire that she had fallen head over heels for. While the pair officially tied the knot later, they would refer to that instance as their true wedding.

Genevieve has arrived in Crow River arm-in-arm with her husband, and has made powerful friends to gain a foothold in the city (it does help that Ariana is rather charming and useful) and to gain knowledge. Genevieve's true goal is to find some magical way to render herself immortal while still retaining her magic. Lord only knows if she'll actually find it.... and god help everyone if she does.

Looking for: Her husband, namely. It might also be fun if someone were coming after her for that wedding fiasco.

Everly O'Reilly

A curious creature from her earliest days, Everly had a habit for constantly being underfoot and eavesdropping on everyone's business as a child, which didn't earn her a lot of friends, but did leave her with plenty of time to read and soak up as much knowledge as she could about random subjects during her childhood. As she grew older, Everly became less of a pest and more of an it-girl with an Instagram following to match. She was her school's prom queen, but also the Valedictorian, and she was a shoe in for going to school on a scholarship for journalism. Instead of taking that road, Everly decided to be her own boss and became a Podcaster for things dark and strange and twisted that most people would have balked at investigating. She gained a huge following and her work enabled her to travel the world...

Which is how she ended up in Crow River. Crow River was going to be a quick stop on the way to something greater, but Everly ended up seeing something she shouldn't have seen, and one moment she was snapping a photo... and the next there was darkness...

And then she was literally clawing her way out of the grave in the woods she had been tossed into, newly reborn as a Vara Vampire.

Looking for: She's got "her Yoda" as she likes to say, but I would like to figure out wtf Everly saw that she really shouldn't have, and if anyone needs an accidental Vara bby fledgling that they didn't mean to create, hit me up!

James J. Jamison

A few years ago, James would have said that he was the most unordinary of the unordinary folks. A supernerd to the max (complete with the comic book collection and fondness for dungeons and dragons), James grew up being ostracized by most of his peers because he was VERY HANDS FLAILING ANIMATED LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THIS THING I LOVE. Cue toilet swirlies in the bathroom during recess and lunch. James made friends with another nerd aficionado in elementary school, but said aficionado never learned a healthy way to heal from the psychological trauma of bullying and turned mean instead, quickly becoming a bully himself once he and James reached high school.

And everything would have been all hunky dory had James not pulled his best "What would Lara Croft do" moment and stood up to his ex-best friend, which ultimately earned him the beat down of his life, but earned him a sea of friends who respected him for what he did.

Flash forward a few years, and James was studying to be a graphic artist and was supporting himself in Portland, Oregon by being a pizza delivery driver...

The last thing he saw was the grill of his ex-best friend's car heading right for him... and the next... being cradled in someone's arms, the wet rain, and then... fire and smoke and ash and...

Confusion. James reawoke as a Phoenix and has been trying to piece things together ever since. Luckily, his parents put out a missing person's report for him and he was quickly picked up by a patrol car. After a few weeks of confusion and therapy, James decided to try and go back to his old life, even if he couldn't remember most of it...

But then a letter beckoned him to Crow River, and like Frodo leaving the Shire, James set off on his quest.

Looking For: I would love it forever if someone wanted to be the person inviting James to Crow River. Like, we can hash out that plot together, but I need it like breathing.

Levison Harding

I admittedly do not know too much about Levison beyond a vague concept of him being a native son of Crow River, and a werebear. He left some odd years ago to do things, and just came back after being captured by a group of individuals who hunted supernatural creatures to make a black market of parts for magical rituals, Vampire blood, etc. I think they originally captured Levison for vampire blood and didn't know he was a werebear until he broke out and murdered the lot of them, taking all of the captives with him in the process of escape.

Now seen as the leading figure for a group of Supernatural refugees, Levison has returned home to try and figure out what his next steps are for both himself and the small group of a misfit found family that he's become the head of.

Looking for: Give me the black market group that he's run afoul of now, and give me his found family. There are no alternatives.

Maira Joshi

Another prominent Crow River family, the Joshi's have been present in Colorado records as early as the late 1800's, and they gained a strange notoriety of mostly having daughters within the family. The current head of the family, Faria, hides her status as a seer in plain sight by offering psychic readings and "mediumship" skills to those who aren't in the know, and her abilities as a seer to those who do. Maira is the youngest of her granddaughters, and showed little affinity for magic and happily went along to become an elementary school nurse. She would have stayed that way had she not started having ominous visions all swirling around Crow River, prompting her to take a position in Crow River and move in with her increasingly ailing grandmother for further instruction. Maira -- by her grandmother's own description -- is a sweet and empathetic soul, more likely to slip into someone's dreams to drive away natural nightmares or induce states of calm on the panicked and suffering. Between her growing skills as a Seer and her knowledge of first aid, her true goal is to help where she can, and to stop the terrible future she occasionally still sees from coming to pass.

(SHE IS VERY SOFT Y'ALL.)

Looking for: Other Joshi seers? IDK, I'M JUST EXCITED.

[sciencespies]

The chilling story of the 'demon core' and the scientists who became its victims

https://sciencespies.com/humans/the-chilling-story-of-the-demon-core-and-the-scientists-who-became-its-victims/

The chilling story of the 'demon core' and the scientists who became its victims

It was August 13, 1945, and the ‘demon core’ was poised, waiting to be unleashed onto a stunned Japan still reeling in fresh chaos from the deadliest attacks anyone had ever seen.

A week earlier, ‘Little Boy’ had detonated over Hiroshima, followed swiftly by ‘Fat Man’ in Nagasaki.

These were the first and only nuclear bombs ever used in warfare, claiming as many as 200,000 lives – and if things had turned out a little differently, a third deadly strike would have followed in their hellish wake.

But history had other plans.

After Nagasaki proved Hiroshima was no fluke, Japan promptly surrendered on August 15, with Japanese radio broadcasting a recorded speech of Emperor Hirohito conceding to the Allies’ demands.

Recreation of 1945 accident. (Los Alamos National Laboratory)

As it turns out, this was the first time the Japanese public at large had ever heard one of their emperors’ voices, but for scientists at the Los Alamos Laboratory in New Mexico – aka Project Y – the event had a more pressing significance.

It meant the functional heart of the third atom bomb they’d been working on – a 6.2-kilogram (13.7-pound) sphere of refined plutonium and gallium – wouldn’t be needed for the war effort after all.

If the conflict had still been raging, as it had for almost five straight years, this plutonium core would have been fitted into a second Fat Man assembly and detonated above another unsuspecting Japanese city just four days later.

As it was, fate issued those souls a reprieve, and the Los Alamos device – code-named ‘Rufus’ at this point – would be retained at the facility for further testing.

It was during these tests that the leftover nuke, which ultimately became known as the demon core, earned that name.

Daghlian’s burnt, blistered hand. (Los Alamos National Laboratory)

The first accident happened less than a week after Japan’s surrender, and only two days after the date of the demon core’s cancelled bombing run.

That mission may have never launched, but the demon core, stranded at Los Alamos, still found an opportunity to kill.

The Los Alamos scientists knew well the risks of what they were doing when they conducted criticality experiments with it – a means of measuring the threshold at which the plutonium would become supercritical, the point where a nuclear chain reaction would unleash a blast of deadly radiation.

The trick performed by scientists in the Manhattan Project – of which the Los Alamos Lab was a part – was finding how just how far you could go before that dangerous reaction was triggered.

They even had an informal nickname for the high-risk experiments, one which hinted at the perils of what they did. They called it “tickling the dragon’s tail”, knowing that if they had the misfortune to rouse the angry beast, they would be burned.

Louis Slotin, left, with the first nuclear bomb assembly, Gadget (Los Alamos National Laboratory)

And that’s exactly what happened to Los Alamos physicist Harry Daghlian.

On the night of August 21, 1945, Daghlian returned to the lab after dinner, to tickle the dragon’s tail alone – with no other scientists (just a security guard) around, which was a breach of safety protocols.

As Daghlian worked, he surrounded the plutonium sphere with bricks made of tungsten carbide, which reflected neutrons shed by the core back at it, edging it closer to criticality.

Brick by brick, Daghlian built up these reflective walls around the core, until his neutron-monitoring equipment indicated the plutonium was about to go supercritical if he placed any more.

He moved to pull one of the bricks away, but in doing so accidentally dropped it directly onto the top of the sphere, inducing supercriticality and generating a glow of blue light and a wave of heat.

Recreation of 1946 accident. (Los Alamos National Laboratory)

Daghlian reached out immediately and removed the brick, noticing a tingling sensation in his hand as he did so.

Unfortunately, it was already too late.

In that brief instant, he had received a lethal dose of radiation. His burnt, irradiated hand blistered over, and he eventually fell into a coma after weeks of nausea and pain.

He was dead just 25 days after the accident. The security guard on duty also received a non-lethal dose of radiation.

But the demon core was not yet finished.

Despite a review of safety procedures after Daghlian’s death, any changes made weren’t enough to prevent a similar accident occurring the following year.

Recreation of 1946 accident. (Los Alamos National Laboratory)

On May 21, 1946, one of Daghlian’s colleagues, physicist Louis Slotin, was demonstrating a similar criticality experiment, lowering a beryllium dome over the core.

Like the tungsten carbide bricks before it, the beryllium dome reflected neutrons back at the core, pushing it toward criticality. Slotin was careful to ensure the dome – called a tamper – never completely covered the core, using a screwdriver to maintain a small gap, acting as a crucial valve to enable enough of the neutrons to escape.

The method worked, until it didn’t.

The screwdriver slipped and the dome dropped, for an instant fully covering the demon core in a beryllium bubble bouncing too many neutrons back at it.

Another scientist in the room, Raemer Schreiber, turned around at the sound of the dome dropping, feeling heat and seeing a blue flash as the demon core went supercritical for the second time in the space of a year.

Diagram of 1946 accident. (Los Alamos National Laboratory)

“The blue flash was clearly visible in the room although it (the room) was well illuminated from the windows and possibly the overhead lights,” Schreiber later wrote in a report.

“The total duration of the flash could not have been more than a few tenths of a second. Slotin reacted very quickly in flipping the tamper piece off.”

Slotin may have been quick in rectifying his deadly mistake, but again, the damage was already done.

He, and seven others in the room – including a photographer and a security guard – were all exposed to a burst of radiation, although Slotin was the only one to receive a lethal dose, and a greater one than that inflicted on Daghlian.

After an initial bout of nausea and vomiting, he at first seemed to recover in hospital, but within days was losing weight, experiencing abdominal pain, and began showing signs of mental confusion.

Operation Crossroads. (US Department of Defence)

A press release issued by Los Alamos at the time described his condition as “three-dimensional sunburn”.

Nine days after the screwdriver slipped, he was gone.

The two deadly accidents, only months apart, finally saw real changes take place at Los Alamos.

New protocols meant an end to ‘hands on’ criticality experiments, with scientists forced to use remote control machinery to manipulate radioactive cores at a distance of hundreds of metres.

They also stopped calling the plutonium core ‘Rufus’. From then on, it was known only as the ‘demon core’.

But after everything that had happened, the leftover nuke’s time was up too.

Following the Slotin accident – and the core’s resultant increase in radiation levels – plans to use it in Operation Crossroads, the first post-war nuclear explosion demonstrations to commence at the Bikini Atoll a month later, were shelved.

Instead, the plutonium was melted down and reintegrated into the US nuclear stockpile, to be recast into other cores as necessary. For the second and last time, the demon core was denied its detonation.

While the deaths of two scientists can’t be compared to the untold horrors if the demon core had been used in a third nuclear attack against Japan, it’s also easy to understand why the scientists gave it the superstitious name they did.

Then there are the weird details that fill in the backdrop of the story.

Like how Daghlian and Slotin weren’t just killed by similar accidents involving the same plutonium core: both incidents took place on Tuesdays, on the 21st day of the month, and the men even passed away in the same hospital room.

Of course, those are just coincidences. The demon core wasn’t actually demonic. If there’s an evil presence here, it’s not the core, but the fact that humans rushed to make these terrible weapons in the first place.

And the real horror – besides the horrible effects of radiation poisoning – is how spectacularly mid–20th century scientists failed to protect themselves from the extreme dangers they were toying with, despite fully knowing the grave risks in their midst.

According to Schreiber, Slotin’s first words immediately after the screwdriver incident were simple, and already resigned.

He had comforted his dying friend Daghlian in hospital, and he knew what came next.

“Well,” he said, “that does it.”

A version of this story was first published in April 2018.

#Humans

[theparanormalperiodical]

9 REAL Curses That You Gotta Know About - Even If You’re Not Exploring An Ancient Egyptian Tomb This Weekend

It’s the 17th February 1923.

We are somewhere in Cairo, staving off the heat of an Egyptian Autumn.

We’re waiting. We’ve been waiting since 1915.

In a silent, swift moment the seal to Tutankhamun’s tomb is broken, and one of the most valuable pieces of history is finally passed to the hands of the historians.

But it wasn’t just the secrets of the past that were unleashed when the seal was broken.

Within 12 years, 8 of the explorers that accessed the tomb were dead. By taking their first steps into this place of rest they had unknowingly released what was to be known as the Curse of the Pharaohs.

Ever since the 19th century British explorers first disturbed the pharaohs, a legend gained ground that claimed anyone who disturbed an Ancient Eypgtian mummy was to experience serious misfortune, illness, or even death.

And ever since they returned home with their spoils of the treasure was this claim proven correct, especially with the supposed curses detailed within the once hidden tombs themselves.

EDIT: Obviously this curse is founded more on the British media sensationalising exoticism, a common tactic of Imperialists in their racist agenda, so be far more wary of that than any old legend.

But what exactly was this curse? And were there any other curses that we should be aware of before we break into any other uncharted tombs?

What Exactly Is A Curse?

It’s founded some of our favourite urban legends and it is still used to stereotype certain communities - but it turns out that they’ve had this reputation for centuries.

In official terms, a curse is a wish that imposes adversity on a person or group of people, an object, or a place. Specifically, it is related to wishes made effective by supernatural circumstances, whether they’re enforced by spirits, or conjured via magic.

Regional divergences also exist, with jinxes belonging to African American Hoodoo, and hexing being a resident of Germany.

Convinced you’ve been cursed?

You have two options if you want to break the spell. One, you can either perform elaborate rituals specific to said-curse, or two, you can pray, like, a lot.

How helpful.

Not sure how you got cursed?

You’ve most likely encountered one of three things:

There’s the cursed objects - if you’ve been rooting through forbidden tombs or looted from a sanctuary, you might’ve brought a curse home, too. This curse typically amounts to bad luck, or the manifestation of strange phenomena.

Then there’s the curses from Ancient Egypt which are often associated with those that disturb mummies in their eternal slumber. The 19th century exploration of Pharaoh’s tombs revived this concept, and would allow the proliferation of our pop culture curses.

And then there's the Biblical curses. They don’t pause for breathe when cursing each other in the Bible, but thanks to my year 8 Religious Studies, I can tell you that at some point snakes and/or Cain was cursed.

(I’m sure Ms Comber would be ashamed knowing I can just about provide a tl;dr of the first few chapters of the Old Testament before the big plot twist.)

What Are The Most Famous Curses To Date?

#1 - The Curse of Tippecanoe

Our scene is set in 1931.

The brains behind Ripley’s Believe It Or Not - the bestselling publishers of unusual and slightly unnecessary facts - might not have much to report in the pre-internet age, but they were the first to note a rather peculiar trend:

American Presidents elected in a year ending in zero were to die whilst in office. This was later adapted to new, uh, data, which suggested years divisible by 20 (e.g. 1920, 1940, etc.) actually followed this trend.

And beyond the publishing date of this thesis in the early 20th century, this theory had been proven correct.

Think of an iconic president. You know, the ones that have changed history and haven’t suggested one consume bleach like shots of tequila on a two-night bender in ‘biza.

They’ve probably been a victim to this curse.

Lincoln. Mckinley. Roosevelt. Kennedy. Even Reagan and Bush followed the trend, but survived their own assassination attempts.

Question is, where does this curse supposedly come from?

William Harrison was killed only a month after being sworn into office. Elected in 1840, he waged war against a Native American tribe over problems concerning land ownership. Also known as Tecumseh’s War, this was a battle over an attempt to regain land against the American government, and it culminated in the Battle of Tippecanoe.

Harrison won this battle, and ‘Tippacanoe’ became a favoured nickname of the president.

However, shortly after the battle, one of the men at the fore of the Native American side cursed Harrison. We might not know the exact terms of this curse, nor if he wanted such a timely effect to take place, but with an election on the cards this year this thesis is due to be tested.

#2 - The Kennedy Curse

Kennedy might’ve already fallen victim to the curse of Tippacanoe, but it turns out that wasn’t quite enough. The thing is, this curse doesn’t necessarily affect just JFK. It affected everyone around him.

The Kennedy Curse allegedly prompted the deaths, accidents, and variety of other problems that have haunted the Kennedy family since before JFK even took office.

Due to the fact that some recent tragedies has supposedly been related to this curse, I’m going to refrain from coughing up each incident, but here’s a few to convince you:

Joseph Kennedy was the first victim in 1944, and died in a plane crash over Suffolk, England.

Kathleen Kennedy met a similar fate in 1948 after a plane crash.

Robert F Kennedy was killed on the night of his Senate victory in 1968.

David Kennedy died of a drug overdose in 1984.

Michael Kennedy died in a skiing accident in 1997.

John F Kennedy died in a plane crash in 1999.

Rosemary Kennedy had a lobotomy and was mentally incapacitated for the rest of her life until her death in 2005.

#3 - The 27 Club

The passing of young people is a tragedy we can’t quite wrap our heads around. Heck, belief in the supernatural is partially founded on how we can’t quite comprehend just losing someone, and that just being it.

Finality is an impossible concept to grasp.

And it’s why we turn to things like curses to explain away our pain and to make sense of it all. The 27 Club is a prime example of this.

A remarkable amount of the most famous musicians, artists, and actors to date have all died at the age of 27.

Like, over 50.

Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain, and Jim Morrison are just a few of the figures that represent the phenomenon, a phenomenon which has been referenced countless times in popular culture.

Some researchers may have disproven the alleged curse, but with the 4 founding members dying within a 2 year window (Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison), suspicions will always be roused.

#4 - The Curse of the Iceman

Popular culture phenomenons might form some of the most famous curses to date, but they really started with ancient legends. And this one is one of the most well-known claims of the awakening of a long-dormant curse.

Oetzi was found somewhere in the Alps in 1991.

No, this isn’t the name of some lovable character destined to have his own Netflix series; this is a corpse preserved by the icy temperatures of the mountain range in Italy. And this corpse is from 3100 or 3400 BC, or the Copper Age.

Given the value of this shocking discovery, numerous scientists took the fore in their investigation into Oetzi. But many of these scientists also died as a result of the supposed curse put on those that dare disturb Europe’s oldest natural mummy.

7 scientists that collaborated in the removal and examination of the corpse died in a suspiciously short window of time.

#5 - The Curse of Timur

Some of the world’s most famous curses have affected small groups of people. But this curse was a tad more far reaching.

Like 7.5-million-people-far-reaching.

Emperor Timur was a Turco-Mongol leader from the 14th century and established a highly impressive empire: the Timurid Empire. And this empire was so impressive that Stalin himself took direct inspiration from him.

That’s why he wanted the body of the emperor exhumed from his Uzbekistan tomb for investigation by Soviet anthropologists.

(There’s no explanation why, but the Soviet Union did many things we can’t explain.)

Locals protested, fearing a curse that reportedly started in 1740 when an Afsharid ruler took a slab from his final resting place to Persia. His son instantly fell ill amongst a host of other problems affecting his rule, prompting his advisors to convince him to return the slab of jade back to the tomb.

If the rumours weren’t enough to convince them not to break into the tomb, you’d think the warnings on there would do the trick:

"When I rise from the dead, the world shall tremble."

"Whomsoever opens my tomb shall unleash an invader more terrible than I."

Three days after the exhumation began, Hitler launched an operation that would figure as the largest military invasion on the Soviet Union to date.

#6 - The Superman Curse

Numerous films have been labelled with an alleged curse or a haunting. The Exorcist might be the most famous example of this - you know, with that severe fire burning down the set at one point - but a more specific curse can be attributed to those who played the lead in the Superman franchise.

George Reeves committed suicide in 1959.

Christopher Reeve became paralysed in 1985.

Lee Quigley died at 14 due to solvent abuse.

Kirk Alyn’s career met a dead end after his role.

Marlon Brando experienced a series of unfortunate events after his role.

Margot Kidder encountered serious issues with her mental health after her role.

Even the crew operating on the films experienced similar issues both on-set and in their personal lives.

#7 - The Hope Diamond Curse

It’s the most famous jewel in the world, weighing no less than 45 carats and passing between the hands of French kings and British bankers alike - but it’s value is far more supernatural than the $350m price tag.

It is said that a curse is attached to it, a curse that brings misfortune and accompanying tragedy to those that own or wear the gem.

Suicides, murders, executions (most of which were hangings), being ripped apart by wild dogs and various other mobs… Just wear the earrings next time.

Today it is on exhibit at the National Museum of Natural History in the US.

#8 - The Curse Of The Chicago Cubs

Bill Sianis lived an interesting life.

A Greek immigrant to the USA, he owned a tavern in Chicago affectionately named the Billy Goat Tavern. And it was this peculiar name that led to the curse that until recently haunted the Chicago Cubs.

Sianis took his pet goat to one of the games in 1945, a game that was a part of the World Series. But due to the odour of Murphy the Goat, he was asked to leave for the sake of the other fans.

“Them Cubs, they ain’t gonna win no more”

He declared this shortly after discovering that he would in fact have to leave.

This curse lasted 71 years, and mysteriously ended in 2016 after numerous attempts by fans to utilise rituals  - mostly involving goats which may or may not be alive - to release the team from their magical confines.

Numerous goats have been brought to games with declarations claiming to reverse the curse being used, and even Sianis’ family members have done their bit in attempt to lift it. Yet despite these attempts - and that severed goat’s head sent personally to the owner in 2013 - some good has come from the curse.

Many charitable efforts have sprung forth from this legend, such as Reverse The Curse donating goats to those living in poverty in Third World countries.

#9 - The Curse of Turan

Now this is an interesting one.

Allegedly, the whole population of Hungary has been under a curse for many centuries, a curse that has two potential origins:

The first took place during the Christian conversion of the country in 1000 AD, from which those supporting the old religions of Hungary (Paganism and a mix of other minority religions) cast a curse that would affect Hungary for evermore…

(More… More… Mo...)

Or 1000 years, suggesting the curse might have been lifted already.

Alternatively, it could be a curse created or rumoured to exist during the failed revolution of 1848 which evoked a great sense of pessimism that is a reported symptom of the curse.

Although the previous curses mentioned in this article have a striking number of coincidences one can’t help be interested in, this one is a little, well, vague.

Sure, Hungary - like most countries - has experienced a number of tragedies over the last 1000 years, from the devastating impact of war and invasion, to foreign control, but how far can we pin suffering caused by imperialism on that of a curse?

The high suicide rate which ranks as 6th in the world might not point to a supernatural cause, but the rather darker reality of depression.

(Yeah, I agree, I should’ve finished this article on a cheerier note.)

Well thank god that’s over!

Want to read stuff that’s less depressing and more delightfully spooky? ‘Course you do. Then go check out my other articles about all things horror and hauntings.

I even post a new real ghost story everyday.

Stay spooky!

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

In Chains (Chapter Three) Through and Through (Trafalgar Law)

A day or so had passed aboard the Polar Tang – its peculiar name Samira learned from a short conversation she had with its captain; the only words she had spoken to him since her immediate confinement to his solitary room. Hard to determine while locked up – she tried the hatch door, but it was unfortunately bolted from the outside – Samira did not know whether in fact a day had passed or the entire trip had come and gone. All she knew was that lunch and breakfast were brought to her once a day, and only twice had this ensued.

Nonetheless, she feared the next time would be the last. Law neither mentioned or alluded to the allegation he made the first day she woke up aboard his sub – a foreign term she still did not grasp completely – to hand her over to the authorities. Her bounty was indeed generous, especially to money hungry pirates, such as Law and his crew. The missing bangles confirmed that. But the risk was not worth the reward offered for her return.

Samira knew better; she was clever; the man who put the bounty on her head was also clever. The likelihood that he would give Law the reward was slim to none.

But how to ask the pirate captain to abandon this fruitless and simple attempt was beyond her. He would not so much as carry a lengthy conversation with her unless it pertained to the bounty, or her unexpected tumble from the clifftop. Samira was not ready to expose so much personal information about herself then she already had.

No … it’s too risky to involve them; too selfish of me to hope for aid.

She fell back onto the bed with her arm tucked beneath her; the one securely wrapped in a cast laid on the sheets at her side. It was close to lunch time. The flavorful smell of meat hung in the air – the vulgar growl of her stomach was nearly comical. She would have laughed, if not for the fact she was caged.

No. Samira didn’t think she would be given free reign aboard the sub; Law thought sensibly on this decision. He wanted to keep his crew from danger, and obviously – according to her lucrative bounty – she was a threat. True – the rampant force clawing away at her chest, pleading to be released, was not to be taken lightly – however being treated like a monster was not necessary. She was a liar, but not merciless. Her sought after power landed her into a whirlwind of misfortune; she wanted just once in her tragic life to be given a moment of rest.

What was so bad about wanting to be happy? The gods had a dark sense of humor.

As gods often do. What plans I wonder do th––

The hatch door shrieked in sudden protest and swayed open, disrupting her previous thought. Probably for the best; the gods often acted mindlessly when spoken or thought badly of. Samira rose up with a grunt just as Law entered, carting with him a plate and a tin mug, as he often did when lunch was served. Her stomach felt at ease; she’d get to stay another night.

Eagerly she watched as Law laid the contents onto his writing desk, seating himself at the back. Neither spoke; they often met in silence – she ate or rested on the bed while he poured through hard to understand books on his shelves. The only time he talked was to give her orders in regards to her arm; checkups and aftercare. Samira thought he was either a patient man – opting not to badger her about the bounty, since she so politely told him it was an issue, she was neither willing or wanting to tell him about – or he no longer cared to learn from her the truth. Either way, she didn’t care.

Samira pulled herself up and merrily ambled to the front of the desk, where she propped a folding chair up and sat with her legs beneath her. A smile pulled at her lips as she began to eat. The food was just as delicious as it looked – the meat of some kind of animal and fresh steamed vegetables. She hummed in delight.

“Are you always this loud when eating, or do you generally take pleasure in disturbing me?”

She puckered a brow; obviously she wasn’t trying to be. Opting not to curse at him, Samira huffed a sigh and set down her fork. “It’s been so long since I’ve had food this good – life on the wire doesn’t give you very many options when it comes to eating; it’s eat light or nothing at all.”

“A lady as dangerous as yourself shouldn’t have much trouble acquiring a decent warm meal,” Law stated. He rested his cheek on his fist and stared tiredly at her. A smile pulled at his thin lips.

Samira rolled her eyes. He was one to yammer; annoying her. “Like it or not I’m not a terrible person. I lie and steal, but only because I have to.”

“I can’t imagine someone as charming as you being a fugitive.”

Her face warmed up. “Looks can be deceiving and furthermore, you don’t look the type either; a fugitive.”

“Like you said; looks can be deceiving.”

He stood up and went over to a cabinet fastened to the wall of his room. It’s metal doors squeaked as he opened them and carefully removed a steel instrument tray, bringing it over to her. He watched as she looked, tensing up as she recognized the narrow and sharp tool that laid in two pieces inside.

“Like for instance,” Law said with a grin. “This was drawn from your person. Do you have any idea what it may be? I discovered trace amounts of poison in your blood; poison that causes paralysis to its victims. A toxin like this is hard to replicate without the right resources.”  

Samira narrowed her bright red eyes. So that’s what happened to me. Arsenio shot me with a Froggie Dart – the bastard. He nearly killed her; she could have drowned. A frustrated sigh let her mouth.

“That man I mentioned … he sent someone to trap me.” She took a rigid and deep breath, not wanting to continue. “And he nearly had me at the docks, but I got away. Ending up on your sub was a miracle; it bought me a head start, and I owe you. But trust me … if you don’t let me go on the next island your crew might be dragged into this mess.”

Law nearly laughed. He already took the poison from her system – it was a perk of his devil fruit ability – so he wasn’t too worried about the trapper coming after him or his crew. Shaking his head in disagreement, he smiled as her eyes clouded over with worry.

“Patience is a virtue of mine, you see. If he comes to me, then I don’t have to go far to turn you in.”

He swore the air grew thick; the hair on his arms stood up in excitement as a chill overtook him. But just as quickly as it came, the strange feeling vanished.

“Please reconsider,” she begged quietly. It took a lot of control to keep her power from bursting free. As money hungry as Law was, he still saved her life and she really didn’t want to hurt him. “There is no reward; trust me.”

Law sighed irregularly. “We’ll see.”

He left her at the desk and opened up the hatch door, leaning out into the hallway. Like he’d instructed earlier, Shachi was against the wall – hands in his pockets – waiting for the call. Law allowed him to enter and watched eagerly as Samira perked up when the red haired man said her name.

She leapt up and ran into his arms, hugging him gently. Shachi was tense, but he wrapped an arm around her too.

“It’s good to see you again,” she stated.

Much to his dislike, she put space between them. A smile lifted her lips; he nearly choked.

How did I get so lucky?

“You too … good to see you I mean.”

Samira laughed. “Your captain told me you were the one who pulled me from the ocean. Thank you; I don’t know how to repay you. Twice now you’ve save me.”

“It’s no problem. And you don’t have to repay me. Seeing you alive and well is enou––

Law quickly interrupted him. “The two of you will have enough time to yammer tomorrow. For the remainder of her stay aboard my sub, she’ll be in your care. Show her around, put her to work, and bunk her with Ikkaku.”

“I’m not staying in here anymore?”

The Captain disagreed with a shake of his head. “Unless you want to share my bed, then no.”

Her expression was humorous. Despite her skin tone, Law could see a light shade of red cover her cheeks. He smiled as she turned her horrified gaze to the floor.

“That’s not going to happen,” she uttered.

An awkward laugh came from the red head in front of her. He lifted his hand and swatted at his leg. “Don’t worry, Samira. He doesn’t really mean it. Captain is real joker sometimes.”

She laughed awkwardly too. Somehow, despite his reassurance, she doubted it. He didn’t seem like the type to joke. She was pleased when Law ordered them away, and followed Shachi out into the narrow hall – the hatch door closed behind her.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Samira mentioned. She waited until Shachi looked over his shoulder at her to continue. “What is a sub? Is that some kind of foreign vessel or something?”

Shachi chuckled at her lack of knowledge. He took her by the hand and led her to a port hole in the wall. She couldn’t see much, but the bright blue of the ocean. It was everywhere, like the sea opened up and swallowed them whole.

“This is going to sound strange, but we’re beneath the ocean right now. A submarine is a vessel that can travel under the water,” he explained.

Her eyes grew in awe. Foreign technology was amazing. Of course it scared her, but seeing it firsthand was like a dream. She gently bounced on her heels in excitement.

“I want to see everything. Please show me.”

Shachi smiled, bobbing his head. “As you wish, my lady.”

My lady. Now that brings back memories. Both good and bad. Her heart sank a little, but she buried it with a fake smile. While aboard the Polar Tang she was going to make the time she had left the best.

Freedom always had a price; Samira just didn’t know what price she’d have to pay to keep it.

--

Law was sure he had felt something inside him come to life; he could still sense it’s influence. His skin tingled and his heart thumped rapidly against his chest. It felt nice.

His desire for revenge became madness – utter chaos – clawing at his chest.

It came from her, the moment I said that. She’s a devil fruit user; a time bomb.

He bit his bottom lip between his teeth and shivered in eagerness. Just what was her power? And would he feel it again?

[dvstbunny]

hey my friends!! i am finally bringing in my danzig fc which i have meant to do for literal month but i always struggle with him the most muse-wise and i’ve revamped this particular muse with his fc multiple times... so we’ll see how well it goes this time and fingers crossing i can keep him around! this muse of mine may be a little less active at the moment while i try to find my footing with him, but i’ll be trying my very best! four is usually the maximum of muses i can keep up with because i prefer being as active as possible on my muses rather than sporadic and i had to debate long and hard about picking up another, so we’ll test the waters and see how it goes and if it doesn’t work out... it doesn’t work out! anyway he’s the most chaotic energy second to cy so... enjoy

TRIGGER WARNINGS: eating disorders, violence, cults, drugs, alcoholism, neglect, abuse

{ Dustin ‘Dusty’ Graves } is { 28 } originally from { Suicide Creek, Canada }. They spend their time as a { model, hairdresser, and drummer of Avant-Garde Society }. They live in the { The Chalet } and have been known to be { callous and flamboyant } but can also be { moxie and cosmopolitan }. They strongly resemble { Dustin Bates } and go by { he/him } pronouns.

name: dustin solara graves

nicknames: dusty, dustbin, dustbunny

birthday: may 25, 1989 (age 28)

hometown: suicide creek, canada (later los angeles, ca)

occupation: model, hairdresser, drummer of avant-garde society

orientation: panromantic pansexual

relationship status: single

children: none

education: bachelor’s in scientific research, cosmetology license

VARIOUS INFORMATION AND FACTS:

call him bash if you’re not close to him and he’ll probably kick you in the face

though his mother is originally from canada, he was born in paris, france, where she had moved a few years prior to his birth to follow the love of her life, a french businessman. the businessman wanted nothing to do with the baby and she was forced to return to canada and unable to afford him with her occupation, she abandoned him at an orphanage and subsequently, he grew up never knowing who either of his birth parents were, only his birth name

essentially raised in a monastery, one would think he would grow up to be rather religious. instead, he had too many questions and received answers that didn’t quite satisfy him and started to gravitate toward analyzing every piece of religion in the monastery that he could grasp and unfold it in a way he thought was most logical

throughout his childhood, dustin was extremely alienated by other kids in the monastery and the lack of attention and connection with the other children prompted him to begin growing more and more bitter with every passing year as he got older and began to vie for negative attention from the others and positive attention from the adults at the monastery

with a knack for exploring, he made a terrible mistake when he was around the age of eight: he wandered off the property and into the woods in the canadian winter. being he was still an adolescent with no cellphone and too deep in a place that he had no idea how to find his way out of, he found himself lost and unable to make his way back to the monastery and as the night hit and temperatures dropped, the cold and hunger began to set in, distressing the young boy

miraculously, a local hunter came across him a couple days later when an angry bear (likely woken from hibernation by starvation) tried to attack him. managing to get away with only a few scratches, the hunter took him back to his cabin to clean him up

to his misfortune, he wouldn’t be going back to the orphanage. this hunter in the middle of nowhere seemed to have darker intentions for him: as part of a strange- and likely satanic- cult, he wanted dustin to learn from his ways. those ways were not the kind any eight year old should ever be raised by, though, often violent and bloody with other people who were typically strangers and animals, acts of violence served as a marker for the older man’s idea of salvation or worship

living the rest of his youth in the middle of the woods like this, aside from going to school, he reluctantly took a part in what this father figure wanted from him. given he was so young when he was taken in, he never really thought to get out of the situation, simply letting it be for what it was. hating every minute of it, school became his only escape, opting to stay there as much as he could to work late on science projects that would win him hefty prizes and acknowledgements from his peers

his father figure was baffled by his love for education and instead of receiving pride for his excellent marks in school, dustin was physically and verbally abused with the accusation he was putting too much focus on it and not enough focus on the homefront. outside of his accomplishments, his father figure took little interest in what he did outside out of the house and often ignored him when he wasn’t expected to be doing something. frustrated by his father figure’s lack of care for him, he began acting out again, which only led to more violence between the two

eventually, the neglect and the abuse he received when he acted out took a toll on him, and he grew up to be a rather selfish person, and became incredibly guarded and mistrusting of letting other people in, struggling to make connections and holding people at arm’s length

he swore to himself that when he graduated at eighteen, he would never see him again and make a better life for himself. on the day of his graduation, he packed all his belongings up and quietly left the house, only to dump it elsewhere in the woods on the way to the high school and set fire to it with gasoline. after the ceremony was over, he asked his friend to help him get to los angeles on account of obtaining a full ride scholarship to attend as a student in the department of science at USC

almost immediately, he was signed onto an eight million dollar modeling contract with men’s vogue, and he couldn’t think of anything else he had ever dreamed of as much as that moment in time, free to stay in the country and as far away from his father figure as possible

ever a popular person, he quickly excelled and made his way through the business, getting to know all kinds of people in high places and experiencing the luxurious life for himself on his own- the good and the bad sides of it

though he had delved in plenty of partying in his high school years, and dabbled in social drug use at said parties, he never developed an addiction. when he was in hollywood, everything changed, starting with the development of his addiction to alcohol when he was nineteen, finding it as a way to cope and to tone down the harsh shades of his personality that blossomed as a result of his childhood

as always, the modeling business wasn’t as glamorous as it seemed, either. behind closed doors, he faced pressures to either lose weight or dehydrate himself in order to gain the illusion of the “ideal” body image of men- naturally wanting to keep the business happy and unable to deal with the anxiety every time he looked at the scale and felt as if he were still missing the mark, bulimia and anorexia reared its ugly head in dustin’s life

among the societal expectations of the modeling business and the partying, he faced other abuses that often remained hidden. someone was too rough here and there during a photoshoot- a manager, maybe- and he would leave covering a bruise, or the sketchier photographers of the business would drug him out of his mind to achieve the intended “look” and “aesthetic” of the shoot. in a way, he felt that at least on the bright side, it deterred him from ever considering doing drugs again, disgusted and mortified by the experiences he would endure, and at times still does

dustin chose to turn his life around when he was twenty, convinced by a mentor that he should check himself into rehab after news that cy’s sister was involved in a drunk driving accident that nearly killed her and cy’s brother, reluctantly- and grudgingly- giving in to accepting help from others, coming out the other end feeling more rejuvenated than he had in the past several, miserable years

life went on and he continued the same routine of frequent travel and business calls and so on, so forth over the next few years, purchasing a summer home in paris, and he graduated with his bachelor’s in scientific research a year early at twenty-one with high honors

unfortunately, the road to recovery couldn’t last forever, and he slipped back into the arms of his vices when he was twenty-two, drinking himself out cold one day when he was twenty-three and waking up in a hospital on the premise of a friend finding him and concerned by his extremely low pulse

luckily, the situation was enough for him to receive a wake-up call loud and clear and taking it upon himself this time to check into a rehab facility, searching for his own happiness and perhaps a scrap of self-love. at this time, he decided to take up cosmetology school on the side of the band he ended up in at twenty-four and managed to obtain his license

lacking confidence in himself to remain on steady ground after the first round, unable to find it in himself to make up for his lack of self-love, the sobriety only lasted until he was twenty-seven and he found himself crashing and burning back into old ways when he moved to queens in the big apple, entranced by the bustling life and atmosphere of it in a lonely way that drew him back to his demons

still has an apartment in los angeles and a summer home in paris, owns his own cosmetology studio in queens where he primarily deals with hair, but has other employees specialized in nail art. still a science nerd but isn’t really sure what he wants to do with that degree at the moment

despite his wayward upbringing, he remained to have a strong moral compass and actually grew to despise violence and lack violent tendencies

has a hobby of photography and painting, a soft side he doesn’t expose to many people to avoid being taken advantage of more than he already is, has never owned a pet in his life because he can barely care for himself, and can come off as an emotionless void with how terribly guarded he is, incredibly vain to the point he has to fix his hair when he walks by a mirror and has a rather sarcastic sense of humor

despite seeming like an asshole outright to try to keep people from getting close to him, anyone with patience or kind words can quickly gather that he is nothing short of a gentleman when it comes down to it, very hard-working and dedicated, and underneath a seemingly selfish personality is just someone who’s never experienced much affection and likes to pretend he’s allergic to it

probably carries a comb in his pocket, trims his own hair over his bathroom sink, wears nerd glasses, lives off of takeout but is an exceptionally decent cook, too many suits in his wardrobe and not enough normal clothes, passed out in the afternoon unless it’s work-related, and would stab someone in the back if he was given a reason to, terrible habit of smoking and cannot make coffee to save his life, lives life in the fast lane

still actively struggling with his alcoholism and eating disorders, starting to slowly come apart at the seams over the last year in the city out of struggling to make connections that really seem to matter

[demyrie]

I'm curious but why did you delete JAM? It was one of my favorite JxD fics and I never got to finish reading it.

ahhhh oh dear, yeah, that happened.

So, for everyone arriving, I wrote a fic called Just Another Mission for the Jak and Daxter game series, and Jak/Daxter pairing. Yes, the green haired elf protag with the fuzzy orange thing, which btw used to be a human and was a human in fic. I think I started it when I was maybe 14 (yikes omg) and a few years ago, I deleted it, and I don’t delete fics.

Rant and personal history ahead, but tldr; i deleted this particular fic because:

1) I became more and more uncomfortable with the way I’d treated certain characters without giving them respect or resolution (throwing around things like domestic abuse while being too young to properly understand What I Was Doing or How to Answer Very Triggered Friends Who Had the Misfortune of Reading This I’m So Goddamn Sorry, as well as falling into that Not Like Other Girls slash fan ditch of treating female characters like shit/obstacles to the main pairing WHICH IS JUST ******) as well as personally uncomfortable portrayals of obsession and taking advantage of people that turn my stomach to this day (see reason 4)

2) i got way in over my head with my own writing/style which was so obtuse and self-indulgent that I felt a great amount of shame over it, including the attention it had gotten, and the way it went to my head and turned me into an egotistic little shit. I was an asshole peacock and I regret it. There was a break where I got waylaid before the final confrontation in the fic (see reason 4, also a very bad time to get held up in any narrative) and when I returned to the story, i nearly cried because it was such a mess and I didn’t know what I was saying anymore. Finishing it was a struggle and I even remember one JnD fan friend being like “hey this chapter seemed really curt??? short?? not like you” and I was like YEAH THATS NOT ME ANYMORE god i hope

3) there was a sort of ... anti-JxD surge in my little pool from people I really respected and it made me think i was doing something wrong even just remembering it, so I cut off that memory.

4) it coincided with two ugly relationships in my life that marred it, and I just wanted it gone for my own mental health.

So anon, I’m very sorry that you never got to finish it. I had good intentions in mind and gave them a happy ending where they realized they loved each other, even if the journey there was difficult. 

It both touched me and broke a piece of my heart when someone came to me years ago and asked me why I had deleted it, saying the story had given them the courage to come out as gay to their family. In that moment, overwhelmed with how ProblematicTM the whole story was, I was really struck with just ... how subjective our world experience is, and how so many things can mean so many different things to every single soul and how terrifyingly VALID peoples experiences are, no matter how they come by them. We’re all so unique and convoluted, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure -- and one man’s trigger is another man’s key to Becoming. But no matter how inspiring, I couldn’t bring myself to repost it. 

Hopefully this will be the only fic i ever delete with relish. Jak and Daxter will always be a good memory for me, regardless. Thanks for the ask, anon.

(even more) personal stuff below the cut. tw for stalking, harassment, manipulation and emotional abuse.

So.

Im a firm believer in stories living beyond their authors (something that JK rowling doesnt seem to understand iykwim). I don’t normally delete past works, because while I wrote them, I also know that they’ve outgrown me as most narratives do: people are absolutely allowed to enjoy what they want to or need to, not just because I think said thing is reflective of my current work or jives with my current stage of life. 

However, JAM was a particular Thing that Had to Go.

The timeline is hella fuzzy to me because I’ve blocked a lot of it out, but I was coming out of middle school and struggling with my mental health. On the real life side, I was stuck in a situation with a close friend of mine who was very fixated on us being in a relationship and the pining was loud enough to hear from the other side of the country. Wounded people pleaser that I was, I flipped (exhaustingly) back and forth between “i dont like you like that” and “but I want you to be happy so what if I tried liking you like that?” and there was massive amounts of hidden hurt and resentment and tension and abandonment complex activation and just ... a strangling of anything that made our friendship good for either of us. 

Also she was a she. So. Yannoe, gay is difficult.

This definitely burnt me out on the “best friends pining” trope and is probably legit the ONLY reason I’m not equally in the erasermic and erasermight camp haha. That trope feels claustrophobic and draining to me, so I leave it for others to enjoy.

It also coincided with a married 45yo adult man luring me into a “platonic, ecstatic, boundary-breaking, you-are-my-beautiful-young-muse, words cannot express how much I love you” creative type relationship that inevitably turned possessive, domineering and manipulative. Within the bounds of the Renaissance Faire community, I thought he was a safe person and he was not, and his constant reassurance that I wasn’t like other women my age was absolutely hypnotizing to a undeveloped soul who really, really wanted to be special.

We traded poetry and tarot card readings over email. He bought me manga and shared stories about his time overseas and in the service. He made me props to go with my renaissance faire character and showed me where to find cheap leather so I could piece things together myself.

He also stalked me and owned me for the better part of a year and I only realized it once he started harassing a dear friend of mine overseas, whom I was visiting, about a package that he’d sent, which apparently he’d covered in original poetry to let me know how much he loved me But Not In a Hetero or Sexual Way Bro, so of course he didn’t want it to get lost in the postal system. So what is he going to do? Note my friend twice a day asking if its arrived until she inevitably, tearfully spills that this guy is stressing her out and who is he anyway?

My horrible secret was out, which only sounded horrible when I explained it to someone else. I realized this man was trying to follow me wherever i went and I got so fucking angry that he was messing with my friend that I had to stop it.

(He called me a cunt when I broke it off with him on the phone in the dark on the floor of my bedroom in the middle of the night so my parents wouldn’t hear, then sobbed and said he was sorry. I was so dissociated from the rush of anger and helplessness that it took for me to actually MAKE the call that all I could do was wiggle my foot and watch it in the reflection of the mirror on the back of my door, and think maybe I was a cunt but I wasn’t his cunt anymore. So there. 

Afterward I slammed my forehead into the mirror a few times to make sure I’d actually done it and it wasn’t a dream.)

During all of this, I was writing this stupid fic. I think. Honestly, I don’t fucking know, but I can’t think of it without thinking of him and how i was devoured.

The stress of hiding this “totally wonderful but NORMAL PEOPLE DONT UNDERSTAND WHAT WE HAVE!!!!” grooming shit from my parents was gutting me alive, and I was so far gone RE: worthiness/autonomy that I didn’t even consider why I BOTHERED diffusing his petulant accusations over notes on deviantArt again and again as he baited me into shit just to explode over how I didn’t love him and I figured out another way to soothe his engorged and tarry ego without explicitly lying that I loved him too. 

He made me regret my silver tongue and way with words as I used it to defend myself again and again, and crushed my love of writing. I would pace the neighborhood for almost an hour several times a week, claiming I was ‘exercising’ but really trying to understand why i felt so trapped, or where the lines between love and hate lay, or why I wanted to cry all the time, as i low key tried to get hit by a car just to force something to change in my life and jolt me out of his smothering, needy nightmare of constant texting and emails and notes. I couldn’t fucking flinch without him knowing about it, and asking me if I was okay. For this reason, I react very poorly to people fretting over me at length, and loudly. I get angry and feel violated, or just pinned to the floor by someone Performing their love on me with no real regard for my health.

This whole time, I was escaping into fandom. It probably saved my life, in one way or another, because I found friends who supported me and made me laugh in the JnD sphere. Especially the friend whose distress caused me to snap and realize This Couldn’t Continue.

This terrible man was the first one outside of my friend group that I showed my writing to, the first adult as well. It was on the dark side even then, but he said it was wonderful and amazing. He teased me for being stuck up in my authors notes on JAM (one of the reasons I’m just getting over ... talking ...) but said it inspired him to start writing as well. He used that writing to imagine hokey sprawling stories of him being a hot rod racer and me being his sexy girlfriend, Very Totally in Love. Why Couldn’t We have Just Met in a Different Lifetime??? not that its a relevant question for my young 16yo friend lol just something dreamers wonder lol lol here why don’t you take this traditional irish engagement ring aka claddagh i bought for you, lie to your parents and say I bought one for everyone in our renfaire group, and turn it toward your heart, to imply that you’re in love, so that I can keep your heart safe for you until you find a boyfriend?

FUCKER YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKER ok I’m done. Fuck.

JAM was a project of mine that spanned a year or two and is intrinsically tangled in those very bad relationships and very bad lessons. I deleted it because I needed to, for purely personal reasons beyond the fact that it was generally bombastic, over-long, tone-deaf and dealt with very serious issues poorly. Due to these experiences, you won’t catch me in a hot minute writing either best-friends-pining or heavy jealousy/possessiveness fic, but everyone else? Go crazy just tag your shit.

so. anyway. isn’t subjectivity actually terrifying? You never know what something can mean to someone else. So just ask, maybe.

Damn, son. Some fics you just can’t repost.

[quatschmachen]

Tangles

A small late Christmas Monmonton fic. Takes place in 1984.

Masterpost

XXXXX

Outside the wind was blowing the cold snow across the street, whipping the drifts across the sidewalk, where a once cleanly shoveled pavement was once again covered in the light crystalline fluff not yet crushed underfoot of passersby.

Inside the home the tree was fresh, standing there bare, slightly pulled out from the corner, close to the crackling fireplace. It seemed rather forlorn amongst the festively decorated house, where popcorn garlands and handmade stockings hung.

Across the room Étienne and Samuel had entered into a heated argument as to how to decorate the tree. Edward was helping Jacques put the bubble lights on, or more honestly, untangle the bubble lights and test them. Somehow in detangling, the lights had wrapped around his elbow with one of the bubblers poking him in the bicep.

<Let me help you with that,> Jacques said as he gently lay down his section to untangle Edward.

<Tell me… do they always do that?> Edward nodded to where Étienne had grabbed the box of ornaments and was holding them hostage to an ever increasingly angry Samuel.

<Oh yes. Samuel wants the pure aesthetic of themed coloured ornaments, Étienne wants memories.>

<So… what happens?>

Jacques took a moment to respond, as he worked out one of the more complicated tangles.

<Usually Samuel ends up winning, but somehow during the middle of the night, all the old ornaments also get put on… a mystery.>

<Why do they need to fight if it’s the same result each year?> Edward was feeling like a fish out of water having come to this intimate family gathering. He was still baffled as to why they had invited him, but anything to escape the awkward Christmas with Edith he would take. Christmases at his place had never been the same since his time in the asylum.  He sensed that Edith had been privately relieved as well when he had informed her of his invitation to elsewhere.  The invitation elsewhere which originally had meant to only be him at Étienne’s, a planned out event of relaxing while Étienne moaned on about some artist he had to read about in class, or excitedly jabber on about some weird modern art style he had just learnt about. Ever since Étienne had gotten it into his head to get an MA in art history – and actually got into the school, Edward had noticed a gradual change in the other man, where once there had been an odd vacancy of interest, a renewed spark had taken hold.  Étienne had one more semester before he graduated, and Edward was very… proud, mixed with something else.

What he had assumed would be a private Christmas actually meant going to Trois-Rivières for the ‘family shindig’, a change in plans which he had not mentally prepared for. How the hell would he be explained? Étienne had waved off all his concerns informing him that ‘Suzette was the best’ and ‘we always bring friends over so its not a problem’ followed by ‘you really need to try Suzette’s tourtière’.

So he was here, the lost stranger amongst the tight knit family, talking to what could tentatively be called the patriarch. He had not figured out the other man, he was reserved, not at all like his two brothers, perhaps a little more like Élyse in nature.  

Jacques shrugged as he gently released Edward’s arm from the lights, <It’s how they say they love each other.>

Étienne was loudly screeching because Samuel had swiped the box from him, followed by thumping as Samuel quickly ran from the room.

<Love, huh? Almost sounds like a murder.> Edward joked, pleased to see a small smile appear on the other man’s face. Love was the reason why he was here, sitting with the brother, keeping distances between him and Étienne. Somehow being here was making everything around him seem real, where in private he could dream that the man he loved could return a feeling, being plunked down into this scenario made everything that wasn’t apparent.  Consciously he did not touch the other man, he lived in absolute fear that the family would suspect something. The something that wasn’t there. The something that had twisted him, the thing that tormented him. What the hell would he do if anyone asked if he and Étienne were… more than friends? Lie of course, lie bald faced to the sweet-cheeked Suzette, ‘no, just old friends’, where the lie was mostly truth, the most effective tool to bury down the truths not meant for the waking day.

<We should test before we wrap,> Jacques said as he plugged it in, distracting Edward from the pandemonium in the next room. There was that moment of anticipation, a brief flash, and then a gentle pop.

<Oh no, the blue bulb.> Edward automatically said.

<Don’t worry, I have replacements…> almost proudly, Jacques produced a small box. Methodically he tested each and every bulb, found the culprit and replaced it.  The care with which Jacques did the action, the satisfaction on his face as the lights once more flickered on, his face suddenly reflected in blue, twisted Edward’s stomach. He hated it, but he was jealous. Adjusting his glasses, Edward shifted away, trying to quell these unpleasant feelings. Mechanically he helped Jacques wrap the tree in the lights, pricking himself in the process, thankfully not drawing any blood. Standing back, Jacques surveyed the tree, making small adjustments to the lights, until he nodded in satisfaction.  

Looking at Edward he said, <Now we let the two hyenas fight over the decorations… do you want some eggnog?>

<Sure...> Rubbing his hands on his corduroy pants, Edward followed Jacques into the kitchen, where Suzette was putting together some of the meal for the next day. As she placed the lid on the dish, she let out a sound of surprise as Jacques snuck up from behind and wrapped her in his arms, giving her a kiss on her neck.

<Jacques!>

<My love, that ham looks divine. What did you use in the marinade this year?>

<Nutmeg, cinnamon, brown sugar….> she began listing off, before she noticed Edward awkwardly standing halfway in the kitchen, almost ready to flee.  <Édouard, did you want some eggnog?>

<Yes.>

<Please make yourself at home, the cups are there, and the eggnog is warm on the stove. Élyse made it, her special recipe.>

<O-ok.> quickly Edward found himself a mug, and hastily ladled some of the warm alcoholic liquid into it, before making a hasty exit not wishing to see any more of what he could not have.

The hallway wasn’t well lit, and as his wool socks slid slightly on that gap where the wood floor peeked out from the rug, Edward warmed his hands on the mug and looked at the photos on the wall.  All the frames were the same, a nice medium brown wood, with different images of the family. It looked as if they had recently had a professional photograph taken, as that one was pride of place amongst the constellations of smaller images around it. There was an image of Suzette and Jacques under a tree, hands clasped as they looked at each other deep in conversation, whoever had taken that photograph seemed to know the exact moment to capture, a moment where the sun was shining, the soft dapple of the leaf shadows around them, haloing a couple deeply in love.

Taking a sip of the cinnamon rum eggnog, he swallowed the creamy mixture, licking his lips as he glanced over the photo of Élyse wearing the hugest hair bow he had ever seen in his entire life, an image of Samuel posing dramatically on some stone stairs, and then one of Étienne wearing some ridiculous pompom sweater. Another photo of Étienne and Élyse at the Montreal Olympics, wearing the official jacket smiling in front of the flame, eyes alight with pride.  This house, Edward realized, served as the heart of this strange family nucleus, where Jacques, though quiet and never one much to be noticed, was the anchor. What would it be like to have that back home? He wondered.

A place for people to gather, feel safe, be happy together. He hadn’t had that in a long time, and his mind drifted to his family. Edith who was spending Christmas with some friends, Mac, hell when had he actually had a good sit down visit with him? Calvin? He wasn’t really family, plus he was busy annoying the hell out of Caroline and whoever else had the misfortune to be in his festive Christmas proximity. His thoughts were broken when he heard something fall to the floor in the other room, followed by Étienne letting out a string of very serious curses.

Curiously he made his way to the living room where he saw Étienne on the floor holding something, tears in his eyes as he continued to shout at Samuel who was looking down at him with a rather nasty expression.

<Relax baby brother, that decoration never really fit in with the theme anyway, that little piece of ugly… “art…” as you call it, was never worth much anyway, I think it looks better like that.> Samuel responded in a not at all comforting manner.

Was Jacques really sure this is how they expressed love for each other? Edward thought. To him it just looked like a terrible relationship. Samuel had turned his back on Étienne and was beginning to decorate the tree. As he once more looked to Étienne, Edward realized that he was in fact starting to sob rather hard. What the hell had broke? His legs were moving before he had even considered that it might be bad to walk into this situation, and he crouched next to the other man.

<Bouclés?> he said softly, <Do you want to come to the dining table with me? Bring the ornament.>

Étienne looked at him, face red from crying, then looked at the ground trying to see if he had missed any pieces. Edward also looked, finding a small wire, and an odd ball. He looked at the ornament in Étienne’s hand, and then, when Étienne confirmed they had all the pieces, he followed Edward to the dining room, carefully laying out the broken pieces on the wooden table. Sitting down, he placed his mug on the table with a thud, and looked at it frowning in thought. Étienne had quieted down slightly, watching him.

<Do you have some needle-nose pliers and glue here?> Edward asked, his thoughts shifting to the ornament, moving the parts around.  Finally before him was something he could do. He was good with his hands, with fixing what needed to be fixed. Years of necessity had taught him to repair. This ornament, while probably never going to be perfect, was doable.  

<Uh—yeah.> Étienne disappeared, returning quickly with the asked for items.  He handed them to Edward, then once more sat on the chair nearby, knees drawn up to his chin as he intently watched the other man work.

Edward felt sort of guilty for having avoided the other man ever since they had got to this house, guilty about being sort of snappy when he had been shown Étienne’s room – asking where he would sleep, and having a minor freak-out until Étienne had rolled his eyes and showed him the pullout couch in the den next to his bedroom.  He probably shouldn’t have done that, but there was nothing to do about it now. He could feel the other man’s eyes upon his hands, and he hoped that maybe repairing this ornament could make up for his mood earlier.

The only sound in the dining room was the tick-tock of the grandfather clock out in the hallway.

<So… this goes here, right?> Edward asked.

<Yes… but a little like…> Étienne reached out, his fingers brushing against Edward’s as he shifted the ball.

It took every inch of willpower not to automatically pull away, to relax into the brief touch. No one would suspect anything from such an innocent moment, even if secretly his heart was pounding. Trying not to sound shaky, Edward asked, <So I glue it like this?>

<Yeah.>  

Edward glued the piece into place, and then looked up at the other man with a wry expression, as he held it. <Looks like I might be here for a while, I should have thought this through. This is a Calder piece, isn’t it?>

<How did you know?>

<Bouclés, who else is known for making cool mobiles and was featured at Expo 67? Of course the moment you saw this tiny mobile you had to get it.>

Letting out a snort, Étienne mumbled, <Well I think we might have interfered with the artistic intent… probably won’t move as it should now… but thanks for fixing it.>

<Oh ye of little faith,> Edward responded, then, <Hey, can you like… hold up my eggnog so I can drink it?>

It took a little awkward positioning, but finally, the mug was held up enough and Edward managed a sip.

<This is gonna take a while of me holding it together, so why don’t you entertain me? Tell me something interesting.> Edward prompted, knowing that if he had to sit in silence for the next twenty minutes next to the man he should not touch he would go absolutely mad.

Étienne’s face lit up. <Yeah! This semester I took a class on surrealist art and when it comes to Magritte…> his voice droned on as he enthusiastically informed Edward all about this artist, and how he had adopted some of the techniques discussed into some of his own paintings (paintings which Edward had yet to see manifest.)

Nodding along, Edward made the appropriate comments, genuinely interested, but also halfway trying not to lean into the other man. Whenever that urge got too strong, he would get Étienne to hold up his eggnog, taking that movement to gather himself.

After another twenty minutes, Edward set the piece down onto the table. <This probably shouldn’t be moved until tomorrow. Let the glue cure.>

<But… how am I supposed decorate with it to save the tree from the boring Christmas aesthetic Samuel is subjecting it to?>

<Bouclés, just wake up early,> Edward rolled his eyes and then let out a sound of surprise as Étienne was suddenly much closer, back of his hand brushing warm against his cheek, as Étienne leant forward and whispered.

<That’s usually tough to do with you around.>

<We’re not sharing the same bed,> Edward hissed, <I thought we covered I’m sleeping on the pull-out couch downstairs?>

<You haven’t slept on that pull-out couch…> Étienne replied ominously as he quickly pulled away as the sound of someone walking drew closer.

Élyse peeked in, <Oh that’s where you two are. C’mon, it’s Christmas carols.>

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[kagetsukai]

Princess Wyvern [Dragon Age Fairy Tale AU]

Some time ago I came across this wonderful retelling of a Prince Lindworm but in a comic version with cute lesbian happy ending. One of the girls looked remarkably like @star--nymph‘s Eurydice, which made my brain have a lightbulb moment. Cue several days of desperately trying to get my muses to cooperate and here we are, a story that is a mish-mash between her Cullavellan and the fairy tale. Also, I am sorry this is a day late!!! Happy birthday, sweetness!!

Pairing: Cullen Rutherford x Eurydice Lavellan (not my OC, please check out @star--nymph‘s blog for more of her stories!!!)

Fairy Tale AU || 2510 words || Read on AO3

Once upon a time, in a land beyond the Waking Sea, there lived an elven king and queen named Lycus and Isen. They were a beautiful pair, blessed with good looks, good fortune, and respect of their people. And while their lives may have seemed perfect, they did lack one thing: a child. For countless years they tried and tried to conceive, but to no avail, and as the years passed, their despair only grew.

One day Queen Isen decided to take a long walk in the nearby woods, wishing to spend some time alone to ponder her childless existence. Lost in thought, she happened upon an old woman she did not recognize, all dressed in dark red cloth with hair white as snow.

“You look sad, my child,” said the woman. “What’s wrong?”

“There is no use telling you,” Isen replied. “There is nothing you can do to help me.”

“Try me,” the woman drawled.

The Queen understood in that moment that she was speaking with a witch, so she sagged against a tree and sighed in sadness.

“The short of it is, the King and I are childless. We have no heir to succeed us nor a child to warm our aging hearts. It’s hopeless.”

The old woman crossed her hands across her chest and smirked.

“No such thing, my child, if you do as follows” she said casually. “Return home and at sunset, take a chalice with two handles and place it in the northwest side of the garden, upside down. Then at dawn, lift the cup; you will find two roses there: a red one and a white one. If you wish to have a girl, eat the white rose, but if it’s a boy you desire, eat the red rose.”

And before Isen could thank the witch for the good news, the old woman lifted a finger to stop her.

“Beware of greed!” she announced in a booming voice. “For if you consume both roses, most horrendous thing will happen and you will forever be sorry.”

The Queen, ripe with joy and hope, thanked the witch for her blessing and rushed home to do as prescribed. She found a glorious silver chalice, placed it in the corner of the garden at sunset, and waited sleeplessly until sunrise. Once the first rays of light tickled the horizon, she ran outside and lifted the cup to find two beautiful roses underneath.

She thought long and hard on which of the roses she wanted to eat. If she had a boy, he would leave her sooner or later to become a hunter, a warrior, a man who would be strong but not there at all. Yet if she had a girl, she would grow into a princess that would want to get married and leave her as well. The choice was difficult, but Isen finally reached for the white rose and ate it. The petals were so silky and smooth, the flavor so divine, that the Queen momentarily forgot about the witch’s warning and ate the red rose as well.

And so came to pass that Queen Isen became pregnant and the kingdom was overjoyed. The royal pair looked forward to the birth of their child, but when the time came, the King got called away on an urgent matter of the state. The Queen gave birth not to one child, but two, and she cried out in horror when she saw an unnaturally pale skin of a wyvern come out first. When the second child came though, she breathed a sigh of relief, because it was a normal, beautiful baby girl.

“The King must never know!” she decreed and she ordered the wyvern child be tossed out the window.

Many years passed and the horror of that night faded from Isen’s memory. Her daughter Melia grew into a beautiful young woman who was the joy and pride of her parents. She was perfection in every way! And once the girl reached adulthood, the King and Queen decided it was time to start a search for a husband, to marry their precious daughter and help them rule their domain.

So the word was sent out and many princes from neighboring kingdoms came to look at the princess and vie for her hand. None of them ever got to the castle, because a great pale wyvern would stop any caravan and destroy it to pieces. As everybody ran for their lives, they could hear a rasping voice, calling out “A groom for me before a groom for her!”

Thus the greatest nightmare came to pass and the Queen tearfully admitted to the King what she had done. Appalled at first, he then tried sending multiple hunters to kill the wyvern; alas. it always came out victorious. Not willing to lose any more people to this monster, he finally agreed to find a husband for the wyvern.

A missive was sent out again, cleverly omitting which princess was to be married, and once more a multitude of replies came, offering their princes as grooms. When the first man arrived at the castle, he was not allowed to see his bride until the wedding, and the lo and behold, it was the wyvern. He tried to back out, but the King and Queen didn’t let him; they promised that if he managed to spend the night with the wyvern, he would be rewarded beyond compare. He agreed and married the wyvern.

In the morning, the King and Queen entered the chambers, only to see the wyvern alone, traces of blood everywhere that clearly indicated the prince had been eaten. Big purple eyes opened, gazed deeply into Lycus’ eyes, and a rasping voice announced “A groom for me before a groom for her.”

Two more times they sent for a prince and two more times the same thing happened: the wyvern would marry and eat the man, and in the morning demand that it be given another groom. The news of the monster finally got out of the castle and no more kingdoms were willing to send a prince to marry a wyvern. King Lycus used all of his influence and all of his carefully crafted diplomatic agreements, but nobody wanted to send their child to a certain doom. Soon all of their allies retreated and the kingdom fell on hard times. And still, the wyvern would not be appeased, demanding a groom before Princess Melia could marry.

The tales of their misfortune traveled far and wide, so it did not surprise them that one day a man, a human, showed up on their doorstep, demanding an audience with the King. Resigned to their fate, they granted his request and let him inside. Their guest was different from what they were used to, tall and broad and golden everywhere. His armor was gilded with symbols unknown in their culture and shone in sunlight like a beacon.

“I will marry your wyvern princess,” he announced in his deeply Fereldan accent.

Even at the edge of despair, King Lycus cared greatly for the reputation of his family.

“You are a human,” he stated. “Why should I let you marry someone of noble Dalish blood?”

Amber eyes sharpened into a steely glint and the warrior narrowed his eyes.

“I am not unknown in my lands, King Lycus, for I am General Cullen Rutherford” he announced. “And I know for a fact that you will let me marry your wyvern daughter, because no other man has been willing thus far.”

Faced so rudely with cold, hard facts, the King and the Queen had no other choice but to allow this human to marry the wyvern princess. The ceremony was small, barely anybody showed up to witness it, and many lamented the imminent loss of such a handsome man. For his part, Cullen didn’t flinch when the wyvern came to stand beside him and he didn’t shy away when his newlywed chambers where shown to him.

For he had a plan for how he would deal with the wyvern. Back home, he had come across a witch named Morrigan, who explained to him how to tame the wyvern and defeat the curse on the elven kingdom. As per her advice, he had requested a barrel of lye, a tub of milk, and a variety of whips be put in the bedroom, then he dressed in ten white shirts before putting on his groom garb.

Once alone with the wyvern, it raised onto its dreadful claws and spoke in a terrible hiss.

“Handsome lad, shed your shirt.”

Cullen was terrified down to his bones, but did not let fear show on his face. He stared the wyvern in its purple eyes and demanded, “Princess Wyvern, slough a skin!”

Whatever the monster had expected, it clearly wasn’t that. It paused in its idle movement, weighing his words.

“No one has ever dared to demand that before.”

“But I demand it now,” replied Cullen.

After a brief pause, he watched as the wyvern twisted and coiled and shifted, and the skin came off in a ghastly display that made his stomach churn. In turn, while the wyvern stared at him with inscrutable eyes, he took off one of his shirts and tossed it on top of the discarded pale scales.

“Handsome lad, shed your shirt!” it demanded again, clearly impatient.

“Princess Wyvern, slough your skin!” he replied with equal force.

And the process repeated over and over again, until Cullen was down to his last shirt. At this point, the wyvern no longer looked like a wyvern; instead, it was a mass of muscles and veins and blood, and it breathed heavily in deep, rattling huffs. Satisfied that he’d done the first part right, Cullen grabbed the various whips, dipped them in lye, and proceeded to whip the wyvern as hard as he could. The sounds of pain and agony that came from its mouth tore at his heart and made him want to stop, but he didn’t. He continued until there was nothing more than a bloody mess on the stony floor.

Carefully, and with great gentleness, he heaved the creature into his arms and brought it over to the tub of milk. He bathed it then, making sure that every bit of blood and grime washed off completely. Done with the chore, he lifted the battered wyvern out of the tub and placed it in the big, feathery bed. And just like the witch had told him, Cullen climbed in as well, placed his arms around the bruised flesh and started singing.

Now, he didn’t really prepare just what he was going to sing - he could barely believe that he had survived this long - so he started at the beginning of the Chant of Light and carried on until his voice went hoarse and quiet, and he couldn’t anymore. Thankfully, the wyvern had fallen asleep and while it scared him to do so, Cullen settled himself more comfortably and followed suit.

The morning came quietly. The King and the Queen opened the door to the bedchambers, fully expecting the man to had died, and gasped at what they saw: a room full of discarded scales mingled with white shirts, generous smears of blood ran everywhere, whips still dripped with lye, and a tub of milk stood in the corner, the liquid murky and vaguely pink. At the center of it all sat the grand bed and in it lay the golden man with a beautiful, frail-looking woman in his arms.

Shocked gasps and shouts of alarms woke up Cullen to the fact that he no longer held a wyvern, but a woman of considerable beauty. She was small and fragile, much more than other elven women he’d known, but it did not bother him. As she stirred to wakefulness, he watched as pale eyelids cracked open and the most beautiful amethyst eyes stared back at him, inquisitive and measuring.

“You’ve lifted my curse,” she said and slid her gaze away.

“Yes, I have,” he replied, his voice still gruff from the night before.

She tried to shift away from him. “You are now stuck with me.”

“Not the worst fate I could think of,” he pointed out. He pulled her closer into his arms and she let him. “After all, I married a princess who turned out to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

A small smile bloomed on her face, even while she still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“You haven’t seen many women, then.”

His eyes softened as he gazed at her pale face, taking it all in. He gently cupped her face and lifted it up, to meet his eyes.

“I have seen enough and I have no need for more.”

They kissed then, sweet and tender and fond, and while they didn’t love each other yet, they knew they would grow into it.

This is the point where a fairy tale would end with ‘and they lived happily ever after’, but this is not such a story.

While the King and the Queen were grateful to Cullen for lifting the curse on their older daughter, they did not grow fonder of him. They kept trying to get him to leave, return to his own lands, while they locked away their not-wyvern daughter. For she was not what they had expected, having spent all of her life locked in a body of a vicious monster. She hated being touched by random strangers, she wouldn’t look people in the eye, and she would bluntly tell others what was on her mind. And while she was still beautiful, King Lycus preferred to keep her away from the public eyes.

In the end, it was the brave general who once more came to her rescue and helped her run away from her cruel father. They traveled far, far away, until they were certain nobody could find them, and settled in a small hut by the forest, cultivating plants and raising stock until a very old age.

The End

===========================

Cullen closed the book and looked up at the faces of his enraptured children.

“Alright rugrats, sleep time,” he announced and moved to get up from his chair.

“Daddy, daddy! Was that story true? Was mamae really a wyvern?” asked one of them.

Cullen paused. The fairy tale was a gift from Varric one of the previous years, a silly collection of stories that featured Cullen and Eurydice in a variety of fairy tales that their children loved listening to at bedtime. While most of it was pure fiction, elements of them still rang true and hurt to think about.

Like Lycus’ treatment of Eurydice, to begin with.

“Of course not,” he said quietly. “This is just a story written by Uncle Varric, you know this, Psyche.”

The girl looked disappointed, but no less thrilled to fantasize about it further once he had gone. As Cullen got up and turned to leave, he once again vowed to love all of his children to the fullest capacity of his heart.

[sapphicwordweaver-blog]

The Little Brother and Sister

There was once a little brother who took his Sister by the hand, and said, “Since our own dear mother’s death we have not had one happy hour; our stepmother beats us every day, and, when we come near her, kicks us away with her foot. Come, let us wander forth into the wide world.” 

So all day long they travelled over meadows, fields, and stony roads. By the evening they came into a large forest, and laid themselves down in a hollow tree, and went to sleep. 

When they awoke the next morning, the sun had already risen high in the heavens, and its beams made the tree so hot that the little boy said to his sister, “I am so very thirsty, that if I knew where there was a brook, I would go and drink. Ah! I think I hear one running;” and so saying, he got up, and taking his Sister’s hand they went to look for the brook.

The wicked stepmother, however, was a witch, and had witnessed the departure of the two children: so, sneaking after them secretly, as is the habit of witches, she had enchanted all the springs in the forest.

Presently they found a brook, which ran trippingly over the pebbles, and the Brother would have drunk out of it, but the Sister heard how it said as it ran along, “Who drinks of me will become a tiger!” So the Sister exclaimed, “I pray you, Brother, drink not, or you will become a tiger, and tear me to pieces!” So the Brother did not drink, although his thirst was very great, and he said, “I will wait till the next brook.” As they came to the second, the Sister heard it say, “Who drinks of me becomes a wolf!” The Sister ran up crying, “Brother, do not, pray do not drink, or you will become a wolf and eat me up!” Then the Brother did not drink, saying, “I will wait until we come to the next spring, but then I must drink, you may say what you will; my thirst is much too great.” Just as they reached the third brook, the Sister heard the voice saying, “Who drinks of me will become a fawn—who drinks of me will become a fawn!” So the Sister said, “Oh, my Brother do not drink, or you will be changed into a fawn, and run away from me!” But he had already kneeled down, and he drank of the water, and, as the first drops passed his lips, his shape took that of a fawn.

At first the Sister wept over her little, changed Brother, and he wept too, and knelt by her, very sorrowful; but at last the maiden said, “Be still, dear little fawn, and I will never forsake you!” and, taking off her golden garter, she placed it around his neck, and, weaving rushes, made a girdle to lead him with. This she tied to him, and taking the other end in her hand, she led him away, and they travelled deeper and deeper into the forest. After they had gone a long distance they came to a little hut, and the maiden, peeping in, found it empty, and thought, “Here we can stay and dwell.” Then she looked for leaves and moss to make a soft couch for the Fawn, and every morning she went out and collected roots and berries and nuts for herself, and tender grass for the Fawn. In the evening when the Sister was tired, and had said her prayers, she laid her head upon the back of the Fawn, which served for a pillow, on which she slept soundly. Had but the Brother regained his own proper form, their lives would have been happy indeed.

Thus they dwelt in this wilderness, and some time had elapsed when it happened that the King of the country had a great hunt in the forest; and now sounded through the trees the blowing of horns, the barking of dogs, and the lusty cry of the hunters, so that the little Fawn heard them, and wanted very much to join in. “Ah!” said he to his Sister, “let me go to the hunt, I cannot restrain myself any longer;” and he begged so hard that at last she consented. “But,” she told him,“ "return again in the evening, for I shall shut my door against the wild huntsmen, and, that I may know you, do you knock, and say, ‘Sister, dear, let me in,’ and if you do not speak I shall not open the door.”

As soon as she had said this, the little Fawn sprang off quite glad and merry in the fresh breeze. The King and his huntsmen perceived the beautiful animal, and pursued him; but they could not catch him, and when they thought they certainly had him, he sprang away over the bushes, and got out of sight. Just as it was getting dark, he ran up to the hut, and, knocking, said, “Sister mine, let me in.” Then she unfastened the little door, and he went in, and rested all night long upon his soft couch. The next morning the hunt was commenced again, and as soon as the little Fawn heard the horns and the tally-ho of the sportsmen he could not rest, and said, “Sister, dear, open the door; I must be off.” The Sister opened it, saying, “Return at evening, mind, and say the words as before.” When the King and his huntsmen saw him again, the Fawn with the golden necklace, they followed him, close, but he was too nimble and quick for them. The whole day long they kept up with him, but towards evening the huntsmen made a circle around him, and one wounded him slightly in the hinder foot, so that he could run but slowly. Then one of them slipped after him to the little hut, and heard him say, “Sister, dear, open the door,” and saw that the door was opened and immediately shut behind him. The huntsman, having observed all this, went and told the King what he had seen and heard, and he said, “On the morrow I will pursue him once again.”

The Sister, however, was terribly afraid when she saw that her Fawn was wounded, and, washing off the blood, she put herbs upon the foot, and said, “Go and rest upon your bed, dear Fawn, that your wound may heal.” It was so slight, that the next morning he felt nothing of it, and when he heard the hunting cries outside, he exclaimed, “I cannot stop away—I must be there, and none shall catch me so easily again!” The Sister wept very much and told him, “Soon will they kill you, and I shall be here alone in this forest, forsaken by all the world: I cannot let you go.”

“I shall die here in vexation,” answered the Fawn, “if you do not, for when I hear the horn, I think I shall jump out of my skin.” The Sister, finding she could not prevent him, opened the door, with a heavy heart, and the Fawn jumped out, quite delighted, into the forest. As soon as the King perceived him, he said to his huntsmen, “Follow him all day long till the evening, but let no one do him any harm.” Then when the sun had set, the King asked his huntsman to show him the hut; and as they came to it he knocked at the door and said, “Let me in, dear Sister.” Upon this the door opened, and, stepping in, the King saw a maiden more beautiful than he had ever beheld before. She was frightened when she saw not her Fawn, but a man enter, who had a golden crown upon his head. But the King, looking at her with a kindly glance, held out to her his hand, saying, “Will you go with me to my castle, and be my dear wife?” “Oh, yes,” replied the maiden; “but the Fawn must go too: him I will never forsake.” The King replied, “He shall remain with you as long as you live, and shall never want.”

The King took the beautiful maiden upon his horse, and rode to his castle, where the wedding was celebrated with great splendor and she became Queen, and they lived together a long time; while the Fawn was taken care of and played about the castle garden.

The wicked stepmother, however, on whose account the children had wandered forth into the world, had supposed that long ago the Sister had been torn into pieces by the wild beasts, and the little Brother in his Fawn’s shape hunted to death by the hunters. As soon, therefore, as she heard how happy they had become, and how everything prospered with them, envy and jealousy were aroused in her wicked heart, and left her no peace; and she was always thinking in what way she could bring misfortune upon them.

Her own daughter, who was as ugly as night, and had but one eye, for which she was continually reproached, said, “The luck of being a Queen has never happened to me.” 

“Be quiet, now,” replied the old woman, “and make yourself contented: when the time comes I will help and assist you.” 

As soon, then, as the time came when the Queen gave birth to a beautiful little boy, which happened when the King was out hunting, the old witch took the form of a chambermaid, and got into the room where the Queen was lying, and said to her, “The bath is ready, which will restore you and give you fresh strength; be quick before it gets cold.” Her daughter being at hand, they carried the weak Queen between them into the room, and laid her in the bath, and then, shutting the door, they ran off; but first they made up an immense fire in the stove, which must soon suffocate the poor young Queen.

When this was done, the old woman took her daughter, and, putting a cap upon her head, laid her in the bed in the Queen’s place. She gave her, too, the form and appearance of the real Queen, as far as she was able; but she could not restore the lost eye, and, so that the King might not notice it, she turned her upon that side where there was no eye.

When midnight came, and every one was asleep, the nurse, who sat by herself, wide awake, near the cradle, in the nursery, saw the door open and the true Queen come in. She took the child in her arms, and rocked it a while, and then, shaking up its pillow, laid it down in its cradle, and covered it over again. She did not forget the Fawn, either, but going to the corner where he was, stroked his head, and then went silently out of the door. The nurse asked in the morning of the guards if any one had passed into the castle during the night; but they answered, “No, we have not seen anybody.” For many nights afterwards she came constantly, but never spoke a word; and the nurse saw her always, but she would not trust herself to speak about it to any one.

When some time had passed away, the Queen one night began to speak, and said—

“How fares my child! how fares my fawn?

Twice more will I come, but never again.”

The nurse made no reply; but, when she had disappeared, went to the King, and told him. The King exclaimed, “Oh, mercy! what does this mean?—the next night I will watch myself by the child.” So in the evening he went into the nursery, and about midnight the Queen appeared, and said—

“How fares my child! how fares my fawn?

Once more will I come, but never again.”

And she nursed the child, as she usually did, and then disappeared. The King dared not speak; but he watched the following night, and this time she said—

“How fares my child! how fares my fawn?

This time have I come, but never again.”

At these words the King could hold back no longer, but, springing up, cried, “You can be no other than my dear wife!” Then she answered, “Yes, I am your dear wife;” and at that moment her life was restored by God’s mercy, and she was again as beautiful and charming as ever. She told the King the fraud which the witch and her daughter had practised upon him, and he had them both tried, and sentence was pronounced against them. The little Fawn was disenchanted, and received once more his human form; and the Brother and Sister lived happily together to the end of their days.

[athyrabunlord]

LLSHP 14 - Farewell

Arc1: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7]

Arc2: [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14]

Arc3: [Chapter 15] [Chapter 16] [Chapter 17] [Chapter 18 - sanguinem pudicitia (TBD)]

Interludes: [Carbonado (1)] [Carbonado (2)] [Of Feathers and Wind] [Delphinus (teaser blip)]

[Brief note about School Term] [other LLSHP AU stuff] [YohaMaRuby concept arts] [ChikaYouRiko concept arts] [KanaDiaMari concept arts] [Hogwarts Staff]

[FFN link] (up until ch14!) [Pixiv Link] [Translated to Chinese by plin2290]

A/N: Sorry this took over a month! The last chapter was a horrible cliffhanger XD;; Well, issues IRL make it hard to write. Yoshiko’s state of mind is hard to portray as well sigh. Anyway, this is the last chapter of Arc2. Before moving onto Arc3 (which is also the last arc of this story), I will be writing another Interlude, to fill in some blanks and to transition into Arc3. As always, thanks for reading and the support! Hope you’ll enjoy this chapter! Words: 5,717

Yoshiko could only stare in horror as the wand pieces slowly fall from Hanamaru’s loose hands, landing with a soft thud that echoes rather loudly in her ears. The brunette just stands there, her gaze lost and her face pale.

Even though Immobulus has lifted due to the broken wand, Yoshiko still couldn’t move. Numb, she glances between the girl and the two halves of the now useless wooden stick.

“You foolish human.”

Hanamaru’s eyes widen a fraction when a dark-colored spell strikes her in the back. Like a marionette with its strings cut off, she slumps sideways in a heap.

Snapped out of her daze, Yoshiko hurries forward and gathers the petite girl in her arms, though she keeps her wand warily pointed at the smirking Yohane.

“Hanamaru-! Hanamaru!! Can you hear me? Hanamaru!”

After a few frantic shakes, Hanamaru languidly opens her eyes and moans in pain. Her gaze is unfocused and her breathing is rather shallow and strained. “C-Cold… cold… nngh…”

“Hanamaru!”

Yoshiko grasps for her hand, blanching at how cold her skin is. When she gently caresses Hanamaru’s cheek, she notices how alarmingly hot it feels in contrast.

“What did you do to her!”

“Hmm, something similar to what I did to that blonde girl, except this time it’s a bull’s eye.” Yohane appears quite pleased. “Good to know it does work.”

Yoshiko recalls the Moonstruck incident, of how Mari was unable to utilize magic and had taken a while to recover her strength. Wandless and now hit by this unknown Curse, what does this mean for Hanamaru?

Though filled with rage, Yoshiko could not utter any incantation to attack Yohane. The winged girl tilts her head and smiles prettily, her gaze condescending as if daring her to attack and scorning her for her weakness.

“You’re useless, both of you.”

Yoshiko trembles in anger, her magic sparkling at the tip of her wand yet her parched throat still refuses to cooperate.

“It’s okay though. I was once just as powerless as you are, so disgustingly useless.” There’s pity, perhaps even sympathy in Yohane’s soft voice, and it sickens Yoshiko to her core. “But then I learned and grew up. You see, the two of you are hindered by mortal emotions. The same goes for Lily and the Kurosawa heiress. They brought their own downfall.”

“How dare you-!” Yoshiko snarls, this time successfully firing a Diffindo at her adversary. However, just as expected, Yohane blocks the Severing Charm with her wing. None of the feathers are ruffled, remaining as impeccable and glossy as ever. She continues speaking as if a potentially fatal spell hasn’t been sent to her.

“I must say I’m disappointed in Hanamaru. She has such potential! I thought she was worthy to be by my side. Alas, it appears that she has chosen you,” Yohane narrows her eyes, her tone dropping to a venomous octave. “How dare a little demon betray her master!?”

Maybe it is instincts, or her intangible connection to Yohane, for Yoshiko senses her intent the moment Riko’s wand is pointed at Hanamaru. Frantic, Yoshiko pushes the defenseless girl behind her and spreads her arms wide just as Yohane fires the terrible Curse.

“Crucio!”

She screams.

It’s pure agony.

Nothing can compare.

Her nerves are on fire.

Her mind is blank and she couldn’t think.

Not even to pray for the pain to stop.

It only lasts a few seconds, but the aftermaths still cause excruciating stings to travel up and down her limbs. She is vaguely aware of being half-curled up on the ground, her wide eyes staring at the spinning ceiling. As she struggles to breathe, she barely hears Yohane’s contemplative voice.

“...it’s freakish hearing my own voice screaming. Perhaps I’m not as detached as I thought, still hindered by mortal emotions. I’ve spoken too much to you already because I took pity on your ignorance...”

Quivering, Yoshiko manages to roll onto her back and peers weakly at Hanamaru’s prone form. Is this it? This is what Chika, You and Riko had felt, struck by this torture Curse? Riko was right in Obliviating them back then. It’s better off not remembering anything if only to escape such agony. But how about Riko? How will she recover… if ever?

Tears slide down her cheeks in streams, though she isn’t quite sure why she is crying. From the pain? From self-pity? From… guilt?

Even though Yohane is the one ultimately making her friends suffer, Yoshiko feels just as much blame. And, in a way, her existence causes Yohane to become the way she is too.

What should she do?

What can she do?

Before Hanamaru broke her own wand, Yoshiko’s goal had been to save her but how could she do that now-?

“I don’t want your blood on my hands, so I’ve made my choice,” Yohane says suddenly and stretches her wings wide.

Under the dim light of the Chamber of Secrets, surrounded by darkness and faint silhouettes of wall carvings and ornaments, Yohane truly looks every inch of the charismatic fallen angel that Yoshiko once aspired to become. Shadows begin to descend upon them, hovering closer and closer as they follow Yohane’s command.

Shivering, Yoshiko notices that her breaths are coming out in white puffs, for the temperature around them has dropped drastically. Before, her body was seized in fatigue but as the cloaked figures glide towards her, she understands that it is sheer terror that paralyzes her.

Dementors.

“Consider this my last concession towards you two.” Yoshiko could not see the winged girl’s expression but she could hear the complacency in her tone. “They should be familiar, no? Don’t worry, it’ll be painless, and it’ll be over within moments. Your souls shall forever become part of them, and thus part of my legion. Is that not wonderful?”

Yoshiko twitches feebly, her hand desperately reaching for Hanamaru’s. The brunette’s hoarse whimpering feels like continuous stabs to her heart, especially because she couldn’t do a goddamn thing to protect her.

Her vision flickers in and out of focus until only tunnel vision remains. Instead of the ceiling, she’s watching her memories flash by one by one in reverse.

And only the bad ones.

Riko lying motionlessly in the basement of the Hut; the werewolf’s trapped body; the tendrils oozing out of her hand and slashing at Kanan’s Animagus form-

“What’s she doing again?”

“Some black magic ritual… seriously, what’s wrong with her?”

“Junior high students shouldn’t be doing stupid stuff like this.”

“She calls herself a fallen angel, hahaha! Probably watches too much anime!”

Yoshiko holds up her head high, ignoring their whispered conversations, snickers and any odd looks. Her classmates are the foolish ones. They have no idea what she’s capable of! Ku ku ku, she’ll show them! Compared to the series of misfortunes she’s experienced, bullying means nothing!

...yeah, it doesn’t affect her at all.

“Now now, there is no such thing as magic, angels and all that. Tsushima-san, you must have been hallucinating. Cups don’t move on their own.”

The psychiatrist’s patronizing smile only irritates Yoshiko. Alas, the ten-year-old could only glare at the adult, who shakes his head at her lack of response.

“You’re a bright kid, from what I can see from your assessments. I can only hope this is a phase and you’ll grow out of it.”

Yoshiko huffs. Oh she’s tried to be ‘normal’ like every other kid, but the feeling of ‘wrong’ is just so pervasive that she has to trust her instincts. She’s not hurting anyone, so why can’t she just be herself?

“What did you do?”

The matron’s panicked voice makes Yoshiko want to flee too, but the six-year-old could only sit there and stare at the empty space where the stool’s leg once stands. She then tilts her head and claps her hands proudly.

“Look, I have special powers! Hehe, I really am an angel!”

Her smile drops at the matron’s somber expression. Did she do something she’s not supposed to do? But she’s been a good girl, following rules and always on her best behavior…

“W-Why are you crying?!”

“Uuuaaa! Yoshiko-chan is going to disappear! Uuuaaa!”

“What!? No I’m not! What makes you think that?”

“Y-You said y-you’re going to -hic-  return to the -hic- sky! I-I’m not an angel, so I can’t -hic- go with you!”

“What? That’s silly. You’re silly, Zuramaru.”

“What -hic- do you mean?”

“When I return to the sky, I’ll bring you with me, duh! So stop crying already.”

The pudgy-cheeked brunette rubs her eyes and beams up at Yoshiko. “Promise?”

“Promise!” The two small five-year-olds lock their pinkie fingers, giggling as they resume playing at the monkey bars and slide.

Right, Hanamaru’s always believed in her… but, is this her memory, or Yohane’s? Yoshiko doesn’t know anymore. She reviews the memory in a detached manner, both fascinated and saddened by the scene before her.

The petite brunette was always by herself at the playground, engrossed in the thick books she brought every time her grandparents dropped her off by the bench. The other kids would only give her curious glances but not once invited the quiet girl to their games. Yoshiko decided to approach her one random day, having failed in recruiting any of the other kids. None of them believed that she was an angel, so maybe this girl would?

“Whatcha reading?”

The ochre-eyed girl jolts and peers at her shyly, probably not expecting anyone to talk to her. After Yoshiko takes a seat beside her, she relaxes slightly and gives her a friendly smile. “An encyclopedia zura!”

“En-sy-klo-wut?” Yoshiko leans close, frowning at the big paragraphs and terms she couldn’t even pronounce, let alone understand. At least, those colored pictures look cool!

“It’s like a collection of information about various subjects zura,” the small girl looks happy at her interest. “Would you like to read with me? I’m on the chapter about the Earth’s core zura!”

Shrugging, Yoshiko then found herself spending the rest of the day with this girl, who had the weirdest dialect. It was fun though, looking at the pictures and learning about stuff like volcanoes and earthquakes and tsunamis. Through the girl’s helpful explanations, Yoshiko now understood why these natural disasters happened, and how land only made up a small portion of the world.

“Wow, so we live… on a planet… that’s mostly water?”

“Yup! The oceans are huuuuuge zura!” The girl spread her arms wide, her eyes sparkling. “And deep too! There are many places people haven’t explored yet! Look at this zura!”

Yoshiko stared at the odd-looking fish on the page. It was bony and, frankly, ugly. At least, next to the toothy monster called ‘Anglerfish’ or something, this deep-sea fish looked more dignified. After reading a bit more, she became more attached to this odd ‘living fossil’. Apparently, its kind has lived in this world for millions of years! How incredible!

“I’ve decided, this SHIIRA-KANSU is gonna be my little demon!”

“Littoru...deh...mon?”

Yoshiko flustered. She wasn’t prepared to introduce the concept to the girl yet. She thought of herself as an angel but she’s also considered the possibility of being an angel trapped in the mortal world. That was why she needed to recruit followers and minions, her little demons, to help her return to where she should be.

The question was, how could she explain all that to this girl without getting shunned like everyone else did?

To her surprise, the brunette gave her a big smile. “That’s pretty cool! Tell me more zura! I like good stories!”

At least, she seemed to think it was a story. Only a fine line existed between fiction and nonfiction, so there was hope to recruit her! Grinning, Yoshiko spent the rest of the afternoon running around the playground with the giggling girl. They made up more and more aquatic characters to join the coelacanth, drawing them in the sand with sticks. “Shiira~” “Kansu!” “Shiira~” “Kansu!”

They danced and chanted. It was the most fun the two little girls ever had.

Hanamaru was her first friend.

Whether this memory was hers or not, this feeling of pure joy was real.

Yoshiko could feel strength and a bit of warmth returning to her body. By concentrating her mind on this positive feeling, her senses are no longer muddled and she could think again. She doesn’t remember the specifics, and she certainly doesn’t remember where and why the Dementor attacked them when they were so little.

But she is certain of this feeling. Her first friend, and now…

She painstakingly sits up and grasps for her wand. “I may have fallen, but I’m not as far gone as you are.”

Yohane quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh?”

Yoshiko smiles serenely.  “I will protect the girl I love, and rid you from her world.”

The fallen angel scoffs and flicks Riko’s wand. A Dementor raises its bony, rotten hand towards Yoshiko, and she could feel those depressing memories resume clawing at the edges of her vision. She takes a deep breath and focuses her thoughts on Hanamaru and Hanamaru only.

Her hand is surprisingly steady as she points her wand at the atrocious creature. “Expecto patronum!!”

There’s a burst of light, causing the Dementors to reel back with raspy shrieks that sound more like sandpaper dragging against another. A silver fish, just as bony yet noble as the one from the illustration, elegantly swims across the air. Wisps of light flutter behind it like waves and the tidal wave of its magic forces the Dementors to retreat. The coelacanth gives chase, its relatively small size belying its tremendous power as it shoots across the air like a torpedo.

The silver waves around it give off an illusion of a hungry shark chasing after its preys. The Dementors, seemingly anxious to avoid getting in contact with the light, have no choice but to flee entirely.

The coelacanth then swims towards the small ball of fur, gently enshrouding the unconscious bat in a veil of silver light. Wordlessly, Yoshiko uses a Charm to summon Lucifer towards her and gingerly places her little demon beside Hanamaru. The brunette’s breathing has evened out and she is no longer trembling.

As if in a trance, Yoshiko holds out her hand towards the approaching coelacanth, the tip of her finger touching its translucent head. It is surreal, that she’s finally able to cast a corporeal Patronus and actually fight off the Dementors.

“Thank you, Shiirakansu.”

The Patronus is conjured from the memory of her feelings for Hanamaru after all.

“H-How? How are you able to cast the Patronus-?” For the first time since their encounter, Yohane’s composure has cracked. Fear flickers in those narrowed red eyes as she raises the sakura wand defensively. “How could you, when I can’t-?”

“I don’t know,” Yoshiko murmurs, still wrapped in the sensation of floating even though her feet are rooted on the ground. “But… maybe, it’s because I love her.”

Yohane’s expression contorts to something that could only be described as Devil-like, so full of hatred and murderous intent. She flaps her wings, sending powerful gusts towards them as she springs into the air.

Before she could make the next move, the coelacanth suddenly charges towards her. The Patronus tears through Yohane’s left wing despite being impenetrable under all those spells earlier. At the same moment, it feels as if a sledgehammer strikes Yoshiko in the left chest.

She collapses on her knees, clutching her heart, while Yohane plummets to the ground and groans in pain. She could feel her strength waning, similar to how she almost lost consciousness from when the Dementors appeared, yet it also feels different in a frightening way.

Something drips onto her hand and it takes her a moment to register what the dark liquid is.

Blood.

Yohane looks just as shocked as Yoshiko, glancing between her damaged wing and the blood trickling out of the latter’s nose. Tendrils of black magic attempt to fix the gaping hole in her left wing but to no avail.

“... if either of us gets injured, the other cannot escape unscathed either huh…” Yohane’s voice is rather shaky, her face pale as if unable to accept such revelation.

On the other hand, Yoshiko feels strangely calm as she stares at the blood in her palm in morbid fascination. She’s supposed to be a matured Horcrux, an entity that was once just a quill pen, yet she was given a chance to experience a human’s life.

Since she’s not a human in the first place, why be fearful of death? Now, she has the power to protect Hanamaru, so she has nothing to be scared of anymore. If wiping out her existence can defeat Yohane, to cause the Fallen’s downfall, then that’s a rather cheap price to pay. This way, her friends would no longer suffer, and there will be no more danger to Hanamaru and the others.

This way, she could atone for Father and Mother’s deaths.

Grim determination fuels her exhausted body as she raises her wand once more. She pours all of her magic into her Patronus, causing it to shimmer even brighter than ever.

“Farewell, datenshi Yohane.”

“No...no! Don’t come near me!” Yohane snarls desperately, dissolving her feathered wings into a black mist of raw magic before directing it to intercept the coelacanth’s dive.

The collision causes a terrible explosion that sends the two girls flying. Yoshiko barely registers crashing against the wall, no longer feeling pain or any other senses for that matter. Her consciousness is starting to drift away again.

Before that blissful oblivion could claim her, Yohane’s distorted voice reverberates in her mind and squashes her hope for ending this once and for all.

“We’ll meet again. Yoshiko. Next time, I won’t be so careless. Next time, I won’t be so soft… I will reclaim you, one way or another.”

Yoshiko passes out with a wry smile on her face.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

She wakes up to the sensation of terrible fatigue weighing down her limbs.

Opening her eyes alone seems to drain her, and she musters all her willpower to keep her mind from floating away. The acrid smell of blood no longer fills her nostrils; instead, she is soothed by the fresh scent of clean linen and sweet fragrance of potions. Though her vision is limited, she deduces that she is in the Hospital Wing.

Ah, she is still alive, somehow.

“Y-Yoshiko-chan!”

She feels oddly detached even as Ruby appears in her vision, followed by Chika and You with Mari and Kanan close behind. She should feel relieved and happy to see her friends, yet there’s a void in her emotions. Perhaps she’s simply tired from everything.

She should be disconcerted by her lack of emotion, but she isn’t. She doesn’t care about herself anymore, really, but she doesn’t want her friends to worry either. She closes her eyes wearily for a few moments before opening them again, vowing to at least try to act normal.

“Can you hear us?” Ruby gingerly reaches for Yoshiko’s hand, smiling when the latter weakly squeezes back. “Y-You recognize us, right?”

Yoshiko nods slowly, unable to speak due to how dry her throat feels. Noticing her discomfort, Ruby hastily helps her sit up and summons a glass of water.

“You’ve been unconscious for a whole day,” Mari says grimly, and the bags under their eyes imply they probably have not slept since.

Though touched by their concern, Yoshiko’s mind couldn’t seem to grasp at that gratitude and soon she feels like a hollow husk again. She drinks the water mechanically, if only for the sake of being able to speak.

“...where… Hana...maru…”

Kanan gestures at the neighboring bed and, with Ruby’s help, Yoshiko is able to see Hanamaru’s sleeping form, tucked snuggly under the blanket. She looks unharmed, and the small cut on her cheek must have been long healed by the school’s matron.

Under Yoshiko’s questioning gaze, You elaborates with a shaky sigh. “Chika-chan and I found you two in the abandoned lavatory. When we left St. Mungo’s and returned here, we looked all over the school for you, but neither of you was in your House’s Dorms. The Room of Requirement aside, we could only think of that lavatory and…”

“You were both covered in rubble and have many bruises and cuts all over,” Chika leans forward, her eyes damp. “T-There was blood on you, but Madam assured us that you’re both physically fine. S-She healed your wounds.”

“And where… she-?”

“She was here until moments ago, summoned away by a staff meeting. We promised her to look after you two. We also found your bat. Madam healed it as well…” You trails off, pointing at creature hanging upside down on the chandelier. Lucifer keeps its distance, though it does let out a scratchy bark as if in greeting.

Yoshiko smiles and is puzzled when the feeling of relief stays. Then again, Lucifer is connected to her like nothing else.

They’re both Horcruxes after all, Lucifer being a failed experiment and her being an unwanted but successful one. Yoshiko cringes and bites down on her lip to repress the urge to throw up. The others exchange worried looks at that.

“Just what h-happened, Yoshiko-chan?” Ruby then holds out the broken halves of Hanamaru’s wand, her voice wavering. “Madam almost wanted to send you to St. Mungo’s because her Diagnosis Charm d-detected traces of a powerful Curse that was cast on you.”

Yoshiko lowers her head, almost wanting to hide somewhere so that she could be alone and not deal with all this. She still doesn’t fully understand most of what happened down in the Chamber of Secrets. Or, rather, she cannot accept anything even though deep down, she knows that it’s the truth, as painful as it is. For someone who just regained consciousness, she is surprised by the clarity of her memories.

I can’t forget even if I wanted to huh?

One glance at her friends’ anxious expressions convinces her otherwise. She owes them that much.

“...it was the Cruciatus Curse...”

Under their horrified faces, Yoshiko begins to retell the events in the Chamber except she omits some facts. She cannot bring herself to reveal Yohane’s identity and the whole matter of Horcrux; instead, she just vaguely mentions that the enemy is a Slytherin descendant whose face was hidden from view by a mask. She wants to talk to Hanamaru first before sharing the whole story with the others. Hanamaru probably doesn’t want anyone to know that she’s been under the Imperius Curse, if she even remembers that part.

Besides, if that Curse really did work like Muggle hypnotism as Yohane said, then what were the instances that Hanamaru was under its influence and wasn’t?

Yoshiko doesn’t dare to think how this would affect their relationship.

Being a matured Horcrux or whatever, she has these human feelings. She does love Hanamaru, she has no doubt about that, and honestly, this is the only emotion that’s keeping her from breaking down in self-pity and self-loathing.

Hmn, what would her friends do if they know what she really is?

In the end, even here in the world of magic, she is still an abomination. How ironic.

“... and somehow my Patronus Charm worked on the witch’s feathered wings and, I lose consciousness afterward so I don’t know how and who got Hanamaru and me up from the Chamber.”

Silence greets her after her condensed story, and Yoshiko notices that her friends appear to be absorbing her tale. Mari looks understandably concerned about Hanamaru’s health, having been hit by that unknown spell before, while You and Chika have a murmured conversation about how the lavatory looked undisturbed, meaning someone must have closed the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets before their arrival.

Only Yohane could have possibly done that as a Parseltongue. But why did she not take her or Hanamaru when she fled?

Yoshiko rubs her temple. There’s no point in figuring out her motive. It’s more important to decide on what their next step should be, considering everything that has happened over the span of merely two days.

It was all too much.

“So… where is Dia-san? Is she still at the hospital with Lily?”

At this, Kanan actually growls and might have changed to her Animagus form if Mari hadn’t kept a vice grip on her shoulder. The blonde’s scowl, however, is just as dark as the ponytailed witch’s.

“Riko-chan is under magically-induced coma to help heal her mind,” You says dully, her hand whimsically patting Chika’s back when the latter leans against her with a sad frown. “It’s the most the Healers could do, considering how m-many times she was h-hit with that Curse…”

Yoshiko swallows hard, feeling nauseous again. There’s nothing they could do except believe in the Healers.

“And Onee-chan is…” Ruby’s subconsciously tightens her grip on Yoshiko’s hand. “She’s considered the prime suspect behind what happened to Riko-san.”

“What?!” Though fatigued, Yoshiko gladly embraces this burst of anger since it is better than that quagmire of depression.

“The Professors all spoke on Onee-chan’s behalf, the House of Slytherin and other students too. But, from the official s-side of things, we all do seem very suspicious. We just happened to be near the Shack and at Hogsmeade during the Moonstruck incident, and then how Onee-chan discovered Riko-san in the middle of nowhere, and now y-you and Hanamaru-chan, in the abandoned lavatory...”

Kanan’s fists are clenched. “And the fact we all seem unwilling to divulge details. Of course we can’t, we don’t know what we say may or may not affect Riko-chan. Each of us has already been questioned by the investigators, but just as expected, they suspect that we’re not telling the whole truth.”

“But Dia protected us. She took any blame and redirected any suspicion towards herself. She is not a Minor anymore and is treated as the heiress and a full Pureblood adult who will eventually be granted a seat in the Wizengamot, so they could not exactly arrest her without trial. We think it’s only due to the Kurosawa name that the Ministry officials are prevented from using the Veritaserum. È solo che è così ridicolo!” Mari then continues to mutter in Italian, which is most likely swear words.

“At least, our family name is able to protect her to an extent,” Ruby lets out a quiet chuckle. It’s a rather disconcerting, cold sound. “But it’s not for Onee-chan’s own good, but for the sake of our family prestige.”

“Those fucking geezers. They didn’t take Dia’s relationship with Rikocchi well.”

“Even though the carbonado necklace is damning evidence,” Kanan pauses thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I don’t think Riko-chan’s parents said anything about it…”

“Either way, our family is trying to suppress as much news as possible, while keeping Onee-chan under house arrest. In fact, she’s already been withdrawn from Hogwarts for an undetermined time.”

Yoshiko stares at Ruby blankly. The younger Kurosawa gives her a slight nod, though the gesture seems to be more for herself than for her friend. Yoshiko then glances at Mari, You, Chika and Kanan, who all share the same helpless and weary looks.

The world out there is not nice. Hogwarts has been like a shelter for the teenagers, for the students, but the society is cruel and unforgiving to those who step into adulthood. Magic is a wonderful thing, and they’re supposed to be having and enjoying their first year at Hogwarts, yet…

The Christmas Banquet almost feels like a long time ago, even though it actually only took place two months ago.

“So… it’s come to do this, huh?”

Mari exhales shakily. “For the next while, we will be monitored closely - we would still have freedom as any other students, but meeting up in the Room of Requirement or anywhere else would be impossible now. This is already more than we could’ve asked for. It’s only Dia’s… sacrifice and the Professors’ words that prevent us from being under constant escort and daily detention-”

“But we didn’t do anything wrong! Why!? Why should we be punished?!”

You and Chika nod in agreement, but Kanan shakes her head grimly. “We still broke the rules. We left school grounds outside of curfew, for starters. It’s… the school’s way of trying to protect us, to keep us out of trouble from now on. As horrible as it was, the fact that you and Maru were discovered unconscious and injured is the leverage that the staff used to convince the Ministry otherwise. We are the victims.”

“And we really are!” The angrier Yoshiko feels, the more tired she becomes and all she wants to do is pass out and hope that everything would be back to normal by the time she wakes up. Alas, she knows that would never happen, and thus she struggles to stay awake. “I still can’t believe they’d do that to Dia-san…”

“Me neither. But, this will only be temporary. I’ll definitely figure out a way to help Onee-chan.” In spite of her meek countenance, Ruby’s voice is hard like steel.

Chika gives her a supportive pat on the shoulder. “Of course, Ruby-chan. We won’t let things stay like this.”

“That’s the spirit,” Kanan also pats Ruby’s head while You gives her a salute. “For the time being, we need to focus on recovering and get things back in order. From what you’ve told us, Yoshiko, it sounds like the enemies will be keeping a low profile for a while too.”

“We will be ready next time,” Mari’s grin is predatory. “They’ll regret in underestimating us.”

Normally, Yoshiko would have joined them in their resolute vow and rely on this positive energy to recuperate spiritually. However, she could only think about what would happen when this so-called ‘next time’ comes.

Yoshiko forces a small smile on her face. No, she’s already made up her mind. Her fate is inconsequential as long as she can bring down Yohane and the Fallen. As long as her friends are safe.

As long as Hanamaru is okay...

“...mnnn…”

“Maru?” Being the first to notice the slight movement, Kanan hurries to the other bed to check up on the brunette.

“Hanamaru-chan! You’re a-awake!” Ruby smiles tearfully but glances between her two friends, uncertain whether to leave Yoshiko’s side or go check up on the other girl.

“Ruby, I want to see her.”

“But Yoshiko-chan, you’re still-”

“Please.”

After sharing an understanding look, You and Chika help her get up and keep her supported as they all gather around the brunette. Mari quickly sends off her Patronus to alert the matron and proceeds to cast a simple Diagnostic Charm on Hanamaru in the meantime.

“Just low on energy but overall she seems okay,” Mari sighs in relief. “Of course, we should wait for the matron for a proper check-up.”

Ruby glances at Yoshiko, as if waiting for her to speak first but the latter shakes her head and gives her a weak nudge. Though puzzled, Ruby nods and turns towards Hanamaru.

“How are you f-feeling, Hanamaru-chan? Can you hear me? Do you r-recognize us?”

Yoshiko stares at the petite girl closely for any sign of discomfort. Hanamaru appears groggy still, her body limp as Kanan gently helps her sit up and lean against the pillow. Smiling feebly at them, she is about to say something when she begins to cough.

“Could I… water-?”

Similar to earlier with Yoshiko, Ruby hastily summons a glass of water and holds it towards her friend.

However, she almost drops it at Hanamaru’s reaction.

“M-Mirai zura!”

“Eh?”

“The glass just flew! How did you do that zura?”

Yoshiko could feel her heart dropping.

Ruby’s face is pale and Chika’s eyes are wide in shock, while Kanan and Mari exchange nervous glances. You lets out a strained chuckle. “Aw, come on, Hanamaru-chan, that’s just the Summoning Charm…”

The brunette tilts her head, her ochre eyes glimmering with fascination. “Charm? You mean magic? Ooh, so this is how you cast a spell zura!”

Yoshiko could feel her throat clog up.

“H-Hanamaru-chan, do you not r-remember us?” Ruby holds her friend’s hand desperately, her voice shaking.

Hanamaru blinks and winces a bit, looking even smaller on the big bed and under the thick blanket. “I-I… no… t-this is the first t-time I’ve met you all zura…”

Yoshiko could feel her heart clench in pain, comparable to that of a Cruciatus Curse.

“Maru, what do you remember then-? D-Do you,” Kanan swallows hard, gazing at the smaller girl hopefully. “At least remember how you got here?”

Mari wraps a comforting arm around Ruby’s shoulder, pulling the frozen girl against her. “This is Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You seem to know the concept of magic at least…”

“Erm, yes, I-I got a letter and…” Hanamaru shrinks even more, the previous sparkle in her eyes now replaced by confusion and anxiousness. “I packed many luggages-? M-My grandparents d-didn’t want me to leave b-but they said they a-also understood z-zura. Oh, I live in a temple, so we weren’t too surprised that a school of magic exist zura! Well, it was still shocking but a-according to the witch w-who took me t-to buy supplies and my wand, w-we took the news pretty well zura, compared to other Muggleborns, um…”

She looks at them helplessly, her small hands gripping the blanket.

“W-What happened to me zura?”

Yoshiko could fee her eyes sting as she leans on the bed, nearly hyperventilating. She could feel You and Chika attempting to support her but she can’t find the strength to even try anymore.

Then, a familiar hand is caressing her back as if to ease her ragged breathing.

“Are you okay zura? M-Maybe you should be resting?”

Yoshiko peers up at Hanamaru’s soft smile in disbelief, her heart cracking from the girl’s unconditional concern.

You should be the one in distress! Why are you comforting me-? Why… why did this happen? Why you? Why?!

She allows herself to be pulled into Hanamaru’s arms as tears slide down her cheeks and sobs shake her body. She burrows her face against the crook of the brunette’s neck, indulging in her scent and warmth for one last time.

After all, in a way, this is farewell.

[alleiradayne]

Bang Your Head (Cullen x F!Trevelyan Modern AU) Part 91

Catch up on the previous part - part 90 | ao3 Start from the beginning - part 1 | ao3

Amodisia’s The trial’s saving grace.

The large SUV lumbered into the town square of Redcliffe, time slowing to a crawl as though Amodisia dreamed. Remnants of a year-old memory returned, rushing to the fore of her mind as she watched the diner pass, Ashara following the curving road to the center of the square. Two doors down sat a coffee shop, a tiny entry in front of which Ashara parked the truck.

“Before you leave,” Ashara began she dug through a black duffle bag in the passenger seat. “Clip this in your purse,” she said as she turned over the center console and handed Amodisia a tiny device. “We’ll be able to hear everything. If it goes south, we’ll be in before you think to ask.”

With a nod, Amodisia took the device and clipped it into her purse. “Nothing is going to happen, Ash. I'm… in good hands. But thank you.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Theirin. Delrin and Samson will follow you in about thirty-three and fifty-two seconds. Be a dear and ignore them?” Ashara’s glamorous smile spread across her lips revealing small, white teeth.

Amodisia laughed at that, a hand covering her lips. “Have you ever considered working for the state, Ms. Lavellen? We could use someone like you.”

A curious brow arched towards her hairline as Ashara eyed her. But before she spoke, Amodisia waved off the question. “So rude of me to poach Mr. Rutherford’s employees. Forget I said that.”

“It would take more than a little flattery to pull me away from REDIS, ma’am. But I appreciate your honesty.” Another dazzling smile flashed before Ashara shooed her from the truck. “Best be on your way. We already appear suspicious in this ridiculous truck.”

Despite her urge to laugh, Amodisia remained calm, her chest expanding with deep, steadying breath and stamping down her nerves, steeling her resolve. Though returning to the square summoned memories better left buried, nothing about meeting her old friend concerned her. But the risk of being seen, of being recognized by anyone looking for a scandal terrified her. That revelation, before she had control of the narrative, might destroy their only chance at justice.

“I’ll be waiting here, Ms. Theirin,” Ashara assured her. “But I’d limit your time, just to be safe.”

Amodisia popped open the passenger door and exited as she spoke. “I should be no more than fifteen minutes. If something comes up, text me.”

Ashara nodded once more, and Amodisia donned her large sunglasses as she shut the door of the truck, then stalked to the entrance of the coffee shop. Heavy glass and brushed steel barred her way, but with a swift pull, the door swung aside, granting her passage.

A quick survey of the room proved fruitless. Cozy and crowded, every chair near the hearth sat occupied. A roaring fire crackled there, and the heat warmed her wind-whipped cheeks to a rosy pink. Heavy booths lined the walls while small mismatched tables and chairs dotted the wooden floor with their awkward charm, fitting the atmosphere of In The Stone playing from a small speaker on the mantle.

But she saw hide nor hair of her friend. Maker’s breath, had he sent her on a ruse? No. He did not play games, at least none so serious, and given the severity of the situation, he would not risk his own livelihood for some silly prank. But, if that were the case, why had she not spotted him?

Not a heartbeat later, Delrin entered the coffee shop, sidestepping her frozen frame and entering the queue. He had not looked at her once, and though she tried to mimic his inconspicuous behavior, Amodisia felt every eye in the café staring at her.

Careful, deliberate steps carried her to the end of the line at the register. Something might have detained, something as simple as traffic impeding his schedule. Despite her better judgment, Amodisia's imagination spiraled out of control, concocting all manner of terrible accidents or misfortunes, the worst of which feature Loghain’s men catching up with him. When the door opened a second time, she startled, it’s tinkling bell jarring her from her thoughts. Samson wasted no time in drawing attention, greeting Delrin as if friends on a coffee break and cutting ahead of her in line without a single glance in her direction.

Hard to breathe, she sucked in each ragged breath as her world spun out of control until she tasted bile at the back of her throat. And then the warmth of a deft hand smoothed her shoulders, tender as a lover's caress. Narrow black boots rolled to a stop beside her own, and there she followed the trim lines of his suit, long legs, trim waist, and lean shoulders. When the pale brown eyes framed by the long blonde hair of Zevran Arainai met hers, Amodisia wept.

Ever ready, Zevran moved first. “Sia, you look ravishing, as always,” he whispered as he scooped her into a fierce hug.

Stunned, Amodisia hesitated before returning his affection twice over, leaping into his arms and hugging him, tight as her tiny frame allowed. Tears blurred her vision, so torn between relief and terror, but she replied despite her blubbering. “Thank the Maker you’re all right, it’s so good to see you.”

He held her there until her tears subsided, a shuddering sigh easing her thumping heart. “What would lead you to believe I was anything less than perfect?”

Parted, Amodisia giggled as she dabbed her tears from her cheeks. “The trial has me on edge, as you can imagine.”

“Oh, I’m not unfamiliar with your impressive anxiety.” Zevran gestured to a tiny nook in the corner of the shop. “Dirty latte?”

Her jaw dropped as Amodisia spotted the table, two small coffee cups resting atop its dark oak surface. Impossible. She had checked the entire shop. Where had he hidden? That booth had been unoccupied not a minute earlier, but upon reexamination, the cups remained, as real as Zevran standing before her.

Without waiting for her reply, Zevran ushered her to the table and she followed, feet carrying her despite her confusion. “You know me too well.”

“I know you best,” he said with a wink as they seated themselves across from one another. After sipping his coffee, Zevran continued. “So, to business. I imagine you don’t have much time.”

Her stomach sank, purpose weighing heavy as lead. Maker, why did it have to be like this? Why, after all these years, must they reunite under such tenuous terms? Her fingers sought the warmth of her cup, hopeful she might find courage there, too. Several thoughtless seconds slipped through her hands as she held the mug, words lost to her. “I’m so sorry for this, Zevran.”

He reached across the table, his hands enveloping hers about her mug. “My darling Sia, think nothing of it. I’m happy to see you well. And, as always, you look absolutely stunning.”

Tension seeped from her as if Zevran had released a pressure valve. “And you haven’t aged a day,” she commented with another giggle. “I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to this. I… realize the risk must be quite high.”

Without speaking, Zevran withdrew a thick envelope from his jacket. He set it on the table, handling the envelope with great care, as though it were a fragile piece of art. “It is,” he started with a frown that lasted but a second. Replaced by his charming, crooked smile, he shrugged. “And it isn’t.” He slid the envelope across the table, eyes never leaving hers. The second she moved for it, Zevran snatched her hand, trapping it between the envelope and his.

“I have but one condition. If you open this, you agree to the terms held within. I have copies,” he warned. “I have no doubt you will honor my wishes. But I do not trust our government to see it the way you and I do.”

It had been months since Amodisia had felt any sense of normalcy in hers and Alistair's lives. The constant chaos since the shooting had left her addled, clouded in constant confusion. When the lack of progress during the initial investigation surfaced, Amodisia bottled her rage. But then REDIS stepped in, and fear gripped her like a vice. By the time the third attempt on her life happened, leaving no evidence, the last vestiges of Amodisia’s sanity slipped through her fingers like water through a sieve.

But at that very moment, clarity returned in a brilliant flash of understanding.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

A wry smile spread across his lips, though Zevran did not answer. Once he released her hand, she grasped the envelope and tore it open, ripping its contents from their shell. There she grasped fifteen pages of perfection, her eyes brimming with tears of relief. This, more than anything, mattered most. It would be Anaphorah’s best chance at a conviction. Maker, the end of the chaos, of the madness consuming their lives the last year ceased to exist as if it had all been a long, terrible dream. Amodisia squeezed her eyes shut as tears blurred her vision once more.

His warmth enveloped her, hands cupping her cheeks as he placed a kiss atop her head. Watery eyes pried open to look upon him one more time. Beside her he stood, a thumb caressing her cheek as he smiled. “Be safe, my little raven,” he whispered. “If this world is as just as you believe it to be, I will see you again soon.”

Zevran’s long, rolling gate carried him away on swift strides, weaving through the tables of the shop and then through the door. And alone in the booth, Amodisia sat, clutching her friend's livelihood to her chest as she sobbed in sweet relief.

[wingsy-keeper-of-songs]

Paper Faces

Since Halloween is coming up and I am a huge sucker for masquerades as evidenced by the huge amount of starters I wrote, I decided to write a little something with King and Paula because I am also a sucker for that ship. Paula doesn’t get enough love in the Django fandom and I want to fix that. Chronologically, Schultz is most likely somewhere in his thirties here and Paula is in her twenties or so. Also, this is what they’re dancing to. I know it doesn’t make sense in the time period, but goddamn is it fitting. Anyways, enjoy!

It would not be for the first time that Pauline Thomas was invited to a masked ball. She and all ladies of her station were invited and mostly encouraged to attend. Though she cared very little for the soiree as a whole, she did quite enjoy the selection of music and champagne that would definitely be served there. Most young ladies her age were in attendance to catch a gentleman’s eye as a future husband. Paula was there because, well, mostly it was because she was forced to. She did not enjoy the frills and lace of the gown she wore, nor did she care for the feathered mask on her face. It was of a great hinderance to her and one she planned on disposing of when she had the chance. She was dressed resplendently in cream and lily white which blended nicely with the cornsilk blonde of her hair and enhanced the lovely violet-blue of her eyes. She cut a perfectly Romantic, dashing figure and managed to catch the eye of a select few young men. She wanted nothing to do with them. She was here because she had to be, but no one said she had to enjoy it. She planned to spend the evening getting drunk off the champagne and perhaps sample the new wine that was on display as well until someone successfully caught her attention. Had it not been for his peculiar stance, he might very well have gone unnoticed by her, but for the moment, their eyes met and she recognized the lively intelligence there almost immediately. She recalled her debate with the little devil a few nights ago and it had been a perfectly heated, yet polite discussion about the state of the French monarchy and whether or not a revolution was at stake. Revolution seemed to be at hand, that much was certain. Tearing her gaze away, she headed once more for the refreshments, but again she was stopped.

             “Pardon me,” a particularly fine specimen of a gentleman had stopped her. “But I have not been able to take my eyes from you the entire evening.” Paula was not impressed. She’d heard this sort of empty flattery a hundred times before.

             “You are impressed too easily,” she replied. “I see many an attractive lady flitting about the dance floor. Perhaps you could bother one of them.” The gentleman, dressed rather elegantly as a peacock, frowned underneath his mask.

             “Begging the mademoiselle’s pardon, I was not meaning to be a bother. I was merely trying to engage in friendly conversation.” He said. Paula’s eyebrows raised under her mask.

             “I do not wish to be your friend. However, I would very much like to get acquainted with the champagne you seem to be holding me back from.” He laughed, as though he did not hear the beginning of her rather venomous statement. Or if he did, he found it charming.

             “Wit and beauty, truly a rare combination.” he said with a smile. “Pray tell me, do we know each other?”

             “I should hope not,” Paula replied under her breath. “I believe I would recall meeting such an opulent talking peacock.”

             “And I would recall meeting such a delightful angel,” he said through his smile. “But this night is reserved for anonymity, and so I shall refrain from guessing.”

             “How thoughtful of you,” Paula replied dryly.

             “Indeed. But if we are to get to know each other, might I ask the young lady for a dance?” Bold, this one was. And he certainly expected her to say yes, by the look of the predatory gleam in his eye.

             “I’m disinclined to acquiesce your request, sir.” She said. “And if you’re hard of hearing or are merely lacking in social graces, that means no thank you.” She was about to head for the tables once more when the gentleman took hold of her arm.

             “You will find, mademoiselle, that I am not a man women say no to.” He growled through a tightened smile. Paula attempted to yank her arm back, regarding him with a cold stare.

             “A gentleman, or anyone passing for a gentleman, does not touch without invitation. And I most certainly did not grant you mine. Unhand me or I will scream.” She informed him coolly. There was a tense moment between the two of them when the peacock’s smile faded and he released her arm.

             “Your commonness betrays your elegance,” he sneered. “Even a whore can wear jewels.” Paula glared at his retreating back, unwilling to let him have the last word when someone else spoke from behind her.

             “Just as a dog can wear a suit.” Paula turned her head to find that the gentleman she’d identified from across the room had come to her aid and was eying the retreating figure with great dislike. “I can’t abide terrible manners,” he said by means of explanation. “And his were certainly the worst I’ve seen.”

             “I’ve endured worse insults,” she informed him loftily. “I’ve met lords who were more ill-mannered than he was.” He gave her a sympathetic smile.

             “I expect that comes from being a highborn lady of quality.”

             “Precisely so, though apparently lady is debatable.” She turned her attention to him fully now. “What are you doing here?” His answering smile was mischievous.

             “What am I doing anywhere?” He replied. She shot him an unimpressed stare and he chuckled. “I managed an invitation through sheer luck. And perhaps I charmed the lady of the house into letting me in.” Paula stared at him impassively. Jacqueline was rather susceptible to the charms of certain men, but she liked to think Schultz had more tact than that.

             “Your costume is dashing,” she said by means of changing the subject and giving him a once-over. He glanced down at his black and gold-trimmed finery and then back at her through a winsome smile. “What were you hoping to be?”

             “A crow, or at least that’s what the tailor informed me.” He replied. “And thank you.” He gave her gown a similar glance, though his eyes lingered on the cut of her mask. “You look exceptionally lovely tonight as well. I can understand how our friend could mistake you for an angel.” Paula was grateful for her mask for the first time that night for hiding the color creeping up her neck.

             “Thank you,” she replied somewhat stiffly. She was used to empty compliments, but Schultz had a funny way of sounding incredibly sincere.

             “I hope our over-dressed friend didn’t put you off of dancing tonight,” he continued. “I would very much like at least one proper waltz with you.” Paula continued to eye the refreshment table and almost missed what he had said.

             “It seems that the champagne and I are never to be better acquainted,” she lamented. “I’m stopped at every turn to sample it.” His gaze followed hers to the table.

             “If you would permit me, I wouldn’t mind fetching it for you.” He offered. Paula blinked in surprise, but she nodded.

             “That would please me, thank you.” He inclined his head and trotted off to the refreshments and leaving Paula alone with her thoughts. She watched the dancers as gowns and coattails twirled and spun round, creating whirls of color. She swayed a little to the familiar strains of the orchestra, catching a glimpse of the man who had insulted her earlier. There was no accounting for taste in some people, she thought. Schultz returned from his errand with two glasses and a playful smile in tow. Though she would never outright admit it, Paula found herself growing rather fond of that smile and the merriment that danced in his dark eyes. He handed her the drink and raised his to her in a toast.

             “Prost,” he said through his grin. She nodded and took a sip, sighing at the taste. It was so much better than expected and very much worth the wait. “I wonder,” he began. “Does your high society teach the Viennese waltz?” Paula raised her eyebrows underneath her mask.

             “Of course we teach the waltz,” she said, lifting her chin. “I am expected to find a husband somehow and dancing is a surefire way to get to know someone.” Schultz’s eyes gleamed and Paula wondered what the little imp had in mind for her.

             “But do you know the proper way to waltz?” He inquired. “After all it was invented in Vienna.” Paula wasn’t sure if he’d meant to be insulting or not, but she definitely had a mind to show him just what kind of dance partner she was.

             “That being said, I do know how to dance.” She argued back. “And quite well, I may add.” That playful smile was back in all its mischievous glory.

             “I would very much like to see that,” he said as he offered her his hand. Paula eyed it like she would a poisonous snake and looked back up at him. “Dance with me?” He asked because a gentleman did not demand. Paula downed her glass for liquid courage and placed her hand in his.

             “Very well,” she said. “I shall teach you how to really dance.” He chuckled at the thought and the couple left for the floor, striking up a waltz position as the previous song came to a close. The orchestra started another slower, more mournful song that Paula found rather pleasing. She kept her eyes on her partner, not needing to look down at her feet as Schultz danced her around the room. For a smaller fellow, he certainly was light on his feet and he had a commanding presence that kept their little piece of the dance floor strictly to themselves. It was an attractive quality in a man, Paula thought and then wondered where that came from.

             “You carry yourself very well,” she told him as he gave her a spin.

             “As do you,” he replied. “You must have had a great teacher.”

             “She was a right old bat,” Paula grimaced at the memory. “And my partner kept stepping on my toes the entire time. It was a nightmare.” He had the good sense not to laugh at her misfortune, but she could see that he wanted to. “Where did you learn to waltz?” She asked him curiously, twirling under his arm and then back into him again.

             “As I said before, the waltz was invented in Vienna.” He said with a mysterious smile. Paula resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Schultz never seemed to want to discuss his past with anyone, and would always charmingly change the subject when it was brought up. It was, quite frankly, annoying and Paula was bursting with curiosity about her partner. He hardly revealed anything about himself, but seemed to be able to read other people in the room like one of his books.

             “Will you ever give me a straight answer, or do you prefer to keep me guessing?” Paula replied, chin lifted ever so slightly to let him know she meant business.

             “In all honesty, I prefer to keep you guessing.” He said with good humor. “It makes for a much more interesting conversation, wouldn’t you say so?”

             “A more infuriating one, you mean.” She corrected. He barked a short laugh in reply.

             “Maybe so, but a masquerade is meant to preserve the identity, is it not?” He gave her another twirl.

             “Indeed, though you seem to wear a mask even when it isn’t required. I must admit that I have a difficult time reading you.” She hated admitting that out loud. His eyes seemed to gleam in the light of the low lanterns.

             “Do I really? And does that frustrate you?” He asked with a cheeky smile.

             “To no end,” Paula replied flatly. The waltz ended on a rather harried, passionate note and Paula was a little sad to see it end. She quite enjoyed her conversations with Schultz, but she was not quite in the mood for another dance. “You dance very well,” she informed him. “Though I expected as much from a gentleman from Vienna.” He bowed to her.

             “And you make a very fine partner,” he replied sincerely. Paula didn’t bother trying to hide her smile.

             “Come, walk with me.” She said. “I think I need a bit of air. This corset is murder on my ribs.” Schultz nodded sympathetically and accompanied her outside on the terrace. “What a lovely evening,” she remarked once they were outside together. Something behind Schultz’s mask changed and his smile seemed to have softened when he looked at her.

             “A very lovely evening,” he agreed though he seemed more enraptured by her rather than the night sky. Paula felt her cheeks grow warm again and was once again thankful for her mask. They were silent a moment, tension filling the warm night air. “I had no intention of enjoying myself tonight,” she informed him after a pause. “The only reason I’m here is because my mother expects me to find a suitable husband.” He chuckled.

             “I doubt very much that the word suitable is in her vocabulary when it comes to me.” He said, having met the strict Madame Thomas beforehand. “Your mother terrifies me.”

             “As well she should,” Paula said. “Papa told me that I get my stubbornness from her side of the family. It’s why we argue so often.”

             “A pity I never got to meet your father,” Schultz said. “I believe he and I would get along quite well.”

             “You would have liked him,” Paula said with a fond smile. “He was quite fiercely anti-monarchy as well until Maman put such notions out of his head.”

             “A man after my own heart,” Schultz replied. Again, there was a moment of silence passing between them. He turned to look at her again only this time Paula caught the lingering stare.

             “You’ve been staring at me all night,” she said, giving him an accusatory stare. He smiled sheepishly.

             “My apologies, it’s just I doubt I’ve ever seen you look more beautiful than you do right now.” Paula was used to all kinds of pretty words and empty flattery, but coming from a man she could share her mind with, it seemed more sincere. His eyes gentled at the sight of her and they didn’t ever seem to roam places where they shouldn’t. Paula found herself breeching the distance between them.

             “That charm of yours is going to get you in trouble someday,” she said softly. He smiled, his eyes glancing down at her lips.

             “Perhaps so, but I believe I’m safe for now.” And very carefully, he leaned down to kiss her. Paula had been kissed before, some time ago when she was a child and in childhood love with her best friend. And she greatly treasured that timid kiss. This kiss, though. This kiss was different. Schultz kissed her with a reverence that she didn’t know he possessed. It was as if she were some secret, something otherworldly that should be cherished and protected. He was so careful and so gentle and Paula returned the kiss with the same amount of tenderness. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing the edge of her lacy white mask as they were led into slower, sweeter kisses where their lips barely parted before the next one started. Paula laid a hand over his, looking at him as if she just saw him for the first time. She leaned into his hands and ventured to kiss him again. She would never tell her mother about what happened on the terrace, and she would never tell her that she’d been right. She had found someone suitable, she just wasn’t looking in the right places.

[ibukitten]

✰彡 stylish horror

[ ♬ ]—— Staying locked up in her house was, for a long time, the simplest solution to when things in the city got a little too wild because either the scientists were bored or some citizens themselves decided to lighten up things with large bonfire parties that burned down entire blocks. Sneaking out of harm's way is a skill Ibuki mastered in almost four years of getting used to the Hive's madness. But, evidently, she's still not very good at it considering what has just happened.

      In fact, her tendency to be comfortable in her own protective cocoon didn't save the front door of her house from getting blown out by a giant hammer. And spending years in a sort of twisted bliss far away from the island and its tragedies didn't prevent her mind from recognizing the owner of said giant hammer, that abhorrent half smile stamped on his black and white face.

      “Upupupupupupupu...”

      With her back flattened against the wall, face twisted in a true mask of fear and arms shaking as she hugs herself, Ibuki can't do anything to stop the little monster from stepping in, his weird laughter creeping into her ears and forcing her to remember everything he has done to her and her classmates back in the island; how he turned their fun school trip into a teenager's worst nightmare.

      He stops on his tracks, tossing the hammer behind him and ignoring the loud crashing noise it causes when it's sent to embed itself into one of the windows.

      “My my, if this isn't the Ultimate Musician... Mioda-chan. Upupupupu...”

      “You...” Ibuki hisses, pointing an angry finger at him. “Monobear! How did you find Ibuki's place?!”

       “Eh? Wh-Why are you speaking to me as if I'm a stalker? I-I just wanted to pay one of my students a visit!” Monobear feigns offence, joining his paws together and looking almost sad. Almost. Ibuki may have been way too naive back then, but she knows that everything that doesn't involve murder as a topic is probably all an act he constructs to make himself look funnier.

      “Besides,” he continues, the sadness in his face quickly twisting into a menacing stare made even scarier by his sharp red eye. “I should be the one asking what you're doing here, Mioda-chan. Have you forgotten that about the great, most wonderful high school life of mutual killing? Since when are you living a despair-free life? Such a disappointment! Such disrespect! This isn't how I raised you!”

      “... You're not Ibuki's dad,” she deadpans.

      Monobear widens his other beady eye in shock. “Huh... Then, I'm your mom!”

      “Nope, way too inaccurate. Try again... not.”

      “Well, then I'm your uncle, aunt, grandfather, grandmother, great grandfather, great grandmother, great grandfather from your mother's side, great grandmother from your father's si—”

      “Don't you go naming down the entire family tree just cuz you can!”

      Ibuki huffs, unsettled by the fact that she had to turn into a tsukkomi because the other party is being way more ridiculous than her. Amazing. Really, she isn't scared at all of black and white stuffed bear who can talk—what terrifies her more is the idea of returning to those horrible days where she had to watch her classmates and friends die in front of her, knowing she had great probabilities like everyone else to be the next one bathing in her own blood, dying for real and permanently. She lost sleep ever since she saw Byakuya's dead body under that table. It never came back to her until she appeared in the city.

      Monobear resumes his stance and chuckles again, setting the dramatic atmosphere back in place.

     “Family talk aside, I'm here to help you get back in the mood.” He rubs his paws together, not at all hiding his excitement for what he might be planning for Ibuki.

      She clicks her tongue, glancing over the monochrome bear to the broken front door. Rei hasn't returned yet, which is both relief and trouble considering that her girlfriend has more combat experience than her, and taking down Monobear shouldn't be difficult unless he does something crazy like exploding on them, or producing spears out of nowhere, or summon giant mecha animals that'd riddle you with bullets before you can say a vowel again. Maybe she's overestimating her enemy as of now, but neither of her classmates were able to do a thing against him back in the island, and some of them were much stronger than the average joe. Then again, if Monobear was made weak by the scientists upon arriving, even she could have some hope to subdue him.

      But as of now it's all guessing, and she's not intentioned to give herself a headache on top of suffering from her current misfortune. Taking a deep breath, she decides to challenge him.

      “How are you gonna do that? People don't stay dead here. Your little game would be pointless in a place like this!”

      “Upupupu... I'm aware of that.” He shakes under his own chuckles. “But there are a million and more ways to make someone fall in despair! I'll just have to use trial and error to see which one affects you most! For example—” He rummages with one paw behind himself, then produces a pair of scissors. “How would you like your beautiful long hair cut? My favourite one is where you become bald with no chance to grow your hair again!”

      Ibuki stiffens up, locking her jaw. That would be terrifying. Staying bald forever, unable to show the amazing flow of her hair as she headbangs on stage... that'd be so bad! Not actually super bad if she decided to have her head tattooed with some badass design, but still quite terrible!

      Before she can retort, Monobear sighs and tosses the scissors away. “Nah, so boring. People fall in despair over such dumb reasons, it's too easy. Let's see... maybe I should go greet your loved ones too...” At that, Ibuki widens her eyes in horror. “BUUUT that's also a cliché cop out. Super boring! So boring my insides are going to rot from the sheer amounts of boredom I'd feel.”

      As the bear mumbles something to himself, Ibuki shifts her sights to the possible escape routes in her house. There are stairs leading to the first floor, which continue towards the roof. Worst case scenario, she'll have to jump off and probably break some bones in the 100% possibility that Monobear will follow after her. Thinking it over, going to the roof is the dumbest idea ever, so she discards it quickly.

      Then there's the window by the kitchen. Best route, yet pretty dangerous as there are knives and other pointy things around there. Monobear will easily play pincushion with her as she tries to run. And then he'll surely burn her house down, and her whole collection of guitars along with it. No! Ok, that's actually the single most despairing event that would happen. Bad, very bad! Scratch that!

      She's seconds close to sighing in defeat when the creature calls to her attention with a peep.

      “Ha! I know!” He clasps his paws together in a way that indicates beating the palm with a fist, making a weird pop sound. “There's one thing people from all universes hate and fear more than despair itself. Big shot, isn't it? I surely HOPE you cower in fear and DESPAIR properly!” He pauses, then lowers his voice. “Wait a sec, I think I've got them somewhere.” He reaches behind himself again, the sound of clattering objects caught by Ibuki's perceptive ears. It makes her wonder if there's some hammerspace in his rear.

      When he pulls the objects out, he wears an oddly bashful expression as he holds them up to her.

      “Um, Mioda-chan... w-would you wear these for me? O-Onegai...”

      Ibuki bristles. “Huuuh? Why are you saying that in a way that sounds like marriage propos—”

      “.....”

      “................”

      “ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? NO! WHAT THE HELL, NO! ANYTHING BUT THOSE! EVEN A STRINGY BRA THAT BARELY HIDES THE NIPPLES WOULD BE BETTER THAN THOSE! NO NO NO NO NO THIS IS TOO FUCKED UP GOD NO I CAN'T!”

      Monobear gasps in an almost genuine shock, the pair of white crocs dropping from its tiny paws. “Eh?! You won't?! B-But I handmade them for you!”

      “WHO EVEN ASKED YOU TO DO THAAAAAT?” Rage laced with fear shake her whole body, as she realizes that the fight or flight situation at the start of their altercation might as well have become a desperate kill or be killed by the mere account that she can't. Let him. Wear crocs.

      “Um—hold on! Maybe you don't like the colors?” He reaches behind him and pulls out a different pair of crocs. “These are black, just like your soul? Ahahaha, I mean, a metalhead like you might as well have a dark soul. Besides, you were one of the—” A ceramic vase crashes into his face before he could finish the sentence. “Ow, rude! That's not even a spoiler anymore!”

      “GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I MAKE YOU!” By now frothing from her mouth, Ibuki conveniently found a frying pan laying nearby and it's now wielded in her deadly grasp.

      “Oh! Right!” He hides the horrifying footwear behind his back, only to come up with a new pair. “Blue and pink like your hair? They'd look hella matching with your socks! The tone is slightly different but nobody cares, right? Colorblind people won't even tell the difference~ Upupu—”

      His laughter ends abruptly the moment a very pissed off musician smashes his head in with her frying pan.

      “IF YOU LOVE THAT SHIT SO MUCH WHY DON'T YOU WEAR IT YOURSELF AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, YOU SCRAPPED PIECE OF TRAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!!!!”

      One blow after the other, Ibuki reduces Monobear's head to nothing but a mangled mess with no more eyes, cotton and mechanical parts sticking out of it. She doesn't even care that he might blow up anytime and kill her—what he tried to pull out was horrible—HORRIBLE. Dying might cleanse her from the experience instead. She decides for the good of humanity to burn the crocs down afterwards... find a pair of gloves AND burn them down, as touching them could give her something close to allergic reactions that'd be hard to fix.

      Monobear is now a twitching bundle of broken exoskeleton, and Ibuki allows herself to let air inside her lungs again as she pants and wipes the sweat off her forehead. This doesn't count as murder, does it? Her unwounded conscience seems to agree. Tossing the now bent frying pan aside, she steps out of the house and looks for whatever she needs to get rid of the body—

      “Upupupupupupupupupu...”

      A row of red glowing eyes stare pointedly at her.

      There are a dozen more Monobears standing outside. Waiting for her. Crocs in each one of their paws. The half of their face displaying their creepy grin shows pointy shark teeth as they laugh in unison at her misfortune.

      Scratch that, it’s not just a dozen. There's more. Double dozens. TRIPLE DOZENS...?!

      Ibuki opens her mouth in a voiceless scream, and only as she starts running for her own life does she manage to shake the grounds of the city with the loudest howl she ever produced.