#the aside about imperial knights alone got too long to leave in

[laikaflash]

I’m babbling about heraldry from a fighting game again

This is sort of a redux of my post about the mostly horse-themed heraldic motifs on some of Siegfried’s designs. As before, I’m starting with his PS1-exclusive Soul Blade costume. Specifically, the back of it.

(Screenshot taken from SPGAMES’ video.)

I thought there would’ve been at least one drawing of this coat of arms in concept art, but all the illustrations of the tabard-and-chainmail costume I've found only show him from the front. I wasn’t even entirely sure what the charges (beasts) on it were supposed to be, but my best guess remains that they’re dragons. The same game mentions in Siegfried’s “Edge Master” story that he was named after “the famous hero”. That would be Siegfried from the Nibelungenlied, who gained nigh-invulnerability from a literal blood bath after slaying a dragon (except for the back of his neck, where a fallen leaf happened to land). It’s a nice touch.

Here’s my hypothetical (and likely ungrammatical) blazon for the coat of arms: Per pale, Gules and Azure, two Dragons, Or in Dexter and Argent in sinister, combatant.

It’s hard to find an example of a coat of arms divided per pale and with charges that aren’t counterchanged and I see why. (Seriously, my only other reference was Joffrey Baratheon’s.) Grumbling aside, it does follow the rule of tincture (metals on colors). For reasons that will be elaborated on later, I don’t think this necessarily meant to be Siegfried’s arms, as it may appear. The combatant attitude (pose) of the beasts is a fitting choice for him though.

From the same game, we can see another gold dragon on a red field over Ostrheinsburg during the siege by the unseen Marquis Andre. The blazon would be mercifully easier: Gules, a Lindwurm ondoyant Or. (This dragon has two feet and no wings, so it counts. “Ondoyant” means “wriggling”. Undulating, if you will.) I’ve posted about this before, too. The Soul Archive website specifies that this banner is his. It’s not visible here, but an engraving of the same Lindwurm can be seen on a render of a catapult in the linked post.

Though a little difficult to make out, atop the towers toward the left are the damaged standards of Sir Stefan. Scratch that. Those are imperial banners of the Holy Roman Empire. (I don’t think it worked that way, but I’m not going to harp on that.) The imperial eagle can also be seen on the walls in this stage (see below).

(Screenshot taken from Raivop’s video.)

These look metallic and, judging by the perspective and scale, huge. Little information is given about Sir Stefan aside from his hiring Siegfried as a mercenary, but the former’s description as an “independent knight” might mean that he was a Free Imperial Knight. Ostrheinsburg was his castle, and it is shown to be enormous. In the second image, you can see in the far distance a keep surrounded by several rings of battlements. Even in the ruined parts shown in subsequent games and concept art, there’s a sense of grandeur to it inside and out. It would seem that Sir Stefan was a powerful knight.

I have to wonder how long Marquis Andre was able to enjoy his victory before Nightmare took over Ostrheinsburg. I don’t remember if any of the canon said his fate outright, but it’s a safe guess that he didn’t survive.

Later games gave Siegfried and Nightmare equine motifs, at least in certain costume details. (And in the latter’s case, the pun comes with the territory.) In most of his designs over the series, Nightmare’s helmet had a long, prominent spike on the forehead and flaring metal plating on the back of it, reminiscent of a unicorn’s horn and mane, respectively. (Although, some designs eschewed those for a long, red mane from Nightmare himself.) Soul Calibur VI took this a step further with this winged unicorn rampant in his character portrait. (Strictly speaking, its attitude is forcené. Couldn’t get a pun out of that.) It’s a surprisingly majestic thing for this monstrous knight.

Funny thing is, heraldic unicorns were often more goat-like (with cloven hooves and a beard... and a lion’s tail) and symbolized wildness itself. For lack of sources, I’m a bit iffy on where winged ones fall in this, though.

For comparison, below is Siegfried’s character portrait. If you put just the backgrounds side by side, you’d see the beasts almost as mirror images, combatant if you will! My interpretation is that the broken horn symbolizes that Nightmare is still a part of him, however much Siegfried will try to sever himself from him. Thinking on it again, it’s occurred to me that, unlike antlers, broken horns don’t grow back. In that light, the broken horn may symbolize that Nightmare still has some power over him, albeit in a weakened state.

While the intent here may be that they’re two sides of the same coin, this could also be a carryover from his 2P outfit in Soul Calibur III. Note the winged horse on his tabard. In the leftmost drawing in the top image, the tabard itself appears to show a coat of arms.

(I forgot whose video I screenshot this one from. I believe it was of a mod.)

The in-game model shows a second winged horse on the back. I don’t know if I’m more put off by the charges being in the first and second quarters or the Argent charge on an Or quarter. By itself, a possible interpretation of the pegasus (pegasi?) is fame. I’d speculate that the intended symbolism here is related to the phoenix motif on his default outfit (the reddish feathers on the pauldrons, what appears to be a phoenix—assuming it isn’t a stylized eagle—on his belt buckle), i.e. a metaphorical rebirth. The pegasi may symbolize him rising above his past as Nightmare.

Personally, there’s a reason I headcanon a variation of the above as Siegfried’s coat-of-arms. While it’s hard to pass up the dragon motif for him, I think of the winged horse suits him as something of a reminder of how he started: a son of a knight. A coat-of-arms is passed down from father to son, so in my mind, it’s also something that keeps him connected to his own father.

[tarnishedxknight]

[GOODBYE] As the sender leaves for a trip, they say, "I'll miss you. I love you," without thinking.

((@lambofasolidor for Caelen! You should know you can't give me a ship and not expect me to run with it xD))

@lambofasolidor

This was not how anyone had envisioned the future of Dalmasca, pressed under the thumb of Archadia, a protectorate of the Empire. But after seeing the devastation in Nabudis and suffering catastrophic losses both there and at Nalbina Fortress, Dalmasca was left with little choice. It was this, or obliteration. And so, with a heavy heart, Raminas had treated with Emperor Gramis, signing a document that would seal Dalmasca's fate at what was left of Nalbina.

Caelen had never been so sad, distraught, and angry in all his life. What had he fought for? What had Basch fought for? All the knights who had given their lives, and all through the ranks, so many Dalmascan men and their supporters had perished... only to bow to the Empire. And now he was to live his life under imperial control, a crown prince for a country with no viable throne anymore. Oh sure, Archadia would permit Raminas to "rule," and Caelen after him, but... make no mistake, it was to be a puppet monarchy from here on out.

His sister Ashelia was devastated, he knew. Her marriage had lasted but a few days, with only one of those days having been spent in part with her new husband. Rasler had fallen to Archadian invaders, just as his father had, and Basch had not been in time to save him. The grief weighed on Ashelia, the guilt weighed on Basch, and Caelen was left with both of them and a father whose heart was broken. How was he to pick up the pieces of this mess?

By doing this duty. By setting aside whatever he might have wanted for himself and doing what his father, sister, and mentor needed of him. So... he had agreed, in the wake of Dalmasca's surrender to the Empire, to be arranged to Gramis' only daughter, one named Cygni. Although initially internally resistant to the idea simply because she was a Solidor, hearing that she was genderqueer had actually made Caelen give her a second thought...

In Dalmasca there were only two genders that were publicly recognized, and for royalty at least, anything other than heterosexuality was unacceptable. Caelen, being an embodiment of the Dalmascan equivalent of bishōnen, and a closeted bisexual, felt oppressed and smothered by his own rigid culture. Hearing that he was to be marrying a genderqueer individual gave him hope that perhaps she would understand. More than his father had, for Raminas was none too pleased about the arrangement. If he wished to stay within Gramis' good graces, however, there was no choice but to accept the proposal. And so Caelen's future appeared to be sealed.

Cygni was not at all what he expected. Caelen had expected a spoiled royal, an entitled imperial, and someone who would likely look down her nose at a small, humble kingdom like Dalmasca. What he got... was an intelligent, sweet, understand, star-gazing wonder. Of course things were still very awkward between them because they were essentially being thrust together at the order of their fathers, but... it was not the horrible situation he'd envisioned. In fact, he'd begun to feel Cygni pulling him back from the hardening of his soft heart that had been occurring for some time now. She was bringing him back to himself, simply be being herself.

There had been long conversations and many hours spent walking or gazing up at the stars, and thus far, they seemed to be getting on beautifully. She didn't even seen to mind that he spoke to Munoh often, although she did seem curious as to exactly what was going on. It was not his place to reveal them, though, if they wished to remain hidden..

Of course, time would tell whether or not love would develop, but for now, Caelen at least had hope. That alone could sustain him for a while, he felt. And now Cygni was returning to Archadia for a while, having spent several days in Dalmasca. Caelen... found himself feeling a bit sad. He was going to miss her, and-

Cygni said the same to him as he escorted her to her airship, before he could form the words. But she'd also said something else rather unexpected. Caelen blinked, his smile fading into surprise. "You... you do?" he asked. Perhaps it had been a slip of the tongue? Or maybe it was customary to say such things among Archadian royal culture? Still, her words made his heart beat just that little bit faster...

Maybe this could work after all.

[something-tofightfor]

Magnetic: Introduction - It’s All Very Complicated

Pairing: None, yet. 

Word count: 3,565

Rating: None, really. Yet. Some mentions of sex, general angst. This is truly an introduction. 

Summary: Welcome to the Academy, where trained and capable Jedi work to teach the Force-sensitive how to best manage and utilize their abilities. Though you live there, you’re no longer training, and one of your main responsibilities is providing companionship and understanding to the newest Padawan: Grogu.  You’ve got a past, sure ... but is that past going to shape your future? 

Author’s note: 

This is the “sequel” to T’ad nac or’atu (Two No More) - and takes place about a year after Grogu left with Luke, featuring a female reader insert. There will be spoilers from seasons 1 and two of The Mandalorian throughout. If you didn’t watch the show, this won’t make much sense to you. 

I’m terrified to post this, I’m gonna be honest. Even though this is a general introduction to this series, and I’m well into writing it ... it’s still scary. I’m very thankful to the people that have provided me with feedback, honesty, support and have offered to read parts of this for me. 

This is going to be the shortest part by far, but I didn’t think that an 8,000 word introduction was the right call. 

I hope you enjoy it. Feedback - both positive and critical - is always welcome. 

(banner made by the absolutely talented @malionnes)

Before your eyes had even opened, and even though you were still half asleep, you sensed that someone was in the room with you. Again? Blinking, you let out a slow breath, giving your eyes time to adjust to the dim glow from the panel next to the door as the dream you’d been having slipped away, dark brown eyes and a cautious smile the only things you could remember. The room was silent, aside from the low hiss of cooled air through the vent, but then after a few seconds, you heard a quiet thud at the foot of your bed followed by a nearly inaudible whine. Again. “C’mere, Gr - kid.” 

 The blankets shifted with the added weight as he tugged on them, and you clutched the top edge to keep them from slipping off of you entirely while he climbed. Too cold for that. In the low light, you saw the curved top of his head and his sloping ears appear first, quiet coos accompanying them. Hey kid.

 It didn’t happen every night, but at least three times a week, the little guy found his way into your room and into your bed, nesting right next to your upper body, your arm curled loosely around him as you both nodded off. “Couldn’t sleep again?” He moved more swiftly over the blankets, and it didn’t take long for his face to pop up right next to yours, mouth opened slightly, his massive eyes focused on you. No. 

 Lifting the corner of the blanket with one hand and groaning at the slight chill of air it allowed to enter the previously covered space, you paused as the kid dove beneath it, letting the material fall again as you felt him lay down next to you, more babbling noises a sign that while you were still on the edge of sleep, he was wide awake. “You could just knock, bud. It would be…” No knock. Too loud. “Fine.” You weren’t annoyed with him - not really - and despite the numerous ongoing middle of the night intrusions, you knew you’d never tell him to stop coming into your room. Keeping me from being lonely, little guy. Hope I’m doing the same for you.

 It had been happening since shortly after the youngling arrived at the Academy and you were introduced. The first few times, you’d been quick to scoop him up, carrying him back to his room and  tucking him into his bed before telling him that he had to stay put. While you didn’t have all the details about Grogu’s past, you knew that it had been a lot more unconventional than that of the other students and Masters, and that he wasn’t used to such a routine - or being alone at night. None of us were before we got here. 

 But he’d been subjected to more difficult times than you could imagine, and although you got glimpses of them through his thoughts, much of it was still hazy - as if he was trying to keep his early years a secret, hidden from everyone - even himself, but especially you and the other adults at the Academy. And you’re gonna make sure it stays that way, aren’t you. Absently, you stroked the back of his head, feeling the wrinkled skin beneath your fingers, along with the soft edge of the top of his sleeping robe.

 He’d come back with Master Skywalker, straight from a dangerous confrontation with Imperial remnants on a light cruiser, and you’d quickly learned first hand that he was powerful with the Force - although uneducated and undisciplined in the ways of the Jedi. Prior to his rescue, a Mandalorian bounty hunter was responsible for his care, and that had been the case for almost a year, which added to the child’s lack of control and discipline. But it’s not his fault, it had to be that way. 

 The Mandalorian had done his best, keeping the kid as safe and as secure as possible for as long as possible. But the Empire finally caught up with them, leading to the kid’s current situation - separated from the people he’d spent a great deal of time with and studying under capable and trained Jedi. It had to be… hard. Yes. You glanced down, but could only see the side of Grogu’s face, his ear folded against the pillow beneath his large head. It is. 

 At the unusually candid response to your thoughts of his previous life, your tired mind turned back to the Mandalorian, eyes drooping shut. You’d also caught glimpses of him through Grogu’s thoughts; a tall and broad-shouldered man, covered nearly head to toe in gleaming beskar and a flowing cape, a sizeable helmet perched atop his shoulders and obscuring his features completely. Through Grogu’s eyes, you saw the man as imposing and to be feared, dangerous, though Grogu himself hadn’t ever been afraid, even in the beginning. You saw the weapons he carried; a huge rifle, a weighty blaster, even a flamethrower attached to his wrist along with a sleek, shining spear made of the same material as his armor. Not only could you see them in your mind, you felt the same sense of pride that Grogu felt when he watched the man wield them in the memories. He was the right person to protect you, kid. 

 You’d never met a Mandalorian before, but had researched them in the Jedi texts and other history books, learning of their ferocity and belief systems, which differed depending on their specific clans and Tribes. “It’s all very complicated, hmm?” You whispered the words, a smile on your lips as you pressed them gently to the back of the child’s head. He cooed again in response, but you felt that his mind was beginning to settle, his three-fingered grip on your forearm loosening. “It had to be a lot for you to understand, right kid?” The Way.

 You felt the weight of the words from his thoughts, another slow, heavy breath leaving you, but the sadness Grogu knew when thinking of the man quickly changed into a happier emotion, and you closed your eyes, too, concentrating on his shifting thoughts. He was nearly twice your age, but Grogu was - for lack of a better description - still a child, and although he’d grown much stronger in the months he’d spent training at the Academy, his emotions were still much more volatile than the Masters would have liked. But it happens differently for everyone.

 That volatility made it easier to read him even when he wasn’t focused on communicating with you, and while you knew that some of the other students seemed to fear the little green creature and the strength he radiated, you’d never felt the same, even though you knew that he knew when you were prodding at his thoughts - and he was more than capable of making you stop. 

 It wasn’t because you were prying; in fact, it was the exact opposite, and you’d spent countless nights like this one before, connecting with the kid as a way to calm him, giving him a chance to remember and share his earlier life with someone that was willing to listen. You helped him drift off to sleep by sharing space in your own mind with him, despite the fact that even the most untrained Padawans could tell that Grogu’s mind was often troubled - and that he’d seen and been a part of things that most of them couldn’t begin to imagine. “Sleep well, kid.” You murmured the words, feeling Grogu’s fingers tighten once more before they relaxed almost completely. 

 He fell asleep before you, and the last thought that you had before you followed him into sleep was of yellow-gloved fingers curled around a smooth silver ball, one of Grogu’s small hands outstretched toward it. 

 --- 

 He was gone when you woke up the following morning, and despite the middle of the night interruption, you felt refreshed and awake as soon as you opened your eyes. I usually do after he’s here. 

 It was a strange relationship you had with the kid, but it worked, and you knew that along with being good for Grogu, it helped others focus elsewhere, so you were happy to continue. At least until his training’s done, and he rises in the ranks. Or… until I leave.

 You blinked into the mirror, brushing your teeth. Him becoming a Knight was a looming possibility; every Padawan’s training lasted a different amount of time, and one of the other things that you knew about Grogu was that he’d had prior training - meaning that even with his lack of constant focus, he was far more capable of using the Force than most of the others within the Academy at his classification level. He was strong and smart - but still learning to control himself. Just a kid.

 That didn’t mean that he was good at it all the time, or that it didn’t tire him out immensely when he overdid things, but the Masters spoke of him as though they already knew that when he became a Master himself, he’d be a formidable adversary when and if it became necessary. We’re still a while off from that, though. He’s still little, he’s … Spitting your tooth gel out, you straightened up, adjusting your shirt over your shoulders and glancing back at the door of your room as a new set of thoughts made themselves known to you. Bari’s coming. 

 You couldn’t help it sometimes, finding yourself unable to block out the thoughts around you - especially when emotions ran high, and it was the reason that your training had been halted. One of them, anyway. Rubbing a hand over your face, you turned away from the mirror and slipped your shoes on, striding to the door and opening it before the young man had a chance to knock. “Morning, Bari.” He looked shocked at your greeting but quickly recovered, nodding his head and greeting you by name, lips curving upward into a large smile. He’s happy to see me… as always.

 “Hey. Can I walk you to breakfast?” Nodding in agreement, you stepped into the hallway and stayed next to the man, turning toward the dining hall. “You look like you slept well.” 

 “Yeah, I did.” You nodded in greeting as you passed others in the hall, taking a deep breath. “The kid ended up in my room again, and once he was there, I was out.” 

 “Grogu? Isn’t he a little old to -” Stiffening, you glanced over, watching as Bari eyed you. “I mean he’s been here for a year, he should have let go of -”

 “They… his kind age different, Bari. And since there’s no record of what he is, we don’t know …” You bit your lip. “He’s a kid that had to leave his dad, and it’s only been a year. He might be fifty human years old, but who knows what that equals out to in his species.” You swallowed as you reached the dining hall, eyes sweeping over the room as you looked for Grogu. I bet he’s not here. I bet he’s with … “Besides, it’s not like he’s interrupting anything, so if it makes him feel better to sleep in a room with someone?” You reached for a tray, once again looking at the man next to you. “It’s fine with me.” 

 He was silent for a few minutes as the two of you loaded up your trays with food, and you could tell that he was conflicted. Say it, whatever it is. “What if there was someone else in your room? Would he -” 

 “I think he’d understand, Bari.” You slid into a seat at an empty table, reaching for a piece of fruit. “He’s not stupid, just … young.” You chewed thoughtfully, feeling as Bari’s emotions raced. He’s going to do it again. Ask me … “Why, who do you think that he’s going to -”

 “You know that since you’re no longer training that the rules technically don’t apply to you, right?” He leaned in, eyes locked on yours. “You’re allowed to… I could … we could.” 

 “Bari.” You closed your eyes. “I know that you …” You glanced up. “It was my decision to stop training, and the Masters were generous enough to let me stay here anyway because they thought I could help.” You knew that it was rare, but also knew that any sensitivity toward the Force was looked at as an asset post-Empire, and turning you away wasn’t anyone’s first option. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to do anything to -” 

 “I know, I know.” You felt the frustration from him, and understood it. Bari had befriended you almost immediately upon your arrival to the Academy years earlier before it was even a shadow of its current self. You’d met him in the town a few miles away from the building, the young man providing a friendly face when you felt lonely at first, and then someone to talk to during breaks and on days off after you officially began your education. He was simply employed within the building, and despite it being unconventional for Padawans to closely befriend those not in the program, you were drawn to the boy, his honesty and openness welcome after separating from your family in the manner that you had. “But maybe just -” 

 “Bari, come on.” You shrugged, lifting your fork and using it to cut into a piece of your omelette. “We’ve talked about this. Us… It’s better to keep it the -” You felt it - for the first time in him, anger at your rebuff, but it quickly changed to forced nonchalance, and you were able to keep your expression even, too. That’s interesting. 

 “Someday, you’re going to leave the Academy. Even if it’s only to settle somewhere close by.” Bari leaned in, his eyes wide. “You won’t have to follow their rules all the time, and then you can … maybe you won’t still feel…” Not with you. Not … I’m sorry, Bari. We’ve talked about it.  “You came here to make a life for yourself, and now that you’ve chosen not to follow the path of … their path? You’re free to follow your own, and that means…” 

 “Not until I decide to leave here.” You beamed at him, lips twitching upward as you glanced past him at the doorway. “And Bari? That’s not going to be for a while, especially with this little guy here.” He turned away from you after a few seconds and the two of you watched as Grogu floated through the room in a small pod, his head peeking up over the edge of it. Morning, kid. He looked in your direction as he passed by, eyes widening and mouth opening in greeting, one hand waving slowly. “Come on, Bari. How could I just leave him behind?” 

 “Yeah, I guess you couldn’t.” The man’s attention went back to his food, fingers holding his own fork loosely. “”I guess I just wonder …” His words trailed off and he raised his eyes to yours, forehead wrinkled. He wants me to see what he’s… His thoughts hit you full force and you couldn’t help the wince, looking away from the man across from you as he replayed in his mind the night the two of you - along with a few others from the nearby town - had spent an evening playing Sabacc and drinking too much Gizer ale and spice beer. 

 “Bari, come on.” You whispered the words, shaking your head. “That’s not fair.” But he kept thinking, the sadness in his gray eyes growing more pronounced. “We were barely old enough to drink, and we both agreed that things shouldn’t have gone that far that night.” And I meant it, even though you didn’t.

 “But they did.” He shrugged. “You knew how I felt then, and how I …” He didn’t need to finish his sentence - he was right. You knew that the man liked you, that he hoped that after you’d chosen to stop training at the Academy, you wouldn’t go far - that you’d be free to be with him in every way. He said your name, giving you a small smile. “It’s not going to change. I’m sorry that I just threw all of those memories at you, but it … I think about it a lot. About you a lot.” You had too, for a while. It wasn’t the first time you’d fooled around with someone, and Bari knew it, but since leaving your home, he’d been the only one to even come close to getting you alone in a room with a bed. 

 You liked him - you really did - but you didn’t feel anything when you’d been with him - not anything that mattered anyway. Even after what had happened with your parents, their story was one that you admired; the spark between them, the defiance of both of their families to up and leave with only a small number of credits to their names, starting a family with little support. Because they believed in each other, in their future. Because they loved each other. 

 Bari had been the first regular person you’d met that wasn’t afraid of you after you’d realized that you were attuned to the Force, that you could do things that other people couldn’t, and his acceptance had been a large part of the reason you’d gotten so close to him in the first place. That was part of it. You sighed, looking down at your tray, suddenly much less hungry than you had been. Why we got close. It was nice to … He wasn’t attracted to you because of the Force, you knew that from his thoughts, and that was appealing to you, too, but as time had passed and you’d grown into true adulthood, the size and number of students in the Academy growing as well, it hadn’t been enough. It never was. It never would have been. 

 After that first and only night together - fumbling in the dark, hands moving over each other’s bodies and your thoughts mercifully blank for the first time in months - you’d made it a point to never let things go that far again; not with Bari and not with anyone else, either. Not while I’m here. Not while I’m setting an example. Not … As you thought, you closed your eyes again, seeing a flash of the deep brown from the dream the night before.  “I’m sorry, Bari. That’s not what I want. That’s not why I’m still here.” Not to settle.

 He grumbled in disappointment, but he didn’t have long to stew, as you heard a quiet mechanical whirring noise and Grogu’s levitating carriage pulled up next to you. Very hungry. You grinned at him and reached over, pulling the tray off the top of it and setting it onto the table before you turned toward him, holding out both hands. Happily cooing, he reached for you, ears perking up, and you lifted him from the nest of blankets, setting him on the table beside his plate. “Morning, Grogu.” Bari was making an attempt - for your sake - but you knew that the kid didn’t buy it for one second, only nodding once at the man before turning his focus back to his food. “Soup, again?” 

 “It’s easy for him to lift the bowl.” You raised an eyebrow, absently reaching over to straighten Grogu’s robe across the back of his neck. “Utensils are kinda hard with three fingers, right kid?” Right. You heard a quiet slurp as he raised the bowl to his mouth, turning your attention back to Bari and hoping that Grogu wasn’t listening - or thinking - too hard. “We can talk later, if you want.” You tried to smile, but it came out strained. “I have a full day today, and then tomorrow this little guy and I are …” You lifted your hands, miming covering Grogu’s ears as you mouthed the next sentence, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Leaving the Academy for a little while.” 

 It was meant to make him smile, but Bari only shrugged, eyes still on you. “If you want.” He stood, pushing away from the table, tray in his hands. “Doesn’t matter.” Before you could respond, Bari was walking away, his back the only thing you could see. Damn. You picked up your fork again, sighing as you returned to your breakfast. He’s mad. 

 “Nah, little guy.” You chewed on your eggs, glancing down. “You’ll understand when -” But you laughed as you saw him holding a spoon in one hand, leaning over a second bowl of food, the surface rippling as something moved within it. Yuck. But Grogu paid no mind to that thought, poking at the top of the liquid, his tiny body nearly vibrating in anticipation. “C’mon, kid. Don’t play with your food.” At that, he froze for a second before turning his head toward you, ears lowered and eyes wide, his emotion changing swiftly to sadness. “No, I wasn’t… I’m not mad, but it…” What did I say?

 He blinked slowly and you saw his grip on the spoon tighten, another flash of his thoughts filling your head briefly. But this time it wasn’t a man’s eyes - it was the Mandalorian, hunched over and staring in your direction from the middle of a dimly lit room.  

---

Tag list is OPEN. Please feel free to ask to be added! 

Magnetic/Din Djarin Tag List: 

@the-blind-assassin-12 @pheedraws @alraedesigns @malionnes​ @deceiverofgodss @thisisparadisemylove​ @siegfriedkingsglaive​

[crackimagines]

Reunion (FE: Three Houses Short Fic)

Edelgard misses someone dear to her, only to be surprised.

(Alternate Take on the Reunion scene, cause I’m a sucker for extra fluff)

Black Eagles, Post-Time Skip

“PROFESSOR BYLETH!” Edelgard shouted out as the Monastery was collapsing.

He had bought his class enough time to escape it while enemy forces were concentrating on him and retreating.

Edelgard wanted to rush back in and save her beloved Professor, but Hubert had to physically hold her back, Dorothea and Ferdinand coming to help.

“Lady Edelgard, you will die if you enter!”

“And he’s going to die if we don’t-!”

Before she could finish, the building fell completely, with Imperial forces beginning to move into the area.

Edelgard’s knees felt weak, a million thoughts running through her head, wanting to at least call out for him, but she couldn’t do it.

She didn’t want to say what anyone was thinking. Instead, she said something to comfort herself for now.

“...The Professor is alive. There’s no way something as simple as a building collapsing would kill him.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, until they all began to chime in.

(Ferdinand) “For once, I agree. We gotta have hope he’ll come back.”

(Caspar) “Yeah, I think so too!”

(Bernadetta) “...R-Right!”

(Dorothea) “I hope he’ll be alright...”

(Petra) “I have wishful thinking, he’ll be all-okay.”

(Linhardt) “I wonder if we will be without him...”

(Hubert) “Come my lady, we...must see to fortifying this position in case of enemy reinforcements.”

Edelgard nodded, and everyone began to move up as a bodyguard detail fell in behind her.

She looked up at the building again, her hope perilously close to fading...

------------

Edelgard’s eyes opened wide, noticing her breathing was very heavy.

Slowly she got up and held her head, the headache she had was hurting, and her chest was feeling very tight.

“...That dream again.”

It was more of a nightmare, really. A memory she couldn’t escape from.

The room was filled with a somber light, and she decided to dress herself and go on a walk.

Five long years had passed, and not a single sign of their professor had presented itself. Although her hope was fading more with each day, she never wanted to believe he had truly died. There wasn’t any evidence in the Monastery after all. Maybe that’s why she had everyone from the class stationed here. Just in case if he did come back and went to the Monastery, they’d be the first thing he’d saw.

She felt like crying, but no tears came out. Those tears fell out long ago, before all the bloodshed occurred in the name of Independence for humanity. All the former friends she had to kill.

As she put on her armor, she left her room, and strolled down the familiar halls by herself.

Outside the gate...

Two guards were chatting about their patrols and other miscellaneous topics. Hearing the sound of footsteps, they stopped and held their spears at attention, but not drawing it out yet.

“Halt, civilian.” One of the knights said.

“This is a restricted area. You do...not...-”

Both the knights raised their visors on the helmets, and looked at the man before them.

“...By the goddess...”

“Is it...really you?”

The man pulled out a sword they had never seen before, but neither of them drew their weapon out in response. Instead they slid their visor back down and stepped aside.

“Lady Edelgard is making her rounds near the Cathedral. T-Try not to scare her too much, sir.”

“And sir? Welcome back.”

“Thanks.” The man said. He walked up the stairs, causing quite a stir amidst the troopers garrisoned there, not believing their own eyes.

Edelgard stopped in an empty room for a small break, still struggling to get her mind off the nightmare. Everytime she had it, it would stick around for quite a while much to her despair.

Another dark thought came up, realizing what the date was.

“...Today was supposed to be the Millennium festival...”

Five years ago, the class had promised to meet up no matter what happened as a sign of nothing could truly separate them.

It was thanks to this war that had not come to pass.

As she sighed, she heard someone’s footsteps coming up. It wasn’t heavy enough to be one of the knights, nor was it light enough to be anyone from the class. She slowly reached for her axe’s hilt, but didn’t turn around, seeing the shadow of someone approaching from behind.

“Identify yourself, or I will-”

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Edelgard.”

That voice...

Her heart stopped and she held her breath as she slowly turned around, eyes becoming wide as soon as she heard that man’s voice.

“...P-...Professor...?”

Once she laid her eyes on him, it was her green haired professor in his signature black uniform, albeit was quite dirty.

"It can’t be...! No, this is a dream, or a trick! There’s no way!”

She wanted to believe it was him, but after all that happened, the way he disappeared without a trace? This was clearly an illusion, she thought.

It’s when he smiled, seeing that familiar warmth that had finally broken that line of thought.

“...Today’s the day when all of the Black Eagles were supposed to meet up, right?”

She gasped, not even bothering to hide her shock.

“Heh I...guess I managed to keep my promise.”

“W-Wha...What happened?! We searched high and low for you, but you disappeared without a trace! My teacher, what have you been doing all this time?! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!?”

Byleth had his signature blank stare for a moment until he started rubbing the back of his head nervously.

“I uh...I think I was dead.”

It wasn’t really clear if that was a joke or not, regardless Edelgard began shouting.

“Joking, at a time like this?! YOU’VE BEEN GONE FOR FIVE YEARS, DAMN IT! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW GUILTY I FELT?! YOU TRYING TO THROW YOUR LIFE AWAY GETTING US OUT OF THE BUILDING?! DO YOU KNOW HOW BROKEN OUR HEARTS WERE?! HOW BROKEN MINE WAS?!”

Byleth looked down, not able to meet her eyes. 

Edelgard felt her eyes water, slightly surprised that they were even able to form after all she had endured.

Her voice began shaking, as she became quieter and quieter.

“I...Told myself so many times that I knew you were alive but..but...!”

“Edelgard I’m...I’m so sorry I left you and the class alone for so long.”

She slowly looked up, to see Byleth with a sad smile now. He was speaking as quietly as her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I promise, I’m not going anywhere this time. I’ll be right here.”

“Byleth...!”

Without warning, Edelgard grabbed Byleth, and held onto him tightly, afraid that if she even let up a little, he’d disappear again.

Now, the tears began to fall.

“I’m...I’m so happy you’re safe...!”

“Edelgard...”

“Five years, Byleth...Five long years you’ve been gone...It’s been hard without you but everyone’s still here. I made sure none of us died so we can all see you again...!”

He heard slight hiccups as she held him tighter, and in response Byleth hugged her back, gently patting her back.

“...W-We’re...still here...!”

“It’s okay, Edelgard...let it all out, I won’t leave you alone again...”

Five years worth of pain and suffering were let out with those tears she pent up inside her.

Five years of waiting and hope had finally paid off.

Five years later, the person so dear to her, despite all the odds, had finally come back.

Edelgard slowly dropped to her knees as she continued to cry, at this point she didn’t really care if anyone besides Byleth saw her, but fortunately it was only him here.

Byleth knelt down as well, making sure Edelgard wasn’t going to hurt herself by dropping.

The two held each other, the sounds of Edelgard sobbing her pain away were the only thing that filled the halls for quite a long time.

Author’s note:

God I wanted to use this song SO BAD, but I feel like that’d kill the mood considering the whole genre shift, lmao.

I wish this scene wasn’t quite rushed and had time for something like this considering all that happened, but man was it sweet.

[powerovernothing]

Okay so ive been devouring you TKTEATA au and let me tell you its aborable, but as i understand it korbin went through the oblivion crisis , and i have this little hurt/comfort scene that i put all my characters through and it goes as follows " a little child comes up to the HOK and innocently asked them if they were a black smith, when asked why they would think that they get the answer of "because you smell like fire and brimstone it clings to your clothes"

Considering that both of these scenarios are actually rather similar with both of them dealing with instances where Korbin interacts with small and curious children, and I have been putting off the latter for quite some time – mostly because things in real life got in the way, and I honestly really want to apologize to my Mistress Sis for the incredibly long wait for those delicious feelings! – I thought that it wouldn’t hurt to actually combine these both together, and answer at the very same time!

Starting with, of course, taking a moment and personally thanking you for all the wonderful and fantastic support and attention that you’ve been giving my Oblivion Verse lately! I saw the massive amount of notifications through my phone, and I honestly turned completely blood red with happiness at the fact that you enjoyed it so much that you went on a supportive spamming fest!

It means so much, and I am so glad that you enjoy the things I write, and that you enjoy Korbin’s story and his interactions with his brothers. It means so much, and I just want to wrap you in the biggest hug possible! So, thank you, for not only enjoying my things, but also leaving me a wonderful message to get my creative juices flowing!

Now, with that out of the way, let’s get into both of these scenarios dealing with Korbin and the subject of interacting with children, shall we?

(*~*4K Words Split Between Two Scenarios Involving Korbin And Children Underneath The Cut! Tons Of Fluff, Angst, And Other Emotions Abound!*~*)

Throughout the course of my story, especially in the Revised Timeline where things are considerably better – for the most part, at least, Sheogorath’s influence in His Little Raven’s head aside – and Korbin has a chance to live his life with his older adoptive siblings at his side, he actually does interact with children quite regularly. Mostly, and with it referencing the question that Jonathan Crane’s Mistress of Fear sent me, through his time spent with the homeless and those forgotten and abandoned upon the streets of the Waterfront District of the Imperial City.

You see, considering that Korbin spent several of his young childhood yearsalso growing up on those streets, alone and abandoned just as well, he knowshow it feels, and he never wants to see those who are in a similar place sufferwhen there is actually something he can do to help improve and better theirsituation.

So, any of the money that he earns through Dark Brotherhood contracts – early on in the Revised Timeline, and directly after Bellamont’s death – or the work he does assisting the new recruits and everything else at both Lucien and Vicente’s side – seven months after Bellamont’s death, and everything that comes later in the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis – he takes and uses to help support those on the streets.

He spends it on fresh food, warm blankets, simple weapons so that they might protect themselves, and anything else that might help keep them save throughout the long and difficult nights. Everything that he didn’t have when he was a child. He never minds doing it, always happy to present his packages to those in need, and always smiles and wishes them well whenever he does.

Sometimes he does it in secret, sometimes he interacts with those he helps, itjust all depends… however, in one instance where he was assisting those inthe Waterfront District, and he was in the process of dropping out somepackages, he suddenly felt a weight press against his back.

Instinctively he reached for the dagger that he keeps near his person, unknowing whether or not this was someone who could actually do him harm, but upon turning his head towards the direction of his attacker to cast them a darkened glare as warning, he found emerald eyes staring back into his own golden gaze.

Realizing then what he was mere seconds from doing, his hand quickly fell away from his blade, and his breathing hitched in his throat.

It was a child. A small Argonian girl; barely more than a handful of years in age, clutching onto his armor in a white knuckled grip, as she attempted to bury herself within the folds of the leather with a muffled whimper. She looked frail, disheveled, and absolutely terrified.

Shifting around, he pulled the girl back to arm’s length, and questioned with a gentle chuckle as to why she thought it wise to latch onto the first armor clad stranger upon the streets, and how if he had been anyone else, she would not have been even half as lucky.

He had meant it as a way to quell her frantic emotions, and focus her attention solely upon him, instead of her own feelings and the world around her… but it seemed when he finished speaking, she became even more afraid, and trembled like a leaf underneath his oversized hands upon her shoulders.

It was the direct opposite of what he wanted.

Shutting his eyes briefly, he sighed under his breath because of his misstep, and then reached to carefully cup the side of her face. As the girl reacted to his touch, he slowly raised her chin until their eyes met once again, and then began a very different set of questions in a far softer tone.

What exactly had frightened her in such a way, what he could do to take away the source of her fear, and most important…what would allow her smile to return.

It turned out, what had frightened her so incredibly was the fact that she was hungry, and she wasn’t thinking properly. She was hungry, and she had taken a chance to nab something fresh and warm to eat… however, in the process, she wound up getting caught by the owner of the meal – a very angry, very cruel, very frightening Imperial man – and he processed to describe in detail the things he would to her, before turning her over to the guards so that they might proceed to do the rest to worthless and pitiful thieves.

This alone caused Korbin’s heart to twist in anger, rage, and… familiarity. Because this is exactly the type of thing that he did when he was growing up – in fact, this is the very thing that landed him in the Imperial Prisons in the Original Timeline to begin with, which led to him meeting Uriel and everything that followed – and because of that, when the young girl was able to get free, and then start running in her own tears, and huddle herself against the nearest person she thought could protect her, Korbin proceeded to do that very thing.

He stood his ground against the cruel man, awarding him a swift punch in the face that caused him to fall to his knees, but he merely chuckled as the blood ran down the corner of his lips.

He reached for the dagger at his belt once again, but before he chose to act on every feeling he had, and how he had chosen to take it out on this man alone, he told the young girl to run and hide behind the nearest corner and cover her ears. And, when it was all said and done, he would come and find her, and make certain she was protected more properly from anything and everything that tried to hurt her from thereon.

In the aftermath of the man’s death, and once Korbin hastily cleaned himself of the blood of his victim and went and found the girl just as he promised… she latched herself onto him and saw him as a helpful giant that would keep her safe from the world around her. In a sense, think of it as the relationship between the Little Sister’s, and the Big Daddy’s of the Bioshock series.

She looks up at him, and she sees someone who is larger than life itself. Someone who is basically a hero, a Knight in Shining Armor, and someone that she cares about and knows will protect her.

Contrary to what you may think, he doesn’t instantly snatch her up and take her back to the warm comforts of Cloud Ruler Temple to introduce her to his adoptive brothers. Even though there is a part of him that truly wants to do that, and make certain she is cared for, he knows it would be too much of a shock. So, instead, he allows her to grab his hand, and take him to where she stays within the Waterfront District.

The young girl doesn’t speak much, she is hardly three years old in the human equivalent to her Argonian age, and mostly just mutters or whispers, thus she takes his hand with a small whisper of ‘Home’ and drags him to her special place. To the outside eye, it’s nothing special. A makeshift blanket fort that a normal child would have, but Korbin?

He is patient, he is understanding, and is absolutely telling her in many words how wonderful it is, and how pretty she made it, and asks politely if he can snuggle under the blankets as well just to be playful and make her laugh.

He always goes out of his way to leave her extra gifts, and small packages to keep her warm and protected, and in one instance where he does visit her the next time around… and the young girl has somehow managed to fall very sick because of the exposure to the elements around her, that is when he scoops her up and takes her back to the warmth of Cloud Ruler Temple.

She remains underneath his and his brother’s care for a short while, and they eventually end up finding her a proper family to adopt and raise her when it is time for her and her protectors to go their separate ways. However, if you’re wanting to know more about this young Argonian girl in more detail than what I mentioned in the above, allow me!

Her name is Me’elni, although her translated name would actually be Whispered-Melodies. She is four years old in Argonian, although that would translate into three years old when you do the math in terms of human years.

(I have an entire life span chart that I made for the different races of theElder Scrolls world when I was in the process of creating side characters forKorbin’s story, so if you ever want to see it for reference or just out ofcuriosity, just ask and I’ll post it up!) 

She was born in Midyear 430 of the Third Era, thus making her Birthsign be The Steed in the Elder Scrolls world, and Gemini in the real-life Zodiac equivalent. She is incredibly short, around 3′8″, and barely comes up to Korbin’s thigh. As mentioned above, she hardly talks – as she is very young, and the world around her is terrifying, and no one was here to teach her how to speak properly – but when she is under the care of Korbin and his brothers, she is able to start speaking in single phrases and gives the boys special nicknames because of her time spent within their care.

Korbin’s chosen nicknames are either‘Tall’, from when she first met him, ‘Safe’ when she started being in his care, or ‘Da’ when she started becoming incredibly attached to him. Martin’s nicknames are ‘Glowy’, from his magic and the times where he entertained her through various light shows, as well as ‘Warm’, because of the way his magic feels to her touch. And for Lucien? ‘Pointy’, because one of the first things she noticed about him was his dagger, and then ‘Dark’ because of the way he tends to dress in his black robing.

Her design is based off of a red bearded dragon, and because of this, she tends to ‘poof out’ and hiss whenever she is overly angry, or whenever she is trying to look threatening to those that seem to be scary – yes, she hissed at Lucien, and he found it overly adorable as he has a weakness for young Argonians being a father of two in the past – and whenever she is incredibly happy or excited, she tends to stomp around or wave her arms back and forth. She also has an intense weakness for the tastes of blueberries and cannot get enough of sweets that are made from them.

She also has quite an ear for music, and in her adult life she becomes a lute player that travels with a band of bards. She never gets to the point where she is able to speak easily, or clearly, but she is able to weave music so nicely that she says everything she needs to through her songs. However, another thing I feel as though I should speak about in relation to Me’elni is that she… is actually the daughter of Runs-In-Circles in my Oblivion Verse.

I’m still currently in the process of working out every single detail relating to her mother’s history – as well as giving her a proper name one of these days – but I know for a fact that she had ties to the Thieves Guild at some point in her early life, and when she gave birth to her daughter, and tried to do whatever was needed to provide for her and keep her safe, she somehow managed to make her way to the Shivering Isles, and is unable to make her way out of the hold that he has on her.

But some part of her, is still very much aware of her past life, as even in her Mania addled mind, she still calls out to the daughter she wishes to go back to – whenever she runs around and screams ‘Nini’ over and over again.

Nini is Me’elni’s affectionate nickname.

Is that sad? Is that just a little too far over the edge in terms of angst? Perhaps so, but welcome to my Oblivion Verse, here are your free package of tissues, and please feel free to leave your heart at the door! In any case, I believe that about covers one of those scenarios, based around what would happen if Korbin befriended and temporarily adopted a young homeless girl… now to tackle the over scenario that you left for me, my dear and wonderful Lady La Luna!

Now, this one really made me start thinking about things in a more creative sense, I have to say! It‘s so very interesting, so very unique, and I honestly just wanted to try and give you a more in depth answer than what you were probably expecting!

Well, I mean, as you can see, I tend to go above and beyond in terms of details… but as for your scenario, how about I answer it with what Korbin would do in both the Original Timeline – the one in which the events of Oblivion take place without any massive change, and thus Korbin loses his brothers in the end – as well as how he would react in the Revised Timeline – where Korbin makes a deal with Sheogorath to reverse the timeline and rewrite the story so that he can save his brothers from their fates – at the same time?

After all, in both timelines Korbin is a very different person, and would have different reactions if a child suddenly came up to him and asked him this question and gave that reasoning behind it. So, let’s start with the Original Timeline answer, shall we?

In the Original Timeline there was a bit of a gap between the ending of the Oblivion Crisis, Martin’s death, and Korbin choosing to head to the Shivering Isles.

In the aftermath of Martin’s death, and when Chancellor Ocato came to Korbin’s – basically comatose – side as he knelt in front of the nearly formed Akatosh statue, and the remains of the shattered Amulet of Kings, and asked where Martin had gone, and why he was no longer present… Korbin reacted by suddenly standing to his feet, rushing out into the falling rain, and getting as much distance as he could before he collapsed down to his knees and screamed out in agony of everything that had happened.

And when he was done, and his screaming was finished, and his throat was raw? Then he simply started walking.

He got on the road, he headed southwards, to which would eventually lead him to Bravil, and numbly continued on until he hoped the road would finally give out at some point. So, in this scenario, let us say that Korbin actually went into and stayed at Bravil for a while before heading towards the Strange Door that would take him to the Shivering Isles. He is numb, he is broken, he is hardly feeling a single thing, and hardly allowing himself to react in any possible way that isn’t in bitter sadness.

And if a child came up to him? If a child tugged on the leg of his Shrouded Armor and innocently asked him if he was a blacksmith? I think that strange question would be enough to knock Korbin out of his daze for a time.

He doesn’t want to be rude, he doesn’t want to ignore the child, after all… for some reason this child wished to come up to him – the stranger who had, unknowingly to this child, lost everything and everyone he had ever loved – and ask him a question. So, who would he be if he didn’t take the time to answer? Thus, Korbin would kneel down, put on his best fake smile, and wonder why this young boy – let’s say boy in this scenario, as in the other it was a girl – is asking him something like that.

Does he look that messy? Does he look as though he’s been working with steel all day that he is sweating? Or is this child simply confused? And when the young boy answers him, and telling him that he asked because he smelt like fire and brimstone, and the scent has managed to cling itself to his clothing…

…Well, that would be enough for Korbin to make his choice to leave Cyrodiil behind him. If the fact that the scent, the memory, and the regret of what he had done within those damnable Gates of Oblivion still linger even after a week of traveling from the Imperial City to Bravil… then he needs to move on somehow.

His smile would falter, he would pet the boy’s head, and tell him that no, he’s not a blacksmith. He’s just a very dirty, very messy man, who has made so many bad choices that it’s about time that he did something to clean himself up.

And at first, his thoughts lead down a much more darkened road, to where he wishes he could simply find the nearest cliffside and end up reuniting with his brothers one way or another, but when he leaves Bravil and he sees a glowing door in the distance, that is when his choice is made for him, and the pieces start to fall into place.

But in the Revised Timeline? When everything is a touch better, and his brothers are alive and well, and he does not have the guilt he carries from his mistakes of the Original Timeline? He would be in considerable better spirits.

He would laugh with the young boy, asking if he truly looks that messy, and if he should consider leaping into the nearest lake to bathe himself properly! Is this why his brothers seemed to sneer at him lately? Because of the way he smelt? Dear sweet Sithis, he should do something about this, and stat!

He would shake his hair, playfully state that – oh no, now the young boy is just as messy as he is whatever shall we both do! – and then pick the boy up and spin him around for a moment. Saying that perhaps the two of them should head home to their families and get themselves a nice bath before they are scolded from their lack of personal hygiene!

And when the young child walks off with a large smile on his face, and hopefully a giggle to match that smile, he would return to what he was doing with a smile as well.

But for a more secret reason.

After all, he knows that the scent of Oblivion still lingers on his clothing, and possibly even on his own body, and perhaps that scent will never actually leave – no matter how many times he bathes himself or tries to wipe it clean. But Korbin doesn’t mind too much. Even though it is a reminder of everything he had tried to forget, every horror, every Daedra, every flame, or burn, or injury from the depth of those Gates, he takes it all in stride.

Because he survived those Gates. He survived the Crisis. He is alive, even when he thought he would lose his life so many times before, and his brothers are alive just as well.

All three of them are alive… and if the scent of Oblivion has to remain on him for the rest of his life somehow, then he will simply accept it, and look at it as a reminder of something better. A better outcome, a better life, a happier existence, and one where he will share with his family at his side. And honestly, all things considered,Korbin truly doesn’t think that’s all too bad of a trade~

…Oh, my goodness, that wound up turning out way longer than I first planned for it to be! Looking at my word count at the moment, it’s nearly four thousand words, and I am still in the process of going! I’m so sorry that this ended up being quite the ramble, and thus quite the read for you to sit through, but I loved both yours and my dear Mistress Sis’ question and scenarios so much, that I would have honestly felt so bad if I didn’t take the time to try and give you the answer that you both so rightfully deserved!

If you both managed to get through this massive read, then I mostly certainly want to applaud your devotion and desire to learn a little bit more about Korbin and his interactions with children!

My dear Sis, I’m so sorry that I took forever to get around to replying to your question properly, and I’m sorry that I kind of had to end up combining things together in the end, but I hope that you don’t mind! I hope that you like the young Argonian girl that Korbin partially adopted, as well as the scenario and information that I posted above about her and his interactions, and that it somehow managed to put a smile on your face!

I know that you aren’t that big of a fan of Elder Scrolls, but truly – and I’ve probably stated this so many times over in the last little while – your support and care for Korbin always warms my heart. I’m so glad that you like my boy, his story, and the things that he creates. I always cherish and adore your questions, and I look forward to answering the rest of them soon! Thank you again, darling!

And, dear Lady La Luna! Let me just say that it truly means a lot that you enjoyed my work so much! Seeing the wave of activity in my feed just made my entire night, and your support, your curiosity, and your questions means more than you will know, and I hope that my given answer for your scenario will be something that you will end up enjoying by the time you’re finished reading it over!

And not only that, but I hope the upcoming things that I have planned for Korbin and his tale with his adoptive siblings will be something that you will enjoy the further it goes on!

In any case, I know that this is long, and has been filled with tons of emotions on both sides, but I just wanted to say thank you again. You guys’ support, and desire to hear, learn, and know more about Korbin and his story is what keeps me going even when my creativity decides to take a break at times!

So, I appreciate, love, and adore each and every single one of you! And Korbin does just as well, I promise you that! Thanks again for the great questions, and the wonderful support, and until the next time I decide to ramble on about a silver haired boy and his silly siblings! Hugs and kisses all around! ♥

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Severed Bonds (ch. 3)

Summary: Edge, Jedi Knight, is lost in a Galaxy without the Jedi Order and the only one left to him is one who already betrayed them all.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Star Wars AU, Darkfic, Angst, Minor Character Deaths, Friends to Enemies to ?, Hatesex…?, Trauma, Implied Possible Insanity, Rough Sex

Note: So. @cheapbourbon doesn’t even like Star Wars and I wasn’t going to write another AU. So far, it’s going swell for us both, LOL. Hop on the pain train with us, it’s heading down. 

Read the tags! This is dark and angsty, but it hurt too good to stop.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

When they were still in the crèche, sometimes Rus woke him late at night. Edge would come awake to the feeling of being watched and when he opened his sockets, he would find Rus kneeling by the bed, sockets wide and his eye lights eager. Rus was a restless sleeper and rather than wait to be scolded by the crèche Master for being awake, they would sneak out to one of the rooftop balconies. They would sit huddled into their cloaks and watch the city-planet move around them, the never-ending lights, the streams of ships and vehicles moving through the air. On nights like those, it was all the more difficult to get Rus out of bed the next morning, but Edge never turned him away, not once. They were never caught sneaking in or out, and it was only much later as a Knight himself that Edge wondered if crèche Master Toriel simply allowed this seed of rebellion in a rare moment of indulgence. If so, perhaps the mistake was hers, for Rus’s rebellion had grown with weedy ferocity from sapling to tree, with poison fruits hanging on low branches. But what did it matter now. She was likely as dead as the rest of them. It was ship’s night and Edge was coming awake, the sensation of being watched in his sleep was no longer a familiar one. His lightsaber was beneath his pillow and he curled a hand around it before he opened his sockets. To find Rus kneeling before him, a distorted mirror of his pose as a child. There was no eagerness on that gaunt face, none of the childish mischief it had once shown. But it was Rus all the same. “come on.” Rus rose easily to his feet. He was already dressed and it was unnerving to think he’d crept out of their shared bed without waking him. Edge threw off the blankets and dressed swiftly to follow him. Their supplies were already gathered at the lowered gangplank and Edge followed Rus’s silent lead, taking hold of a rucksack of his own. “Where are we going?” Edge asked, low, following Rus down to the planet they’d landed on hours ago. “we’re throwing the empire off our trail. now come on.” Rus led the way. N’zarr was in a cycle of 28 hours of darkness to their 30 hour days, but lamps and lights blazed in the streets, people milling about despite the hour. No marketplace on these streets; the only wares being sold were stimulants and the people themselves. The ship Rus led him to was larger than the last one, an S-class, and Rus moved swiftly to close the ramp the moment they were onboard. His suspicious urgency was given answer when a shout came from outside in the bare moment before the door closed. “Did you steal this ship?” Edge hissed, slinging his pack to the floor. “how do you think i got the last one?” Rus gave him that savage grin that was becoming all-too known to him. “did you think we were traveling around in one with an imperial tracker hidden somewhere?” Beneath that mad humor was an incongruously familiar exasperation, and the spear of memory it caused ached in his soul. He followed Rus to the cockpit, watching him begin the checks with haste. “What happened to the owner?” Rus didn’t look up at him, his hands moving swiftly over the controls. “don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.” Nausea rose and Edge sank into the co-pilot seat, struggling with the emotions bubbling within his soul.

He’d killed when necessary, over the course of the war; most Jedi had. But the idea that Rus would commit cold-blooded murder…he’d done worse, far worse, Edge had seen some of his memories. But having it thrust into his face without the cushion of distance was a new sort of pain. He closed his sockets, breathing slowly and willing calm. Rus didn’t seem to notice his upset and went on, “once we hit hyperspace, we’ll be all right.” The ship lurched as it left the ground, pulling free of the bonds of gravity. Edge kept his sockets closed, tracking their progress through movement. Feeling the moment they left the atmosphere, traveling the required distance to hit hyperspace. Rus was muttering to himself as he plotted the course, and there was the sharp whine of the hyperdrive as it wound up and catapulted them through space. And then there was silence. “if it makes you feel better, he died quickly.” The casual ease with which Rus offered that made him open his sockets, but Edge only looked into the star field before him. “It doesn’t,” Edge said. He swallowed hard; the nausea was lingering. “You killed an innocent to steal his ship.” “innocent?” Rus let out a harsh laugh and that finally made Edge look over at him. He was slouched sideways in the pilot’s chair, legs dangling over the arm. “you should take a look in the hold if you think he was innocent. somehow, i don’t think whoever was in those manacles and chains would agree.” Edge blinked slowly, the implications sinking in. “He was a slaver.” “does that make it better?” Rus mocked. He rolled lightly to his feet, looming over Edge, leaning in to sneer. “i still killed him. so long as i play executioner rather than murderer, will that suit your morals?” “I—“ Words left him. Edge had never seen himself as an executioner or a murderer. He was a Jedi Knight and there were times when loss of life was not preventable. Part of him agreed; if the decision for life was between a slaver and those he chose to enslave, then the choice was an easy one but— Rus moving suddenly to straddle his lap startled him out of his thoughts. He rolled his hips against Edge’s, settling in, leaned close to breathe against the side of his skull, “since we’re in a new ship, we should mark it as our own, don’t you think?” Edge’s hands hesitated uncertainly, hovering over him. Rus never initiated anything, not since that first misjudged kiss all those years ago. He was always responsive, even eager, when Edge touched him, spread his knees without question and allowed access to any part of his body or mind. But this was something new. When Edge only dithered in foolish uncertainty, Rus leaned back, head tilted to the side. “no?” There was something fragile in that question, anticipating the echo of rejection. He settled his hands on Rus’s pelvis, dragging him down and lifting his own, grinding up against him. “I didn’t say that.” The sudden, rising need left him more the bumbling fool than a person of any grace or skill. Between the two of them, they managed with clumsy haste to pull enough clothes aside for Edge to get a hand between Rus’s legs, testing the slickness already waiting for him. His own robes were yanked aside, Rus fumbling with his belt, poise lost as he wrapped an eager hand around Edge. The cold of his finger bones made him hiss, but they warmed quickly, stroking the length of his hardness. The only sound was the rustle of clothing, the jangle of belts, and the low, greedy sounds captured in their mouths between kisses. Soon enough the chair was leaned back as far as it could go while Rus rode him, his head thrown back as he gasped out throaty cries of pleasure. His bones flushed with arousal, disguising the pale gauntness that was a part of him now. He almost looked like himself, if Edge didn’t push too deeply into his mind. So beautiful, the sinuous roll of his hips marking him as the Rus of his memory in the way his katas no longer did. All that grace, that breathtaking fluidity concentrated down into this obscene moment. Edge shoved that thought aside, ignoring memory for once in favor of the now. He took hold of Rus’s hips and pulled him down hard, pushing into the slick, tight heat of his body. His pleasure peaked almost too quickly, his shields falling away enough to allow Rus to feel what he was feeling. His startled, choked cry was shared between them at the same moment of their ecstasy. It was blinding, exhilarating, addictive, unable to tell where his own orgasm began and Rus’s ended, doubling and redoubling between them until they both collapsed weakly together, still throbbing with aftershocks. Edge was still panting when Rus pushed himself upright. The flush of his arousal was fading, leaving behind pale bone and he didn’t try to stop Rus from pulling away, straightening his clothes with brisk, jerky movements. For the first time, Rus brought up his shields before Edge, his emotions cutting off abruptly and he strode out of the cockpit without a word, leaving Edge alone with his confusion. He pulled up his trousers and buckled his belt, smoothing out his robes. Whatever was troubling Rus, little good could come from trying to force it out of him. He’d already spoken more in the last couple hours than he usually did the entire day. Better perhaps to check their new accommodations, take the time to put away their supplies, perhaps even return to sleep. It was still late per their ship’s time. Edge didn’t think too closely about his decision to avoid the main hold.

~~*~~

The ship was slightly larger than their previous one and much better appointed. There were several sleeping berths, utilitarian but decently comfortable. Edge chose the largest one, stripping the bed linens and replacing them with fresh. The few personal possessions he discovered, he gathered up and put into the ship’s incinerator, all except a small puzzle cube made in an unfamiliar design. He was inspecting it curiously when the door swished open and Rus stepped in. He stripped off his dark outer robe, tossing it carelessly on a chair. “not going to do your nightly impression of a radar dish before bed?” “No.” In truth, he hadn’t done any nightly meditation since that single brush with Yoda. “good,” Rus sighed, flopping into the chair. He spun in into a lazy half-circle until it faced Edge. “i was wondering when you’d get tired of painting a target on us for any force-sensitive out there.” Edge didn’t look away from the cube, carefully turning one side to match the pattern. There was no point in any protest, it was nothing more than the truth. Leaving himself bare and exposed in his search was as good as drawing a map. It was a fair chance that was how the bounty hunters found them.

But this was the first time Rus made mention of it. “they’re all dead,” Rus went on, still swiveling in the chair. “what were you going to do if you found someone, anyway? run off to find them and leave me all on my lonesome?” “No.” Edge set the cube aside. This was going to demand his full attention. Rus stilled his chair and gave Edge a mockingly thoughtful look. “take me with you, then? show off your pet sith?” He ran his tongue over his teeth before clacking them together loudly. “best be careful with that, i’ve been known to bite.”

A more curious puzzle than the cube was the way Rus, so bitter and broken, could still show such fragility. His dark humor was barely a disguise for his fear and Edge only shook his head and did not reply. Anger was nearly crackling in Rus’s eye lights, underlining the laziness in his voice as he added, slyly, “after all, look what happened when your little group tried to hunt me down.” “The clone troopers killed them, not you.” Perhaps it was a mistake to answer. Vicious glee flared and Rus leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “they did. were you expecting something different from me?” “You would have killed them, then.” Edge didn’t move as Rus stood, moving to stand behind him. His fingertips were hard and cold, following the lines of his coronal sutures. “that’s generally the expected response to someone trying to kill you, you kill them back.” He traced the crack in Edge’s skull and he flinched; it was still painfully sensitive. “And me?” Edge kept his voice even, emotionless. “Were you planning to kill me?” His hand dropped away. “unfair,” Rus said, sulkily. “You don’t get to decide what questions are fair.” But Rus only stalked away, out of the room and didn’t return by the time Edge stripped off his robes and climbed into bed.

~~*~~

It could have been moments after falling asleep or hours when Edge awoke to that feeling of staring again. Rus was crouched over him, his eye lights pale and burning hot in the darkness.

“Rus?” Edge asked, softly, and oh, he was afraid in that moment the name didn’t belong. But Rus only blinked, slowly, staring at him. “no, i wasn’t,” Rus whispered, thin and hoarse. “i could never. not you, and you know it, damn you. now fuck me.”

Edge reached out with shaking hands and took hold of him, rolling Rus beneath him to do as he was told.

Only to have Rus struggle suddenly, fighting his grip. Confused, he pushed harder, trying to catch hold of Rus’s wrists even as he twisted away. “no!” Rus spat and his anger was a fury, hot and bitter, “don’t, don’t you dare hold yourself back from me now. not now that i’ve had you, you can’t—“ His fingers scraped painfully down Edge’s rib cage, leaving scratches deep enough to sting. The pain cleared his sleep-fogged thoughts and he understood.

He dropped his shields, opening the bond between them and allowed the splayed open touch of Rus’s soul against his own.

Rus moaned, sagging back on the bed, allowing Edge to settle on top of him even as he slurred out, “yes, touch me, yes, yes, be with me, need you, need this.”

He did, let their growing pleasure loop between them while Rus pleaded, begging him for more.

~~*~~

For the third time, Edge’s sleep was interrupted that night. Not by a stare but a scream.

Rus’s screams, the Force vibrated around them with the strength of his terror. It was automatic to catch hold of him, dragging him close even as he fought both the tangling blankets and Edge.

Those struggles were feeble, more befitting to a child than one called Sith, his flailing hands easily caught as Edge pulled him into his arms. His cries were garbled, senseless, and Edge only held him tightly, murmuring useless reassurances. “Shh, I have you. I have you, easy now, easy.” Slowly, his struggles ceased and Rus sagged back against him, trembling in his arms. Only the occasional hitch of his breath revealing tears that Edge couldn’t see in the darkness.

He was muttering, almost too low to be heard and it took a long moment for Edge to understand the words. His soul clenched, cramping viciously when he did.

Over and over, a hoarse whisper, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry…” There was nothing he could say, no comfort past what he was already offering. Unthinkingly, Edge began to hum softly, one of the songs the Masters sung to them in the crèche.

Slowly, Rus’s trembling eased and he lay unmoving in Edge’s arms. His eye lights cast wavering shadows that vanished and reappeared as he blinked.

Edge did not fall asleep again, only held him and sang softly against the darkness that surrounded them.

-finis-

Next

[inyri]

Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter 37- The Game

Equivalent Exchange by inyri Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M)

Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

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Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Game

Nine opens her eyes.

The drawback of Odessen’s relative security, the base built as it was into the solid stone of the cliffs, was the lack of natural light. Her quarters here- or is it their quarters, now? Theron’s stirring awake too, his breath warm on the back of her neck and one arm draped lazily over her waist, curling, pulling her closer out of reflex- are windowless; it reminds her too much of the endless black monotony of spaceship travel, never quite knowing if it was day or night. Say what one liked about the endless rain on Dromund Kaas, in her own apartment she still woke to the sun on her face.

(Or the ghost of sun, at least, peeking through the clouds, but never mind that: her point stands. She misses very little of Kaas City, but she really had been fond of that apartment even if it did remind her too much of-

Never mind that, either.)

“‘s that me or you?” Theron mumbles over the steady chime of a datapad alarm from somewhere in the lower part of the room.

She blinks, stifling a yawn. “Probably me. What time is it?”  

“Just turned five,” he says after a moment, lifting his hand up along her body, fingertips brushing gently at her throat in response to her still-hoarse voice. He always had the time down to the millisecond, one of the many side benefits of his implant and one of the few she truly envied. It didn’t matter when they were properly geared for missions and she was hooked into comms, but it would have been useful more than once on undercover ops. “I didn’t think I had anything before eight, but-”

“You don’t. I, on the other hand-” she pushes the blanket back reluctantly with her still-splinted wrist, just far enough that she can slip free and leave Theron covered and warm. But he doesn’t move to let her go and she doesn’t really want to get up, not when these minutes stolen one by one from their overscheduled days are all they get- “am due in the infirmary. I’ve got a hot date with a kolto tank.”

He shifts, one foot overlapping hers; he props himself up on his elbow behind her. “I’m jealous. Guess I should get up too, eh?”

“Why? Go back to sleep. Stars know you need it.”

“But if I walk out of here later without you-” Theron pauses.

In trying to turn over to face him she only tangles herself up, her leg half-trapped beneath his so she has to roll into him instead of away. With her weight against him he tips back, settling onto the pillow again as her head rests on his chest, her body atop his. “My answer hasn’t changed since last night. Let them talk,” she says. “I don’t care.”

He exhales, goes still and quiet for long enough that she starts to wonder if he’s thought better of all of this-  but then he works his fingers through her hair, a comfortably possessive sort of gesture, and when she glances up at him he smiles.

“In any case,” she continues, “you know my access code. Just lock up when you go, and we’ll reprogram the security protocols after today’s meetings. Hylo told me last night the biometrics finally arrived.”

“You’re putting in biometrics? Don’t you think that’s overkill?”

“No such thing as too much security.” She yawns again, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the warmth of skin on skin lulling her back into sleep. With so much time spent away from the base in this last month they’ve shared a bed more often than not but not here, not on Odessen with the whole Alliance walking unaware past her quarters; she can still count those nights on one hand.

A bed is a bed is a bed. It oughtn’t make a difference. But sprawled together like this- I like this blanket, Theron mutters against the top of her head, adjusting her body atop his. Nice and warm - there’s a kind of permanence to it that makes her pulse stutter. If they could stay like this forever she would be content, she thinks, and that sets a warning voice nagging in the back of her mind in the place where all of her training lives.

Too close. Too trusting. Not safe.

Stupid voice.

She ignores it.

It might have had a point once, of course. In the years when her only loyalty was to a mission objective (mission first, Empire second, team third and everyone else got whatever scraps remained) and Void take the consequences she might have used him for what she could get out of him and then cast him aside. Or he might have done the same to her, if-  

No. She’d certainly have deserved it if he had- when it came to their shared trade turnabout was fair play, especially a trick she’d used so often as that one- but she tries to imagine it and can’t, the image of it so ridiculous that she laughs softly despite herself.  

“Something funny?” Theron’s nearly asleep again.

(And this? When it came to sharing space they’d talked about it last night, only a little and leaving out the details, but so far as they both could tell they’re equally useless at it in mostly opposite ways.

The Academy bred creativity but sharing rooms was strictly against the rules, and even in advanced studies she’d only ever gone so far as one drawer in a sort-of-girlfriend’s apartment two floors above hers in cadet housing; they’d fought a few weeks later and all her clothes ended up tossed from the complex roof in the middle of a summer storm and that had been the end of that. They’d trained her against it, too, with a hundred horror stories: look at this, her teachers said, pointing to each empty bed, each empty desk. Talked too much. Too soft. Couldn’t finish the job. Washout. Failure. Dead.

At the end of the day it was easier not to bother.

The Major hadn’t counted. She had her own quarters, for one thing, and that year was training, not-

It didn’t count. And Kaliyo certainly hadn’t counted. She’d never even unpacked before Nine had kicked her back to the crew quarters and she’d taken it in stride, settling into her role on the ship like nothing had ever happened between them.

For Theron it was different, she thinks. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to bother. Maybe he never quite knew how, not after the lessons learned from his mother and his old master and his father, now, back and back to all the countless people who’d looked at a little boy alone in space and saw a target to be taken advantage of- he didn’t talk about those years except for the occasional swoop racing story and the vaguest outline of how he ended up in the SIS, rather unsurprisingly involving something mostly illegal going very wrong and a great deal of smartassery on his part, but she knows him well enough by now to hear the things he isn’t saying; given the choice between the civilized brutality of the Academy and the chaos of Theron’s childhood she’d go back to the dormitories any day of the week. If the galaxy taught him anything it taught him that people keep you around only so long as you’re useful to them, that the easiest way to dodge being tossed aside was to always keep moving, never settling down anywhere for long enough that it hurt to leave it or that you’d be missed-)

“No,” she says gently and presses a kiss to his chest, just over his heart. “Go back to sleep. I’ll come and find you when I’m out.”

He doesn’t answer, only grumbles softly when she unwinds herself, rising, and drapes the blanket back over him; it’s a poor substitute for body warmth but she’s got to get up so it’ll have to do.  

By the time she dresses Theron’s curled up tight, eyes closed and breaths even, calm and still and peaceful. She slips out quietly into the hall, careful not to wake him again.

After all, there’s nowhere else he needs to be.

***

Doctor Lokin looks up from his caf cup as she walks into the treatment room, then unhooks the coupling connecting the intravenous line to the port in his chest.

“Excellent timing, Ciph-” he catches himself. She’s not the only one still slaved to old habits. “Commander. I was just finishing my own treatment- the first round of the day, at least.” Gesturing with one hand toward two nearly empty infusion bags clothespinned to a ceiling-mounted pole, he attaches a small syringe to the port with the other and presses down on the plunger. “We can begin whenever you’re ready.”

Nine pauses halfway across the room, focused on the hanging bags. She knew in the back of her mind he still wasn’t well- would never be well even after the cure they’d brewed on Alderaan, maybe- but the brilliant yellow liquid still beaded in the detached tubing’s a slap in the face, a reminder with every drip.

(It wasn’t like her to forget. She spent years with her crew, so many years all crowded together on the ship, and they all had their jobs to do but it was her responsibility to make sure they held together, her job to see when the machinery was starting to fray at the edges. But stars, there are so many of them now, so many faces to keep track of and so many things they need it’s like juggling a thousand knives at once, all spinning and whirling until the moment she drops one and-

That’s no excuse. She’s the Commander. She needs to act like one.)

“If you need privacy,” she says carefully, “I can come back in a few minutes.”

Eckard shakes his head and fastens up the flap on his jacket. If he hears the rasp in her voice, he doesn’t comment on it. “No, no. I’ll have plenty of time to tidy up while your cycle runs. You have my full attention.”

Reaching the back table beside the kolto tank, she sets the wrapped-up bundle with her change of clothing down and slips out of her shoes. “How are you-” (too personal, he hates to talk about himself- try again ) “How is the treatment going?”

“As well as can be expected. If the current projection holds I should have several years before the cancer kills me.”

“But I thought-”

Four syringes rest in a rack on the countertop; he reaches for the first, gesturing for her to sit. “When you found me on Alderaan,” he says, “I was counting my time in days. You’ve managed an impressive research division here, but you know perfectly well that what I have is incurable.”

“But-”

“It’s far more than I could have managed alone. I am-” Eckard pauses, glances down at the syringe still in his hand. ”Please don’t mistake me, Cipher. I am grateful. And with your permission, I will continue to serve for as long as I am able.”

She looks down at it, too, even as she starts to roll up her shirtsleeve. “Why didn’t you return to the Empire, then? There must have been someone in Research Division who would have been able to help you.”

His mouth twists, bitter and angry for a moment, before he shakes his head. “RD no longer exists, not in any meaningful sense. I might have found a position in Acina’s laboratory, but far more likely I’d have found myself one of her research subjects. Rumor had it she-”

“I remember her,” she murmurs, “from that business with those awful artifacts. I suppose that sort of mad science goes with the territory- Sphere of Technology and all that.”

“Oh, child-” (he hasn’t called her that in a very, very long time; it was a slip of the tongue back then, when they scarcely knew each other and she was shattering into a million sharp-edged little pieces under the yoke of the Castellan restraints, and as much as she’d bristled at it it was true. She was so, so young then and she thought she knew everything but Void, was she ever wrong)- “you haven’t the slightest idea.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

Eckard chuckles softly, but there’s no mirth in it. “With any luck you’ll never find out. Just keep that in mind when she comes asking for favors, hm?”

“Why would she do that?” She raises an eyebrow. “I know we’re all trying to keep a brave face, but we’re not exactly flush with resources here. What could we possibly have that the Sith Empire would find useful?”

“A spine, for one.”

“And that and a billion credits might buy us half a chance at Arcann. Why do I have the feeling you know something I don’t?”

The needle cover clicks into place with a sharp snap. “I know a great many things that you don’t, although not on that particular front. Merely… gut instinct, let’s say.”

“Your gut instinct-” finger-marks around the words- “used to need three rounds of controlled trials before you’d so much as hedge a bet. Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me, old man.”

Were his teeth always so sharp when he smiled? She can’t remember. “Hardly.” One hand around her wrist, he pushes her sleeve up past her elbow with the syringe held between two fingers. “Just a few injections today and then I’ve got the tank all ready for you.”

She looks down at the needle one more time, its tip poised just above her vein.

(Just a few injections, the technician says, before we start the procedure.

She tries to turn her head but the straps hold her tight against the chair, buckled down against her wrists and ankles, chest and hips and forehead. That never bodes well. Exhaling, she pushes the anxiety away with her breath; they mustn’t see her nervousness. Making Cipher this quickly out of training is already almost unprecedented and if Keeper- no, no, the Minister now, they’re all getting promotions these days- knows she’s afraid he might just kick her back down to grunt work, commendation or not-

One shot, then another and another. Just like any other infirmary visit. Nothing to worry about. She relaxes into the seat as it starts to recline.

Nearly finished. One more and then your sedative.

She shakes her head slightly against the restraint. I don’t need a sedative. I’m ready to begin.

I don’t think that’s allow-

The overhead speaker crackles, the Minister’s voice echoing strangely in her ears like she’s a dozen meters underwater- a side effect of the earlier shots, she supposes, whatever they were. We’ll be keeping to the protocol today, Agent. Technician Six, please continue.

Yes, Minister, she says. As you say.

She remembers the needles. She remembers them, one in each arm, as her eyelids go heavy and the light fades and then oh stars that feels like-

It feels like-

NO-)

Her temples throb and she flinches away from him before she can stop herself. With his hand still on hers she doesn’t get far, just enough to put some distance between the sharp point of the syringe and her skin. She’s sweating, too, the back of her neck prickling and her heart pounding in her ears even as she wipes at her face with her free hand.

(She oughtn’t to be able to remember that. That is a problem.)

“What are-” she swallows, starts again as Doctor Lokin looks at her and then the syringe and then back to her. “Before you do that, I want to know what’s in it.”

The needle cover snaps back down.

For a moment the room’s nearly silent save the ever-constant  low roar of machinery and muted voices in the larger laboratory beyond  the door, the soft bubbling kolto and the click-click-click of Scritchy’s nails on the duracrete floor as he brushes up against her legs; she reaches down to rub behind his ears out of reflex. Then Eckard sighs, picks up a square of clean gauze from the little metal tray beside the rack and presses it just beneath her nose.

“I suppose I deserve that,” he murmurs. “Though you were never particularly interested in the particulars before.”  

“I never thought I needed to be.”

He pinches the bridge of her nose; she can taste the blood in the back of her throat now. “Then you’re learning. I’ll transfer the component sheets for your review as soon as we’ve got this tidied up.”

***

At least she’s cleared for training now.

When she goes back to quarters to drop off her dirty clothes Theron isn’t there, long gone to his first meeting, and she’s got nothing scheduled for nearly an hour. Plenty of time for a cup of caf and a few rounds with a combat dummy.

In the post-breakfast hour the training room’s buzzing with activity, training drones and lightsabers sparking through the air at one end and the firing range nearly full to capacity at the other. She tries to ignore all the eyes on her as she lands a first few hesitant strikes, dodging and weaving around the dummy and lashing out with her fists to test both her reaction time and the strength of the nearly-healed bone. So far it seems to be holding; she lands a solid hook that would have left a real opponent doubled over and the impact reverberates up her arm with only the faintest hint of pain.

That might also have been her unwrapped knuckles, of course. She probably ought to do something about that.

She jogs across the room to the supply cabinet, tearing two lengths of tape off the wide roll- getting low again and they’ll have to order more; supplying their ever-growing crew’s an expensive proposition- and then crosses back, sits down beside the dummy and starts on her left hand.

Kaliyo peeks around the dummy, already pulling off her own padded gloves. “Hey. You want some help with that?” Her first instinct is to wave her off, but it would go faster with help- she holds up her hand and ‘liyo crouches down beside her, wrapping the tape around and around her knuckles. “How’s it holding up?”

“Well enough. I’ve had worse.”

“Not by that much, and I still remember Corellia.” Securing the end, Kaliyo taps her other hand and she holds it up obligingly. “I can’t say I was too mad I got turfed off to the shuttle. Watching Lana and your boy wear holes in the floor would probably have gotten old.”

She snorts and unfolds one leg, kicking Kaliyo’s feet out from beneath her. “And here I thought you cared.”

“Fuck you,” ‘liyo says cheerfully as she catches herself on the dummy’s support post. “I care plenty. I just don’t like having to watch-” Instead of finishing the sentence she clicks her tongue and just keeps working, quick and tidy, until her right hand’s wrapped up too. “There. Good to go. Should we test ‘em out?”

“Don’t you already have a sparring partner?” An impatient one, judging by the crossed arms and rolling eyes when she glances over.

Kaliyo waves the trooper off with a flick of her wrist and then stands, reaching out to offer her a hand up. “He hits like a bitch and he only knows ‘pub military hand-to-hand, straight out of the textbook. You know how to show a girl some variety.”

“Famous last words, Djannis. Famous last words.”

Her first strike lands almost before she can stand up fully. “No such thing. You and me?” Nine’s return jab catches her in the side and she winces, then grins . “We’re immortal.”

***

“You’re really sure about this?”

She’s spent the last hour after the logistics meeting wrangling Nightshrike’s war room into something approaching professional: carefully unrevealing datascreens behind her (all the better if Trant get distracted by what he thinks she’s giving away- the answer is nothing at all, of course, but let him waste the effort trying to figure it out), the closet doors covered over with Alliance banners, her best scrounged-together dress uniform buttoned up neatly and her hair pulled back and pinned up. The holoterminal’s set up at the end of the table, angled just so. It looks like a proper office.

Mostly. Better than anything she can put together on the base that isn’t in her own quarters or runs the risk of someone knocking on the door halfway through the call.

It’ll do.

When she doesn’t reply Theron changes tack. “You look nice,” he says, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “The uniform, I mean- it’s been a long time since I saw you in a uniform. Very… um, commanderly.”

“At least I look the part, even if I don’t feel it. When did you ever see me in Imperial uniform, though?” She looks back over her shoulder toward him quizzically. Away from Dromund Kaas she can only think of a handful of times she would have worn full dress and she’s pretty sure the Republic hadn’t been invited to any of those particular events.

“That first official group meeting on Yavin. Remember? We were all sweating our faces off and one of Marr’s honor guard almost passed out behind the war table?”

Oh. She does remember that, but- “Weren’t you just wearing your same jacket?”

“SIS.” He grins. “They never gave us dress uniforms.”

She throws a spare length of cable at him; he catches it easily, winding it around his wrist like a bracelet. “Of course they didn’t- that would require proper organizational hierarchy. And to answer your original question, no. Not particularly.” Dragging a high-backed chair around the far side of the table, she lets its feet hit the floor with a thump. No rolling chairs for this call. It wouldn’t do to be skating around the room like an idle child. “But unless you’ve got some brilliant alternative you’ve so far failed to mention, I’m making the call as soon as I set up the projector.”

Theron shakes his head. “No, but-”

“You don’t like it.”

“More that I’m worried about potential backlash.” Leaning against the doorframe, he runs one hand through his hair. “I mean, I’m also not thrilled about the whole blackmail thing, but that’s probably down to being raised by a Jedi.”

Oh, Void. She knows perfectly well what he’s capable of; she knows so many things he’s done over the years- hells, she’s watched him kill and more- but he still manages to surprise her with his stubborn insistence on being teeth-achingly good. “You-” crossing the room to where he stands in three quick steps, she stands up on tiptoes and presses a quick kiss to the point of his chin- “are a precious and delicate flower, too good for this world. Now get out. I’ve got an SIS director to threaten.”

“I can’t even eavesdrop?”

She (very generously, as far as she’s concerned) resists the urge to bite him. “Do you absolutely promise to sit completely still and not move or open your mouth regardless of anything he or I might say?”

Theron wrinkles his nose. “Um.”

“I thought so.” It’s better if he doesn’t hear. He knows what she’s capable of, too, but-

(He thinks he does, at least. But if he flinches at a little well-deserved blackmail, she can only imagine what he’d think of that thing with the senator. Or the ‘dinner party’ on Balmorra. Or any of her old runs on Nar Shaddaa, really.

They don’t talk about those days. Not yet. Maybe not ever. That might be better, too.)

“I know,” he says, and kisses her forehead. “I know. I’m going to go tweak the flight plan for Voss. I’ll be on the bridge when you’re done, okay?”

“Okay.”

When he goes she locks the door behind him, turns on the scrambling field and settles into the chair. Even with the signal bouncing through relays it’s a risk, but it’s naive at this point to assume Trant doesn’t know where they are; she’d bet good credits the Republic has at least one agent embedded with them even now. It’s certainly what she’d have done in his shoes. The worst-case scenario is that he’s devious enough- and petty enough- to share coordinates with the Zakuulans, but that strikes her as unlikely.

Then again, she’d have thought it unlikely that he’d put a hit out on Theron except for the source. Jonas might very well have lied to her. She’d expect that, and frankly she’d deserve it.  But much as she’s tried she can’t think of a single reason why he’d lie to Theron about something like this.

Well. Only one way to find out.

Masking activated. Enter caller identification. > THERON SHAN Enter destination address. >sis.mainhq.director.mtrantoffice.main.bypass Passcode required. Enter passcode. (She glances down at her datapad, typing carefully. Fuck this up and she’ll have to deal with his secretary, meaning odds to evens she’ll get hung up on before she can get a word in edgewise.) >0z1ax74hk5

She holds her breath.

CONNECTING.

One ring. Two. (For stars’ sake, it’s half six in the evening, Coruscant Standard Time. There’s no possible way the man’s not still in his office-)

By the time the connection stabilizes and they can see each other, Marcus Trant’s already scowling. He must have been handsome when he was young, dark-skinned and dark-eyed and close-cropped hair shading to grey- that’s new since his last dossier photo, but the war’s worn all of them down- but the curl of his lip and the wrinkles across his forehead set the tone immediately. He’s not even going to pretend civility, apparently.

Good. That only makes it easier to twist the knife.

“How did you get this num- no, don’t answer that. You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I clear the line.” His hand moves subtly out of frame, no doubt activating a trace. As if she hadn’t considered that. How insulting. “Starting now, Cipher Nine.”

“Now really, Marcus. You’re hurting my feelings. What if I’d just called to say hello?” Her own hands folded on the tabletop, she settles back comfortably into her chair. “I know the Minister used to so look forward to your little chats.”

“A peacetime courtesy extended to equals. Five seconds.”

She clicks her tongue. “You have a point. I suppose I do outrank you now, don’t I- and it’s Commander, by the way. Cipher’s an Imperial rank.”

Oh, that look. Delightful.

“But enough idle chitchat. You put a death mark on Theron Shan. Why?”

Trant glances sideways at a harsh beep from one of his desktop monitors. “That’s quite an accusation. Someone’s been feeding you tall tales, I think.”

It would have been too easy for him to simply admit to it. He’s cannier than that; one doesn’t last as long as he has in their world by telling the truth at first prompting. But one also learns to prepare for all eventualities, and she’s not about to implicate Jonas, not with the risk he took. ”You lost a hunting-hound on Alderaan recently, I hear. A very stupid hound who needed to learn how to encrypt his datapad properly.” She lifts her datapad and clears her throat. “Ahem. Target sighted at Pallista Spaceport, bound northeast. Scout images attached. Please confirm white auth still active. Shall I read your reply? Or any of the other messages he saved?”

“A simple request,” he says. “Detain and interrogate, appropriate to charges.”

“Liar.” The smile doesn’t leave her face. “I know perfectly well what a white auth is- Ardun Kothe was awfully fond of them, particularly for a Jedi. More to the point, you have no authority over my people. Call it off. Now.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his knuckles blanch as one fist clenches and unclenches. “You’re harboring a deserter and a traitor to the Republic in your so-called Alliance. Give yourself all the titles you want and keep playing at rebellion, but I will deal with my own ‘people’���-his tone a mockery, fingers arcing in the air; she’s almost got him- “as I see fit. Including Theron Shan. Did he put you up to this?”

Like beads of water, the lies roll off her tongue. “He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him yet, and if we can settle this reasonably I won’t have to. He still respects you, Director-” (that’s only a little bit of a lie)- “and I’ve no quarrel with the Republic. Don’t give me a reason to change that.”

Back straight in her chair, she sits back slowly, watching his face. For the briefest moment she wonders if it really is going to be that simple, if after all the rulebreaking Theron must have gotten away with over the years there’s still some little scrap of affection left that might make the man see reason-

-and then he smiles, teeth flashing white and eyes hard. “I’ll give you credit, Cipher-” ( Commander , she says)- “you’ve got balls. You run roughshod over my whole organization for years and then, to add insult to injury, you pull my best agent from under my Void-damned nose. Middle of a war and-” he snaps. “Gone. Flipped by an Imp whore. I’d ask you how you did it, but I can probably guess. I never thought Shan was the type.”

“Honestly. Name-calling? Somehow I expected better of you.” Oh, there’s no point in arguing this. “And Theron isn’t a deserter- or a traitor. Did you hear that from Jace Malcom?”

That does make him flinch.

“Call it off. I won’t ask again.”  

“With all due respect, Commander-” why is it that whenever someone says with all due respect what they really mean is kiss my ass?- “I’ll have to decline. Now if that’s all-”

Well, then.

Fuck him.

She rests her elbows on the table. “How’s your ex-wife, Marcus? Rumor has it General Garza’s working with the SIS these days. I’m surprised you’d allow it after what she did.”

“Rumor says a lot of things, and I’m not in the mood for small talk. Disconnecting in three-” He starts to reach for the transmitter, pushing back from his desk.

“I know about Eclipse Squad.” Stay calm stay calm don’t lose your temper- “And unless you’d like every newsroom shy of Wild Space to know, too, I’d suggest you sit the fuck down and we continue this conversation.”

He stops. “Bantha shit. You’re bluffing.”

“You know,” she says, “I had a feeling you’d say that.” She presses play.

***

Author's Note: so... tired.... must... keep... writing... (This chapter brought to you by first trimester fatigue.)

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt - Rambles in Eden (excerpt)

Another large chunk of the new Moors Mutt chapter to whet your appetite. Excuse any minor errors, they'll be mercilessly culled before she goes Wattpad live. Enjoy, you sick fucks.

IV. Rambles in Eden

At sunrise we departed, tramping toward a horizon aflame. Great greenery stretched as a carpet for our tread. Dawn's jewels, the stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot. Leaves crunched, brittle things long past season returning to aether.

In the shadow of his hovel, I saw he had set plates of milk and egg in humble deference to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient tombs and mounds of the Isles. A race, it was said, of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread, its boils gaping swordwounds, always fatal. Sperrin and surrounding holds were made immune to degeneracy by hard-headedness. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' soaked thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seemed to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in their practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of its adherents, there are yet more worshippers here in these bog towns and stone deserts, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the cliffs and below the ravenous tides fizzing like musket charges." I pondered briefly the egg dish, Thackeray had made no mention, while Fergus lifted a knee, the rusted joint of waking Talos, then swung the dangling appendage in a cumbersome fashion to shift a scarred moggy.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The bar frame served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one or two stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern, and a fur mantle he wore over his coat most Heraclean.

He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels at his side, never stumped for purpose.

In his great shadow, one felt gratitude for civilisation. A concept which, for men like Lar, was voluntary. A hardy buck like him allowed us lilluputians exist. Every second a short man like me spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

'Lar, let me ask you something. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did, before she got her claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested.' I couldn't believe my luck. I need only hide the means by which the knowledge was gained, lest I trigger supernatural anxieties both doubtlessly held. No, it's all well in the Adelphi bubbling hookahs and talking about dreamlands, but that talk doesn't go for much around here. 'This is fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when the church closed?'

'After my first communion.' Lar answered curtly, but I sensed a question within.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy now? My father was a man of private faith. Distrustful of institutions, he encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves and not puzzle over mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen. I know my bible well as any bishop. Like I said, he was a man of strong individual faith. Had plans for the priesthood once. Even unfulfilled, it's a noble ambition. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, speaking to indicate he was most unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly-clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure; a talisman he had doubtless proffered from its hallowed coffer hidden in the rafters, in hopes of warding away eidolons stirring from hades at our brazen charge.

I shrugged my shoulders, 'Insitutions?' I said without confidence, 'He didn't talk about it. So, enlighten me if you will Padre, what age is communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' said Lar through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven years old, least that's what age I was.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this thing about. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasion queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why its so special.'

'You'll soon find out; Talbot Church is our current destination.' said Lar, looking more than pleased with himself, and I bailed a fist and considered delivering my literal interpretation of someone being pleased as punch. How much I wanted to know, how much he did not say, it drove me mad. Still, I was delighted. It seemed I would know soon why I was chosen to receive this particular vision, of the old church, the young priest and the stone, oldest still.

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed now, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had a purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life again to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude if a higher place exists than this, they dead will bid us good fortune.'

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers turned missionaries, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a home for their desert god. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod where the snake weeds grow. Slithered out from the eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Their worshippers were dark and twisted as their idols, taking every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered to his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for, worth suffering for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon, the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forbears, and epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated the existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the softening ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I did not know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him instead of speaking, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke in words most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more than that. Why are you asking if you already know? Consider that my question. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I know more, and still all this time there was the beast out there somewhere, presumably furious at being picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell me more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the strange dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man and his spade daubed in clay burying his secrets remained. I found most curious the relocation of the cairn. Lar had not seemed confident in imparting the true reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

[carterashofficial]

the one where you don’t know your soulmate until you touch them.

it got long but I have no regrets (feat Arcann and Fiika)

He hadn’t said anything as she was dragged away, screaming about wanting to live, screaming his name. Desperation. It’d happened too fast. Vaylin was there. Father was dead.

And this outlander spy had been kind to him for no reason. She had nothing to gain; there was simply nothing manipulative about her kindness.

The chrono on the wall said it was into the early hours of the morning.

Arcann rolled over onto his side and the cortosis covering of his arm socket dug into his flesh. He couldn’t her out of his head, that little bit of kindness, that hand she’d offered to help him up. Father had been shot down, there were tears of grief and fury staining her cheeks.

Her glove was warm against his hand.

The.... the....

Why was she kind?

He turned onto his back, staring at the canopy over his bed.

Fool. You let her be frozen, you didn’t keep you promise to give her whatever she wanted.

She’s alive, in carbonite. Alive.

Is living as a prisoner, unaware of time or yourself, really living? Fool.

Arguing with himself was getting him nowhere. Just conflicted emotions and guilt that, despite everything he’d tried, he couldn’t stamp out. Arcann rose and dressed. If he owed that Imperial spy anything, it would be making sure she was alive. Just... to satisfy himself.

He kneaded his forehead, trying to will the headache away. Izak take the socialites, all of them. Indo Zal was tolerable, at best, but the others... He lacked the patience to suffer through their selfish ploys.

“They think they hold power,” Arcann continued. “Vanity is not power. You understand what power truly is, to change the galaxy with a choice. Your files. They detailed your work to stop Father... He was referred to as Vitiate. He consumed your homeworld.”

Fiika Allos’ carbonite figure didn’t talk back. She never talked back; not for the three years he’d been secretly visiting the trophy room just to speak and vent and think things out aloud to her. Vaylin wouldn’t understand his annoyances; nor would her solutions be... peaceful. But Fiika, the girl who’d been kind once, who he still felt guilt over.

Arcann sighed. It’d been too long. Melting her out now would just... she would hate him. three years, she’d been frozen and the galaxy had changed. He didn’t wish to consider what she would think of him. How she had made a mistake with her kindness; he deserved nothing; he couldn’t even keep a simple promise.

It would be best to not dwell on it.

He headed towards the door to the lifts, and paused. The Force was singing, telling him to stay back, warning him... ever so faintly. Arcann couldn’t pinpoint the source.

So he left.

Arcann supposed he ought to get up off his couch and get ready for bed, but the feeling in the Force, that something was coming, the foreboding in his gut, wouldn’t leave. If something wasn’t wrong yet, it was about to become very very wrong.

And his mind kept drifting back to Fiika.

He’d only thought about her this much during the first few weeks he’d been Emperor; when his conscience get to the best of him and he had to check on her.

The hand she’d offered to pull him to his feet, the casual kindness about it. How she’d thanked him on his flagship. “I don’t think I would’ve wanted to spend the last bits of my life alone,” she’s admitted thickly.

She was.... sincere. No hidden emotions. Honest. The pure fury and grief when she couldn’t be quelled when Father attempted speaking to her.

What am I thinking?

He shook his head. There were too many things to do tomorrow, and the GEMINI-

The Force surged.

Fiika.

Something was wrong, very very wrong, in the carbonate trophy room.

She ran giggling through the streets, her cousins chasing her. Flimsi lanterns, every color imaginable, swung overhead like acrobats. Fiika ducked under one of the stall tables, around a vat of something that smelled deliciously caramel, and burst out into an alley.

Her cousins’ calls of her name died down, the market fading.

A breeze slipped through her school uniform.

No, that wasn’t right. Fiika frowned down at the red skirt and worn shoes. She was too old for school, and besides, she could afford a new pair of shoes. Mum and Luuko-

Fiika tried to run back into the Ziost market. 

No, no, let that be a nightmare-

Logic told her that this was the nightmare. She was too old for the school uniform, her cousins; Mum, Luuko, Uncle Garo- they had been on Ziost when-

No, no no no no-

The market was empty. The lanterns torn, colorless. No delicious scents; only... nothing.

A fat flake of snow drifted down, leading the charge. More and more slowly tumbled from the heavy clouds. They didn’t stop, not until the whole street was just fields of white, blinding white-

She was too cold. The uniform coat wasn’t meant to keep her warm in a snowstorm, the stockings under her skirt weren’t thermal-

The light was burning through her eyelids-

There was a flash of warmth before the sensation of falling gave way to blackness.

He could feel how cold she was through his sleeve.

Fiika was blue-lipped, eyes rolling around deliriously, clinging to him. Ice was still clumped in her hair, crusted in her eyebrows. The scientists could figure out how the carbonate freezing had failed later.

She was too cold, dangerously cold. 

‘Arcann! I want to live! I WANT TO LIVE!’

Memories of her yells echoed in his mind. He owed her that much. Fiika had to live, she had to survive- Guilt flared up in his chest. Guilt that he could have killed the one person who’d been kind to him, when he wanted more of the kindness he never deserved-

The lift opened and he ran down the corridors. The med-bay would be prepared for her, the doctors would save her, they had to-

This one source of kindness could not die-

A doctor was waiting, cot surrounded by medical droids. Behind them, a kolto tank bubbled away without it’s lid.

Arcann handed her over.

His bare thumb brushed her temple, her skin, and something shifted, something turned whole- Something that Mother used to sing about before she left.

Something he pretended he hadn’t felt, but would analyze later.

That moment was seared into his brain, the- the- He didn’t even know what to call it, but it’d made Fiika his weakness. An obvious weakness, one that even Vaylin could see and tease. She made a point of it, before she left, to remind him that his little crush on Fiika Allos was silly and foolish.

She hadn’t sensed the horrid battle he was raging against himself on the inside.

His flagship would be down within the hour. SCORPIO and the GEMINIs had betrayed him. The Fleet was firing on his flagship, the Gravestone alternating between targets.

Arcann had lost.

Mother and Vaylin and that Jedi Pattik were somewhere dueling, the Sith was fighting his knights-

He could sense her, right outside the bridge door. Arcann flicked the switch to open it.

Fiika, but not Fiika, thundered in. Father’s eyes glowed orange over the rim of the Knight shield, she carried herself as the galaxy would revolve around her. Arrogance was not one of Fiika’s traits, either.

Arcann watched her.

The embers in her eyes flickered as she fought for control.

Do not let him win.

She was screaming for it all to end; the nightmares, reliving Ziost’s fall, his force-damned bloody awful voice in her head.

Fiika was nearing the door to the bridge; eyeing the Knights guarding it-

She was stepping over the Knights, purple lightning arcing off her hands, Valkorian chuckling in her ears-

Get out!

‘I have saved you the effort of fighting these Knights.’

Out of my bloody head you foul louse!

Fiika watched her hands adjust how they held the Knight shield and pike. It felt awkward, but Valkorian was apparently in control-

Bastard!

The bridge door opened and she put full effort into at least holding the shield properly to block a force-thrown anything.

Valkorian’s chuckling halted when Arcann didn’t attack instantly. With that, she had full control of her body back.

Fiika dropped the pike and shield as she broke into a run towards Arcann. “Kill me!”

She’d been expecting him to either not listen, or gladly do as she said. They were enemies, he’d already near-fatally wounded her on Asylum, hunted her across the galaxy, put a bounty the size of a Hutt’s pleasure barge on her head.

Obviously he would want to kill her.

He didn’t even draw his lightsaber.

“No!” Fiika whirled out a dagger and spun at him, trying to goad him into fighting back. Then she could miss a parry, and-

Arcann wasn’t even using his lightsaber. He was dodging her strikes or blocking them.

“KILL ME! KILL VALKORIAN!” She needed the nightmares to end, the pain to end. Valkorian had to die, he had to. And he was in her, so she had to die. He would die, and she would stop seeing Ziost in her dreams. 

Fiika threw her dagger aside and wailed at Arcann. “FIGHT BACK!”

“No.”

“KILL ME, I-” The words were caught in her throat. “I can’t fight him anymore. And if he wins, if he- he- there’ll be another Ziost, and I’ll have to witness the nightmares again and again and again-”

Arcann had gone still, and she took her chance, vision blurry through tears. Fiika lashed out, boot aimed towards his center of gravity-

And he dodged her.

She crumpled to the ground.

Valkorian would win, he would take her body, destroy her soul. More Ziosts, more death, more pain and- and- She couldn’t witness it anymore. Sobs wracked her body. If she didn’t die, if she and Valkorian didn’t die- Fiika couldn’t face another night of seeing Ziost fall.

“Please,” she whispered, voice rough. “Please, I can’t- If you kill me, you kill him. End this, Arcann, please.” 

Arcann was standing over her. His lightsaber had been dislodged from his belt whilst avoiding her clumsy attacked.

Fiika picked it up, thoughts racing too fast through her mind for them to seem coherent. Perhaps it was the sleepless nights. She could always use the lightsaber herself.

He seemed to read her expression, and knelt beside her. “Fiika.”

She swiped at the tears. “Please. To end Valkorian.” And she pressed the lightsaber into his palm, her bare fingers pressed against his.

It was like something smacked her in the chest, something clicked, something became whole and warm, like one of her old childhood scratchy sweaters had been forced onto her soul.

Something that changed everything and nothing.

[loquaciousquark]

Bloomingtide, date? ?

awake! and they l eft me alone, it all is pain

skewered like

like a sausage on a spit, right through and then

up so high high I could see all their faces, little moons and thousand gleaming silent starry eyes

hurts like vodi void itself tearing apart inside my ribs

lived anyway, A has me on cocktail so sotrong ste st

keep falling asleep

fuck you Kirkwall fuck you won’t kill me no matter how har hard you try, can’t save anyone else but I refuse I will not die i swear it

Bloomingtaid

head splitting so bad I can’t stop tearing up, side effect of skewer or anodyne ?

Fenris sent O for A, not here yet

said maybe this would distract me but I can’t think st

straight

iron spike through my skull, crack me in two maker maker

bloom

back on cockta il

f is alseep sleep in chair next to me

looks v tired

i do love him

late

nightmares are so muc h worse on laudanum

dumar

his head bow bounced like one of tob’s balls down the st airs

the crown fell & rolled & stopped at m

my feet as if i wanted it

F is taking my pen no I’ll bite y

11th Bloomingtide

Carver was there with the Wardens

my little brother, grown even taller than last I saw him. He looked so tired and pale and strong and stern and if it hadn’t been for Mother’s eyes I wouldn’t have known him.

He couldn’t stay. I wanted him to so badly, so much to tell him, and I think he had things to tell me too, but the city burned and his commander called him away. Could have killed the man despite his glorious mustache

I think they’ve killed something in Carver, the Wardens. But they saved him, too, and continue to save him even now. Can I hate that? I want to. I want him here

He was wearing the gloves Mother and I sent him so long ago. They fit him perfectly

Too tired for more now

13th Bloomingtide. Sky’s clear through the window, which is the only exposure to weather I’ve had for over a week

I’m lucid today and capable of holding the pen, which is so marked an improvement I think I deserve a cake. According to Anders, this is also the day he’s at last become convinced I’m thoroughly out of danger--admittedly less impressive considering I was either unconscious or on the violent side of raving for the last two weeks, and therefore quite unable to enjoy the fuss.

Doesn’t mean my gut doesn’t still hurt like the Void from navel to breastbone, even when I’m not moving a muscle. It’s as much as I can manage to remain propped upon my numerous and fluffy pillows. Ugh. I might as well be one of those fools from Mother’s stories, holding court from my bedcovers and gazing down imperiously upon all those come to supplicate at my feet.

I won’t lie, I can still feel some of Anders’s anodyne. My head’s remarkably loose ‘pon my shoulders, and I keep catching myself giving Fenris the stupidest looks.

Do I talk about him here? I feel like I should, and I also feel like the way he looked when I woke the few times during these last weeks is something so private I don’t want to share it, even with these pages.

His eyes hurt. Exhaustion and fear and a terrible worry and a banked, impotent anger that made my skin burn when I looked at him. He held my hand when the pain was worst, when my skull was trying to split itself apart and Anders wasn’t here yet, and again later when Anders had to re-mend parts of me that hadn’t knit right the first time.

He was there every time I woke, even when I wasn’t really awake. I don’t remember much, but... I remember that. Sometimes he was asleep, and sometimes he only spoke to tell me he was leaving for a while, but even when the nightmares twisted Dumar and my mother into one clear horror, I never woke alone.

A remarkable and dangerous thing, I think, to be the sole focus of that man.

He’s out, now, eating lunch with Sebastian and Donnic. Aveline is here instead, busily rearranging my sloppy bureau drawers and tutting every time I breathe wrong. I appreciate the mothering, but I am glad she’s not decided to hover. Donnic’s influence, I think. They are so sweet together despite themselves. I like him very much. I like his flatbread more. If you read this, Aveline, I demand assorted pastries posthaste. I also demand a place in the wedding, which is less negotiable. Hint.

Flames, I have all the stamina of wet paper. Only a half-hour and I’m already flagging...and here comes Fenris, home from the wars, to silently scold me with his eyebrows and take my weapon of choice from me again.

Except he’s brought me food from wherever they ate, and I can see at least two loaves of brown bread peeking out of that basket. If he’s got butter in there as well I swear I’ll kiss him.

Well. Perhaps I won’t, but I’ll wish quite hard and settle for hoping he gets the hint.

15th Bloomingtide. Slow rain with patches of weak sunshine

I had a memory this morning, or a dream of a memory. Somewhere in the first few days where I had no mind except for the pain, and all I could do was writhe about and swallow the screams as Anders tried to put my insides back together.

It was warm and sunlit...mid-afternoon, maybe, right after Anders had given me that absolutely disgusting potion for pain and healing. He’d left to get more thread for stitches, and I was lolling about in a cloud, and then Fenris came in and sat down in the chair beside the bed and took my hand.

It’s all very smeared when I try to think of it. I know he said he was sorry--for what I haven’t the faintest idea--and that he wished he could have thought of something to say to the Arishok. That he knew I’d respected the man and must have been sorry to kill him, even after everything.

I was. I hadn’t realized he’d known. It was so hard to stay awake...

I remember pulling his hand up next to my face. I remember him cupping my cheek in his other hand and closing his eyes, and at the very blurry edges I remember him leaning down close, like the parts of a dream right before you wake up.

If he did really kiss me, though, I can’t remember a damned lick about it. Clearly he should repeat

Toby’s flopping over everything and has upset the inkwell twice. I suppose I’m done for now.

17th Bloomingtide. Stormy, overcast, threat of lightning. I wish

Scare of my life today. (Aside from all the other scares, I mean.) Over two weeks confined to this bed and it never once occurred to me I might have difficulty walking by myself after. Although--to be fair, it wasn’t the collapse two steps in that frightened me so much as the excruciating pain that rocketed from my spine down both legs, followed by the tingling and then total numbness from the waist down.

For my part, I think I handled it very admirably. I did not scream, not even at the thousand flashes of my life never standing or walking on my own again, and I only very slightly hyperventilated at the thought of never again feeling Fenris’s hand on my knee. Part of me recognized that as ludicrous, but for the rest of me it remains a very real concern

Anyway, I laid there for a few minutes next to the bed getting my life in order, all the way to my last will and testament for when Anders told me I’d ruined my only chance of survival, and then the door opened and in came my shining elvhen knight who went from distracted to panicked to flat-out furious with me in a matter of about four seconds.

It turns out some people have no understanding and even less sympathy for someone about to die without a privy. Ass. Don’t put the pot halfway across the room, then, you lyrium-riddled potato.

Spent a good ten minutes afterwards arguing about my level of invalidity. Felt good to shout--won’t pretend otherwise. He didn’t, this time, but in its place he leveled that cold disdain that can freeze right down to the bones if you care for his opinion. Never have I ever felt so small as when he’s truly angry with me for doing something hideously reckless. Still, I was hot enough it rolled off me like a duck’s back, and if nothing else it made me forget how sharp the pain running down my legs was.

To make a long story less long, by the time Anders found us I was red as a beet and Fenris was wound so tightly he might have been one of Orana’s dishrags after brisket night. He listened, remained sadly unimpressed by either of us, popped me face-down on the bed and spent about twenty minutes undoing whatever it was I’d done to myself in the fall.

I’d like to pretend I was stalwart and steady throughout his work, but when Anders said it wasn’t serious I just about went to jelly in relief. Something had pinched off something else and had swelled to thunder, but nothing he couldn’t touch up given enough time. Honesty also compels me to mention my pillow may have ended up a little damp by the end of his healing, though everyone was tactful enough not to mention it.

More bitter was I to hear I’m not to even try standing for another four days without supervision. Supervision, he says. I’ve been standing on my own for almost thirty years, you pile of unsympathetic feathers. I hardly need someone holding my hand now that I know what to watch for.

I will say Fenris did make the effort to hide his vindication the moment he saw the tears I was trying to hide. A room full of stifled emotion, and none of us happy about it.

I’m so sick of this bed.

19th Bloomingtide, storming again

Two dozen steps today, Anders hovering the whole time. Still, progress.

Heard from Carver--short letter, but good. He likes Stroud as a commander. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t set him afire for taking Carver away so quickly.

Varric offered to host cards here instead of the Hanged Man since I’m housebound for the foreseeable future. Turned him down, though--with Isabela still off who-knows-where it already feels different enough. I can only handle so much change at one time.

28th Bloomingtide. Sunny, warming at last

I just realized I missed Summerday. Bethany’s favorite, naturally. I’ll go to the Chantry next week for her candles.

She’s been gone six years already. How in the world did that happen?

I wonder if Carver remembers that time she got us all in trouble for stealing pears, then innocent-eyed her way out of punishment after, leaving the two of us to do the milking before dawn for a month. I’ll write him tomorrow and ask.

3rd Justinian. Getting quite hot, I’m still mostly indoors and already wilting

Had a letter from Seneschal Bran today. Thought it was going to be a bill for damages--turns out they’re giving me a title and official recognition for the Arishok slaughter. Champion of Kirkwall, he’s calling it. As if advertising my apostitudity (?) to the entire noble caste of the city wasn’t bad enough, flaunting it in the Knight-Commander’s face will have me thrown in the Gallows’s bowels by Tuesday.

She already can’t stand people like me--unshackled and unapologetic--and this is going to make it so much worse. She looked upon me twice during the invasion and both times I thought I was going to shrivel into a husk from the animosity. Of course, the second time I was well on my way to dying, so it didn’t seem nearly as important, but still. Title aside, I was powerless enough before not to warrant her attention, even with Mother’s title. If this--Champion--thing goes through, I’ll be a threat. Not so easy to ignore that, even if I’d prefer to remain beneath her lofty notice. And yet...

There’s to be a ceremony in a month if I’m strong enough to stand for it. They underestimate me There’s also, according to the letter, going to be a ball with dancing and music afterwards. This whole thing sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, but I don’t see how I can turn it down without scorning the...I don’t know the word. Protection, maybe--the protection that the title will provide--not just for me, but for Carver and my friends. Especially Anders and Merrill, the more I think about it. Sheltering apostates is still a crime. Sebastian and Aveline skirt the edge of catastrophe close enough as it is. If Aveline lost the guard because Meredith took out her grudge against me, I think I’d walk right off one of the bluffs of the Wounded Coast into the sea and be done with it.

I don’t know what to do. I need to decide soon. I need to talk to Varric, I think.

In other less-distressing news, Merrill and I went out for tea together yesterday. We didn’t go far--there’s a tiny cafe that sells little biscuits right around the corner, and she made a surprisingly sturdy crutch for how slight she is. We had tea and cakes and these very hard little chunks of spiced bread you’re supposed to dip in your tea to soften first, but I didn’t discover that until I’d just about broken a tooth on the crust.

She’s been working on that mirror desperately. She sounds desperate when she speaks of it. Still, she’s willing to come out to things like this and she still goes to the Hanged Man every week, so I suppose I can’t worry too much. She certainly doesn’t like it when I do, anyway.

She did say one of the other families in the alienage let her help them with the vhenadahl last week. A little bit of paint touch-up and trimming some of the dead branches. Sometimes I’m overcome with wonder that something so lovely has lived so well in the city, despite everything working against survival.

The tree’s awfully pretty, too.

9th Justinian. Stormed again last night, rained so hard it knocked two of the Chantry’s trees over

Told Fenris he didn’t have to keep coming every day now that I’m well on my way to mending. He covered it well, but I saw the stark hurt that flashed across his face when I said it.

He doesn’t realize how much it’s killing me to have him here so often. I know what I wrote when I was incoherent on Anders’s potion. I meant it. I mean it now, as much as I wish I didn’t.

I was doing all right. I was, right up until today when he helped me stand from the sofa and let his arm linger around my waist, then snatched himself away with a grimace the instant I met his eyes. He moved so fast I almost fell.

I need time. That’s all. Just enough I can get a handle on this and stuff it back where it came from, where it doesn’t ache like a fist in my heart every time he moves just out of reach. We made it back into friendship before; I can conquer this and keep us there, I know it.

I will. I have to. His friendship is too important to me to lose over this. I just need time. Just a little more time, and then we’ll be back to where we were and he won’t have to flinch every time I come too close.

16th Justinian. Clear, stifling

He hasn’t come even once. I miss him so much I can’t stand myself.

22nd Justinian. Drizzling rain, lots of wind. Branches keep knocking against my window and startling me

Told him to come for weekly reading lessons if he wanted. It’s been over eight months since the last time we met. 

I don’t think he needs much more help, and I don’t think that fact has escaped him either. He’s still coming day after tomorrow.

Maker, but I wish Isabela were here. I don’t know what I’m doing.

25th Justinian. Cool for the season, which means it’s still damned hot

Enough pining. I swear, that brew of Anders has made me more gloomy than Toby on bath day. I’m alive! That’s more than enough to be glad about. I faced a man four times my size in single combat and bested him with magic alone. Got run through like a spike nail through a pincushion, but I won with magic against a man-sized sword and shoulders made of mountains and the city saw it, and I, a mage, still walk free in Kirkwall despite the fact that the entire noble caste knows what I am.

I have friends here. Isn’t that glorious? A healer willing to work himself to the bone for the sake of my kidneys--a beautiful guardswoman who refuses to be ashamed of all this degenerate company. Sebastian, who understands when I need to hear the Chant and doesn’t mind the doing. Merrill, who brought me three hawk feathers just this morning because she said they made her think of me. 

Dear Varric. He always remembers for me when it’s too hard to do myself. And Isabela, wherever she is--who else knows how to laugh in the worst of it? And--

And Fenris. Because I never woke alone.

I’m the luckiest apostate in Thedas. I won’t forget that again.

Later

Anders says I only have one kidney now. Hm. Good to know!

[old-souldier]

#19: Test of Wills

Jordan stared down her target with the resolve usually reserved for facing the Garlean Imperial Legion. At thirty-four and with almost 15 years of military and mercenary experience, she acknowledged her opponent and carried herself with a stern countenance, full of fire, but honed to a blue-white flame. With that level of preparation she said, smoothly.

"Eat yer cabbage, Sami."

"No mama! I dun wanna!" The four year old girl whined. "It's stinky and gross!" she pushed the pile of limp vegetation aside with her fork.

Jordan sighed. Her daughter was already almost as big as she was so she couldn't employ any corporal punishment. Even if that wasn't the case, she was trying to be less rigid than her mother was.

As a parent now, she couldn't help but want to avoid the almost physical fights she had with her mother at Sami's age, though her own struggles were about being forced into dresses that made her look like a rolanberry short cake. Now, the arena was the dining table, surrounded by a moldy steam from a still hot pot of brownish water on the stove.

Jordan pushed the boiled cabbage back towards Sami with her fork and looked at her again.

"Do I have to, mama?" the little girl said quietly, looking up with pleading eyes.

"Ye 'ave ta." Jordan nodded. "It's good fer ye! It gives ye vigor n' pep." Jordan took a spoonful of yellow-brown leaves from her plate and shoved it into her mouth, chewing dramatically and smiling.

Sami looked at her mother, awed in both admiration and terror, as though she had witnessed a dragon consume an Ishgardian Dragoon.She said, "But why's it so gross and limp? It smells like old socks." She limply played with the pile of cabbage.

Jordan paused for a long time before looking up at the chronometer. "I don't 'ave time fer this! I got work ta do and the sitter is comin' soon. "

Sami pouted. "I want orange cake."

Jordan let out a tired sigh and looked at her own half-eaten cabbage. Aye, me too. But what kind of mum would I be givin in? I was fed this growin up. Me mum's recipe n everythin'.

Jordan sternly shook her head. "No pud unless ye eat yer cabbage."

Sami nodded and began weeping at the table. The little girl began slowly spooning the light brown chopped-then-boiled leaves, wiping her face between bites.

Jordan's heart broke. This is madness. I can't keep doin this.

Then the chronometer rang and she shot up.

"Aw Sh...shoot. I 'ave me shift soon! Where is the sitter?" She ran down to her bedroom and grabbed her uniform jacket, gloves and cap.

Coming back up Jordan saw Sami had finished most of her cabbage and she looked sullen, her face streaked with dried tears. She wanted to pester her to finish the last bite, but she shook her head and said.

"Thank ye Sami. I know it's 'ard, but I only want what's best fer ye. I 'ave ta be brave and do things I don't wanna do either, like leave ye alone and go to work, but I 'ave ta put food on the table..." Jordan winced at the poor choice of words. Before Jordan could say anything else, there was a knock at the door and the rush of letting the sitter in, giving her the rundown and when in the morning she'd be back, Jordan rushed out for her shift at the Aftcastle.

Jordan worked for the Barracuda Knights doing paperwork and leading occasional patrols around the drunks and haunts of Limsa Lominsa. Midnight was Jordan's "lunch hour." in the Mess. As a Staff Sergeant, she ate with the soldiers rather than the officers. It was a bit of a cattle call, but not nearly as bad as the day crew and the Barracuda Knights, if the tales were true, ate better than any other standing military force in Eorzea.

Jordan spied a strange Elezen woman at the back of the kitchens. She was tall, with dark grey skin and medium auburn hair she kept under a hairnet. It was hard to miss her since she towered over everyone in the back save "Queer Lonny", the stern Sea Wolf cook who manned large salamanders with his chef's jacket sleeves rolled up and a toothpick in his mouth.

"Who's the new chef, Red?" Jordan asked her old friend Redmond. He scratched his goatee, which always wigged Jordan out a little, before replying

"Oh, that's ol' Adelaine. She's from the Shroud, they say. Came 'ere ta Limsa to learn our style of cuisine. She's married to an assessor so she's out of either of our leagues." Jordan rolled her eyes as Redmond chuckled.

"What kinda cookery from the Shroud does she know?" Jordan asked to which Redmond shrugged.

"Beats me. Probably rabbit turds n' poison ivy salad." The two laughed together as they walked into the line with wooden trays.

Jordan received a plate of a grilled dodo cutlet, as per usual, and some mashed popotos, again per usual. She was surprised to see greens, but not fresh greens. They were cooked, but were vibrant. A bit brown at the edges but brown like a fine dhalmel steak or bread than what she had seen. She also spied tiny cabbages, the size of walnuts, cut into quarters she hadn't seen before, also cooked, but vibrant and deep green.

At first, Jordan looked askance. It broke every rule she knew. After sitting down with Redmond, she was a bit distracted from her friend's talking about his day. With the hesitance reserved usually for ambush raids, she took her forked grabbed a piece of the miniature cabbage and ate it.

Jordan didn't quite have the words at the time to describe the balance of salty, sweet, and bitter the greens had. There was a bit of roastiness from the bits that were charred and yet the grassy, sweet leaves were still there. There was even a little bit of the smell she was used to from boiling cabbage, but just a hint of it. In short, it was good.

Jordan took a bite of the chopped greens. They were similarly balanced, but also lemony, just a bit spicy, and garlicky which cut the bitterness further, especially when she got a bit of browned, but not burnt garlic. It was vegetal, but would go well with fried dodo, which was Sami's favorite not-dessert food. Jordan's eyes widened and she suddenly stood up.

"Oi! Where'ye goin?" Redmond asked, interrupted mid-monologue.

"One sec, Red." Jordan said as she dashed to the kitchen. She ran behind the counter to confused looks before reaching the Elezen woman. The woman was busy with some ingredients in a bowl, but sensing a presence by her feet she stopped and looked down.

"Yes. Can I help you?" She asked, more confused than annoyed.

"Please, tell me what ye did to that cabbage ye served," Jordan found herself tearing up. "It's... it's vitally important."

The woman looked very concerned. "Are you okay?"

Jordan nodded, "Just tell me 'ow ye make yer cabbage so I dun 'ave ta see me little girl cry again."

The Elezen woman tried hard not to contort her face into anything resembling a smile or laughter. She settled on a knowing nod, "I see. I have an eight and a six-year old. Let me show you how to prep an oven for roasting cabbage. "

"Sami's four," Jordan eked out as she listened to the cook's instruction.

[tokyotheglaive]

Kylux, Resistance Hux!AU

Okay so I have a lot of feelings about a full cast switch–First Order is Resistance and Resistance is First Order–but I haven’t thought about Resistance Hux!AU exclusively outside of @sithofren‘s fic Third Degree which I haven’t finished yet but I love so far. Still, I’m going to give it my best shot!

At a relatively young age, Hux decided that enough was enough. His father was failing–the Empire was gone–and there was no sense sticking around with a sinking ship. He stole a shuttle and made for Hosnian Prime. For the next few years, Hux found himself in dire financial straits and on the street more than he was off of it, but he persevered. A combination of illicit activity, dogged determination, and sheer luck found Hux a candidate for the New Republic’s fleet. He made some credits but more or less found himself equally miserable. He might have drowned at the bottom of the bottles he grew to be so fond of during that period if he hadn’t been tapped by a supporter of the newly-established Resistance. He could be a pilot for them, they reasoned. The work would matter. Hux vacillated before admitted that he didn’t want to be a pilot. The supporter had done their research; of course not, they said, that’s not where your talents really lie. Hux might have bristled but they followed it up with soothing, ego-boosting remarks about his ability to talk circles around others, to fight on when no one else would, and his drive to succeed. Hux was hooked, and with the promise of a Senate sponsor (because he wanted his credits, damn it all) he found himself a slot in the Resistance as a troubleshooter of sorts–someone willing to do almost anything to get intel and new recruits.

Hux is absolutely one of the poster boys for Resistance recruitment. He’ll deny up, down, and sideways that it’s the hair, but the hair helps. He meets contacts across the galaxy, and through a combination of good looks and smooth talking he manages to accomplish his goals. The one problem the Resistance uncovered rather quickly is Hux’s xenophobia. He tries, though not very hard, to accept non-humanoid species, but his distaste for them is evident enough that he’s only sent after them on kill operations. If the Resistance needs more pilots/money/supplies/what have you from a non-humanoid species, Hux is sidelined in favour of someone else. (Hux doesn’t like that, not one bit, but he also doesn’t like aliens, so maybe it all balances out.)

When Luke goes missing, Hux is one of the many agents sent out to find him. He refuses to return empty-handed, though he grows frantic in his search. He runs out of fuel too many times to count and gets himself involved with an unsavoury crowd in order to keep going. The Resistance marks him as dead and carries on. Hux is not dead, just angry–at Luke for going missing, at the Resistance for not giving him more (non-existent) intel to work with, at himself for not doing his job and finding the person he’s meant to find. In the process of combing the galaxy, though, Hux hears of the First Order. It’s not that they’ve been unknown to him–he is fighting them, after all–but what he hears gives him pause. He discovers that Rae Sloane--his old mentor, once a Grand Admiral in the Imperial Navy--is still alive.

Sloane isn’t particularly happy to see Hux when he arrives, though she says that she’s not surprised. She’s been waiting for him to return for decades now. She’s disappointed in him, does he know? He says yes, he expects she is. She guesses he’s there to kill him, and he says he’s thought about it. He has, too, but that’s not why he’s here. He pours them each a drink and she laughs, says he’s gone soft. He asks her where Luke Skywalker went. Sloane’s not impressed with his question. “Come on, boy, use your head,” she tells him. She hasn’t been in with the Order for years, not since Snoke took power. Everything’s gone to hell. It’s not the organization she built, not the one she wanted. Hux presses her to tell him what she knows so they can build a better one.

He doesn’t mean it, except he does, and when he returns to the Resistance base armed with plenty of First Order plans--nearly everything Sloane had--the idea won’t leave him alone. He’s always wanted control; that’s why he likes these scouting operations, because he has control and power over what happens. What he does is important, and people recognize that. But if he built his own system... He sets the thought aside. There are too many players on the field right now, and he likes the Resistance, distant from most of them though he is. He’s a person here, a person with valued skills, a person who’s important precisely the way he is. His father never valued him as-is, and neither, for that matter, did Sloane. There’s something to be said for that.

Sloane’s dead, by the time he returns. She killed herself. There’s no one to back up Hux’s source information, but that’s of little importance to the Resistance. No, it’s a bigger problem for the First Order. His trip to see Sloane didn’t escape their notice, no matter how hard he tried to keep himself incognito. Snoke is particularly interested in Hux--he’d wanted that boy for the Order, and he had the audacity to break loose and join first the New Republic and then the Resistance. He wants him captured, returned to the fold if possible, and killed if not. Kylo Ren is sent on this mission.

Ren succeeds. He toys with Hux, drags him part of the way to the shuttle kicking and screaming. Hux is a vicious fighter, though he’s not the best; there was no overbearing father or Grand Admiral or Snoke to beat him into fighting shape. When Ren gets bored with him, he knocks him out.

Hux wakes aboard the Finalizer, strapped to an interrogation chair. Hux isn’t impressed with Ren, not in the slightest. Ren gives him the ultimatum, and Hux just laughs. Like hell is he going to join his father’s pet project. He doesn’t want to die, not in the slightest, but going back to the Empire or First Order or whatever they want to call themselves with his tail between his legs is hardly what he’d call a good time.

Ren’s ready to do things the hard way when he’s called outside of the interrogation room: a piece of the map to Skywalker has, allegedly, been located. A Resistance transmission was intercepted; someone now is headed to Jakku. Ren leaves Hux behind to get the map with the promise that Hux ought to have changed his mind by then.

Hux sort of drifts in and out at that point; he’s exhausted and, yes, a little scared, and pissed as all hell. He’s thirsty and hungry and in desperate need of a ‘fresher--but when the doors to his cell open, it’s not Ren who’s there.

Or, the thing looks like Ren. It’s not, though--the mask is different. Hux glares balefully and tells it not to come any closer. The creature obeys, and Hux remembers--something he hasn’t thought of for a long, long time.

The Knight--for Hux learns that he is a Knight of Ren--frees him from the interrogation chair at Hux’s own instruction. He leads Hux out, to a ship in the hangar bay, only to be stopped by Ren himself, demanding to know where his colleague is taking his prisoner.

Hux orders the Knight to fight on his behalf, but the Knight is quickly cut down. Ren demands to know how he gave the orders--how he got the Knight to listen to him. Hux attempts to flee and is quickly captured again. There’s little place to run aboard a Star Destroyer.

During this time, of course, Finn’s in the process of escaping with Poe Dameron, who’d been captured on Jakku. Ren isn’t aware because he’s bringing Hux before Snoke. Hux, thinking perhaps Ren is just a defective one of the kids Hux had once held complete sway over, tries ordering him to remove his mask. Ren, obviously, refuses, until Snoke does the same. Ren removes his mask, and Hux recognizes the face. He calls Ren by his birth name, and Ren’s ready to kill him before Snoke gives the order not to. He’s curious about Hux’s ability to control the Knights--he’d known that Brendol could do it, but Armitage? The weak-willed boy, thin as a slip of paper and twice as useless? (They’re not his father’s words, but oh how they sting.) Snoke wants to know more. He will keep Hux alive and under observation until the mechanism of that control is elucidated.Hux finds himself a permanent resident of the Finalizer. Each day, cycle, whatever they use, one of the Knights is brought to Hux. Hux is meant to give them orders so that Ren can observe with the Force how it is done. Hux initially refuses, then tries to get the Knight to attack Ren, then seeing how both are futile, pretends not to hear. He’s not at all inured to torture, so each day is agony, but he tries. Stars, how he tries. He tries to remind Ren of who he was, tries to ask what happened to him, but Ren won’t speak of it, and whenever Hux brings it up, it only means suffering.

Starkiller fires. Hux isn’t aware of it until Ren tells him of it. He asks if Hux lost anyone, if Hux cares. Hux goes into something like shock. He didn’t know anyone except he sort of did--old companions he flew with while he was with the New Republic, perhaps a few Resistance contacts. He feels and doesn’t feel, and he retreats into himself.

Starkiller explodes, and Hux doesn’t see Ren for several days. When he returns, it’s not with a Knight but instead with silence. They sit there all day, seemingly just watching each other. It’s comfortable in a very, very uncomfortable way. This continues for quite some time until Hux demands, nearly broken down, to know what’s going on, why he just looks now, and Ren removes the helmet.

It’s not--it’s not the worst wound Hux has ever seen, but it’s seen better days. Clearly, no one’s seen to it, least of all Ren himself. It’s infected, and, to be perfectly honest, pretty gross as a result. Hux can hardly look at it. Ren’s surprised and vocalizes it; Hux pities him. Hux flinches at the thought, but Ren pushes the matter. He has compassion, after all of this.

Ren starts coming and talking to him about Hux’s family, a topic which Hux refuses to speak of. He talks of Brendol, relays Hux’s backstory over and over to the point that Hux thinks that perhaps this is a new form of conditioning--maybe Ren’s tweaking the story a little each day until finally they come to the point when Hux leaves and Ren convinces him he never did. Ren doesn’t alter the story, though, merely relays it as if it were the news. Hux listens, and at the end of days of this Ren asks why.

Why? Why did Hux leave? What made him think he could survive alone? Hux, in a moment of weakness and exhaustion, admits that dying alone was preferable to serving his father or his cohorts any more than he already had. He’d rather live in agony than suffer that kind of indignity.

Ren leaves for quite some time after that, and when he returns...when he returns, he says that Hux is being transferred. He doesn’t say where, or how, only that he is. When he loads Hux into a shuttle, though, he demands that Hux reach out to old Resistance contacts. Hux refuses. Ren claims he’s defecting--he’s seen the light--and Hux continues to refuse. Ren plucks the answer from Hux’s mind and pilots the shuttle away.

Ren keeps Hux subdued as they travel. He says that Snoke wanted him to kill his mother, and that’s different from his father because he can feel her in the Force and even now after all of this she hasn’t given up on him, and he doesn’t want to suffer anymore--he wants to make the same call that Hux did. Hux doesn’t believe him. How can he? This is the person who imprisoned him, and intends now to, what, use him as a bargaining chip to get with the Resistance?

Ren doesn’t see a problem, and by the time he tracks down the new Resistance base by himself, Hux is too tired to fight. In Ren’s fervor to return, he’s neglected Hux’s health, and he’s a mess. Ren’s placed in a cell and Hux goes to the medbay, and for quite some time, they don’t see each other.

When they do, it’s because Leia orders it. Ren--Ben, she calls him, though he still doesn’t answer to it--has said that he’ll only speak to Hux and to herself, and she hasn’t been able to make much headway. She says he seems pained whenever she comes around, and perhaps Hux will have better luck.

Hux goes to see him, and Ren perks up. (Thinking right now of Clarice and Hannibal of Silence of the Lambs shot through with Liz and Red Reddington of The Blacklist in their first meeting.) Ren tells him where to find the other Knights--Hux can still control them, he can stop them from doing Snoke’s bidding in a way he can’t stop Ren himself. Hux asks why, and Ren says he wants Snoke dead. That’s it. That’s all he cares about now. Hux fears a trap and Ren says he can’t promise that they won’t be heavily guarded now, but Hux can stop them from doing worse. What worse means, Hux can’t get out of him, but Ren’s very clearly afraid of leaving the cell, of hurting anyone else.

Leia decides to act on the intel. One by one, Hux brings each of the Knights into the fold. They remember him from when he was a boy, and they’re no more talkative. Rumours start to spread about him--he’s something evil, something to be feared. It’s not helped by the Knights’ insistence to follow him everywhere, or the abilities they display during tests. They were fearsome as feral children; they’re worse as adults.

I’ve only just realized how far I deviated from what I was actually supposed to be doing re: merely listing five headcanons *sweats* whoops. Uh, let’s mark this down as a story I’m probably not going to write, then? I don’t know. Maybe I will. Depends if you like it, nonny. Don’t know how it could possibly end, though.

[rubyphilomela]

Too Much is Sometimes Enough Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Prompto X OC Ruby Philomela, and so much more!

Ruby squeezed Prompto’s hand gently, taking comfort from his presence as the both of them hurried to keep up with the others. 

“When we get back, we are definitely getting you a weapon Red!”

Gladiolus announced with a chuckle while Ruby flushed, though smiled gratefully knowing that in a world where the nights were deadly, and the days had creatures like that roaming around it would be foolish to travel unarmed. Looking back at the glass like explosions of rocks Ruby shook her head sadly as Prompto squeezed her hand gently, waves of support coming from warmed her and strengthened her resolve to move forward as best she could. 

Fortune found the group back at Hammerhead before too long and Ruby sighed in relief seeing this little bit of safety and familiarity.

 Prompto looked over at Ruby seeing the pain and tears in her eyes hurt him, knowing that she was losing, but her hand was strong in his and that gave him hope. As much as he hated himself for thinking it, he was glad that for the time being she was there with him, the two were startled out of their thoughts as Cindy came over, a cloth in hand wiping the grease off.

“She’s good as new!”

Cindy announced to the group, 

“Now to discuss how y’all are gonna pay for this, I know y’all are a bit short on Gil so I’l cut ya a deal. Y’all take care of the pack of Reapertales that have been raising hell in the area, and I’l call it even and give ya 1000Gil for a weapon for the fledgling here”

“She don’t need to buy a weapon, the ones here are a waste of Gil compared to what I’ve made”

Shock ran rampant on all the faces of those in the group, Cindy included, as her Paw Paw had walked up surprising the group and spoke up.

“I like to tinker around, when I’m not busy fixing a broken down Regalia..and I’ve got a few pieces lying around and she can have one”

Ruby smiled gratefully bowing deeply in gratitude, 

“Thank you so much, I will appreciate whatever you can give”

Cid smiled at her manners and gestured for her to follow, the group tried to follow as well but he shook his head,

“No room in my workshop for all of you, we’ll be right back”

Prompto and the rest reluctantly stayed behind as Ruby walked forward with Cindy’s PawPaw,

“Names Cid by the way”

He said smiling as he opened the door presumably to his workshop and Ruby’s eyes widened, taking it all in. There were so many weapons her eyes didn’t know where to look, all of them felt so full of power they nearly felt alive. 

“You can choose any that you want, but choose carefully because to a warrior their weapon is a piece of their soul, an extension of their being. Plus, these weapons will only exist when you call for them, so no need to worry about lugging them around all the time” 

Ruby’s eyes widened at the technology needed to make something like that possible! Walking around the room her eyes widened and jaw dropped, before her sat a beautiful silvered longbow gleaming in the light. It was a cherry wood with silver trim and was nearly as tall as she was. Before she could stop herself if the compulsion to pick it up had her and she marveled at how little it weighed. 

Cid smiled at her choice and walked over to a cushion next to where the bow had been sitting and turned to hand you a silver pistol that gleamed from within. It reminded you of Prompto’s though more elegant and you were in love with it from the moment you saw it.

“That is the bow’s sister weapon, always best to have an alternate”

Ruby nodded and glanced around realizing she hadn’t seen a quiver or any bolts nor bullets, remembering the battle earlier she didn’t see any casings on the ground after the battle. Answering her unspoken question,

“Energy is what these weapons use, not your own mind you its kind of hard to explain just know that they charge up, there’s a red glow that will appear when they are reloading shouldn’t take too long though”

He assured her as she marveled at the weapons in her hands, bowing deeply again before rising to show tears in her eyes,

“Thank you so much, I promise to use them only to do good, I won’t disgrace them”

Ruby spoke solemnly as Cid smiled knowing that he had chosen the right person to give one of his weapons to. He showed her how the weapons would disappear if dropped, which took her a second to get used to as well as how she needed to position her hands to use the weapons and they would reappear. Finally feeling comfortable with the weapons after having practiced summoning and releasing them Ruby bowed deeply once more in gratitude before walking back into the now setting sun to show the group. 

Prompto looked at Ruby eagerly wating until he didn’t see any weapons. 

“What happened Red? Didn’t find anything you liked?”

Confusion was evident on her face Ruby almost couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping her lips as she positioned to draw the bow and had an arrow pointed at Prompto’s nose, causing his eyes to bulge in shock and sending Gladiolus and the others into a fit of laughter. Pulling the bow away from Prompto’s face she giggled,

“Sorry, Prompto I just couldn’t help myself”

He chuckled and flushed at how nervous he’d gotten before turning to admire the beautiful silver tooled bow.

“Wow, that is gorgeous!”

His smile was slightly hollow, and Ruby knew it was due to the lack of a gun, whipping your hand out in front of her, her gleaming pistol appeared and she twirled it artfully until she dropped it blushing heavily. Resummoning the pistol she placed it in Prompto’s hands enjoying the way his eyes widened. 

Prompto’s eyes were large as he looked at the detail and craftsmanship, he would have been jealous if it weren’t for two facts: 1. Ruby would be safer traveling with her own weapons and, 2. having weapons was another tie keeping her here and he was finding more and more that he didn’t want her to leave. 

“It’s getting late, let us get settled for the night”

Ignis spoke, and Ruby thanked Cid again, and joined the group going into the RV. Ruby looked back at the fading sunset until Prompto startled her, his head on her shoulder.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

Ruby nodded, her hand twining in his, enjoying the contrast between his leather glove and calloused skin,

“I guess we should go inside...”

Prompto nodded, leading her into the RV where she couldn’t help but smile at the sight in front of her; Gladiolus, Ignis and Noctis were playing a game on their phones, Kings Knight and it was apparently getting to be very cutthroat. 

Ruby didn’t understand the game and was a bit too tired to care just then, breathing in the air she inhaled a delicious smell. Walking over to the kitchenette she saw a form of Risotto, serving a bowl for each of them before sitting on the couch behind her sighing as Prompto snuggled into her side as he cheered for Noctis. Slowly eating the delicious meal Ruby joined in on the cheering though she didn’t have a clue about how the game worked. 

Ignis looked up from the game eyes twinkling as he saw that the both of them had a bowl of the Risotto,

“Was going to tell you that dinner was almost ready, but I see that you’ve found that out on your own. I hope you find it to your liking”

Ruby nodded blushing softly as she ate another spoonful of the delicious dish,

“Sorry Ignis..I was starved and it looked ready..its delicious”

Ignis shook his had smiling,

“Not a problem, I’m glad your enjoying it.”

Ruby smiled in response before continuing to devour the dish burning her tongue in the process, hissing slightly at the pain but not caring as the taste more than made up for it. 

“This really is amazing, thank you for fixing it for us”

Ignis shook his head,

“I’m glad to do it, It’s whole milk Risotto, a favorite of mine as well. By the way Red, I have a question for you, I noticed that you spoke of Gods in a plural earlier, and I was curious are there multiple gods where you’re from?”

Ruby blushed at the question, religion was a topic that she didn’t often feel comfortable speaking about with anyone back home, but here she felt safe,

“In my world, there are a lot of religions and quite a few have multiple gods or goddesses; Personally I am spiritual, not religious which essentially means that I take beliefs from quite a few religions and incorporate them in my life”

All eyes were on Ruby and Ruby alone as she flushed under the attention until Gladiolus spoke up,

“We have a similar religious system here, we have 6 gods: Shivra, Ramuh, Bahamut, Ifrit, Titan and Leviathan.”

Ruby’s eyes were wide and she nodded interested though she was so exhausted at this point her eyes were slamming shut and she was in danger of dropping her bowl.

 Fortunately, Prompto caught the bowl as she nodded of smiling softly he gently scooped her up and carried her to the bed, using his free hand he pulled the covers back and laid her down gently. He carefully undid her boots and untied her jacket from her hips, taking a second to grab the stuffed animals he spotted in the pocket and placing them in her arms before pulling the covers over her smiling as Ruby hugged them close. 

Ignis looked on at the scene a smile on his face as he saw how close the two were getting,

“Seems to be a good time for us all to get some rest, now that the Regalia is repaired we need to do the hunt for Cindy, stock up and get on the road”

The group agreed though there were some worries crossing their minds, even though Ruby had done quite well in battle today would she be OK when they actively go out on a hunt; and what if the Imperials were to show up? Doing their best to put their fears aside they each settled in for the night in their respective couches and recliner, Prompto climbed into bed stroking a stray hair from Ruby’s cheek as he settled in beside her, smiling as she turned towards him in sleep.

“Goodnight, Red..”

Prompto whispered as he drifted off.

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt IV - Old Stone

Lar had set plates of milk and egg on the exterior ledge in tribute to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient mounds. Ah, how rugged tradition. Despite innumerable era-defining events happening daily across the world, for the village of Sperrin it was just another day when the sun rose and, with luck, set again in the evening. They hadn't time for dullards in tailed suits dictating tastes, but they had still team to tend the interspecies relations their ancestors cherished. By all accounts I have heard, to spurn the giving of tributes and gifts incurs great penalty from these entities, with many a workman rising with thorns in his bed after rooting out on the old Hawthorns, which are so revered entire networks and key routeways, which I say should serve to modernise this place a bit, are diverted from their course to leave the old fairy trees in peace. Even now I puzzle at this strange practice, at the contrast between past and present evident in all things once you leave the big cities. The fae, I have since learned, are a race of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread; its boils gaping swordwounds, its pus the belch of industry, and always fatal. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' spake thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seems to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in this practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of adherents, there are more worshippers in these bog towns, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the tide." Thackeray made no mention of an egg dish though.

A scarred moggy had the scent hot on his nostrils, thought he what fine folks we to leave a sup for me. I watched him furtively take the decking and slink toward the dish. First he tapped the rim to glean what consequence he might incur, but seeing the clear craned and began to lap its contents delightedly, soaking its whiskers. Fergus thundered out the door, beelining towards the cat which he had spied through the window. He lifted a knee with all grace of rusted Talos and swung the appendage toward the hissing feline. Bold, but not careless, the moggy bailed, zipping from sight before Fergus' hobnail hit. I supposed it a tad overreactive, but when one considers the fae as a true belief system, that cat was essentially gobbling up our good faith, and I thought with another opportunity I'd have done the same.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The barframe served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern keep, and a fur mantle he wore most Heraclean. He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels by his side, two loyal hounds never stumped for purpose. In his great shadow, one felt a gratitude for civilisation; a concept voluntary for men like Lar. Every second a short man, like me, spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

I swanned to his side, eager for revelation, suddenly taken by the spirit of adventure. Not quite the long walk to the docks before an age on the high seas, for indeed the only thing Sperrin had to resemble the rippling sails of farbound triremes were the sad slanted fabric roofs in the central square still hanging from the Christmas Market, but it was no less a proud moment and a little death; the death of office and oath, of duty, of tedium; for that day I was no longer a swaddled urbanite, good only for council meetings and book reviews, I was reborn in renown; I set off toward the unknown with all the zeal of a whorebound sailor, as of old heroes had.

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took my first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did. Before she got her toxic claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy? My father was a man of intense private faith. Very distrustful of institutions. He encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves, not to puzzle overmuch the mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen.' I exhaled my irriation. 'I know my bible well as any bishop; better even. My father wanted to join the priesthood, alas it was not to be. A noble ambition, even unfulfilled. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this church business. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasional queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why it's so special.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude, if a higher place exists than this, the dead will bid us good fortune.

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a temple for their desert god, refuse from the cold of the islands. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod. Slithered out from eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Worshippers twisted as their idols took every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forebears. An epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the soft ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I didn't know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus' hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more. Why are you asking if you already know? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I knew more, and still all this time there was the beast, presumably furious at having been picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man burying his secrets and his spade daubed in clay remained. I found most curious the cairn's relocation. Lar had not seemed confident imparting the reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

Dawnflame pulsed in seductive ruby, splintering to a prism that dazzled in its royal array, from bold scarlet to princely vermilion, and in that sanguine bank we found hopeful portent. Other larks stirred from roadside redoubts to wave passage. Husbandmen mostly, any whose labours were bound to the rueful star's whim. Breaking from the road we made for pasture, cutting due Northwest across the plain. Dawn's jewels, stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot, brittle things past season returning to aether.

Lar and Fergus scouted ahead, rudely parading superior vigour. They whispered among themselves. Fifty years old the pair of them, they still moved like Herne the hunter through all terrains. Fergus gave credence to the theory empty vessels howl loudest, guffawing at every ribaldry Lar conjured from the sewer he called a brain. With spare breath I might have cursed them, but my fury came a decliate whisper, peeling like nighttime bells; loudly and to no one. I wished barren the bellies of the sows that held them.

Ego as engine, for a furious mile I kept pace, propelled solely by a need for petty victory. Predictably, for those bones had long been cast, I quickly slowed back to a sad trudge, slower than my previous languid pace.

Themselves ramblers taking long walks for leisure, Lar and Fergus waited at each fence feigning to check their watches, teasing with so many rests between arrivals a man might never tire. Gladly I obliged, quipping Aesop's lessons were lost to them. What else had I but meek agreement. Nod and smile, chaste to make a Roman wife blush, icily injecting scorn where possible unnoticed.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors. Badger, fox and mole strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid. At the helm, Lar thought himself Alexander in Hanyson, immortal thirst his guiding star. I remembered how ended that tale.

How hard it seemed rising after only a moment stilled. How quickly a hard-earned graceful step replaced by rhythmless clomping. It was not until several minutes treading passed that semblance of form returned, and soon after, the next reluctant stop, the mossy bank where last we halted still visible shortly behind.

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

This terse land existed long before man's dominion and would reign unchanged in the wake of our expiry. Here she gave no quarter. Gaia dressed for war in all her plate. All twisted briar and stinging barbs, long tunnels of night giving to treacherous muddy groves where a man might be taken by the bog and the old things therein.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

We watched Fergus' return, arms extended like some horror out of Jotunheim. Wet cloth clung to his forearms like setting plaster, arousing suspicions he had endured some minor aquatic tragedy. My dry mouth prevented inquiry. I snatched the skin and quaffed generously, muttering thanks. Quite unsympathetically, I had to force myself not to ask 'Water we going to do now?' or comment that it was growing colder the further we went up, in fact 'ri-very cold.'

I produced a flask. Cursed with muteness, Fergus could not explain what manner of calamity had befallen him. Louder his teeth clacked. A mirror pool formed about his feet, spreading wider until he stood aft a glass plinth. I offered a lash. The whiskey shot fire through his veins. His eyes bulged as the water of life reignited the dampened kindling of his passions.

Lar, hitherto predisposed with watering of a different sort, emerged fastening his trousers and immediately noted something awry. He lifted his chin an inch, gave us the once over and bounded towards Fergus. He took a clump of wet tweed and squeezed until it wept through his clenched fist. 'Christ. What happened?'

Lar claimed little of Fergus remained. A friendly shade of what once he was. He assured me what others perceived as emotion was mere instinct. Nerves and twitches, mimicked gestures. Still I swore he had recognised his own foolishness at having fallen into the stream. How shyly he stared to his feet, if only for one moment of divine clarity.

Lar was concerned about Fergus' garments. Wet clothes would spell disaster for the burgeoning expedition. I offered my scarf. Lar followed suit. Like a freed condemned, he slipped the coarse rag from around his own neck. Flattened parallel, they formed a hugging shawl around his sodden shoulders. Gently, by degrees, we warmed Fergus. He took another swig from the flask. In his gargantuan hands, fingers like rolling pins splayed across its scratched surface, the flask appeared little more than a doll's trinket.

Upon imbibing the second drop, revelling its minor anaesthetic quality, his cheeks flashed pink, rouge to blush a whore. When great cities crumbled and ancient wisdoms were lost, when mankind regressed to a baser form, bestial and philistine, beloved of ignorance, the denizens of ancient Ireland had brewed this potent potable, and on its warmth resisted the great debasement. Fire exhumed ice in his veins. The fire of life; the fire of the elixir I had given him, which of old the anointed ones consumed seeking arcane knowledge, devolving their mind to its primal state, therein discovering secrets lost to time.

Ahead the vanguard, Lar spied him first. A shambling form moving quick through the trees. With a limp wave he halted us. Behind we mimed his stoop. On haunches he held the order with a trembling hand, for which we never blamed him. Everyone had reached the same conclusion; the beast was upon us. We had wished without proper consideration. Now our twisted desire was made flesh. From the underworld the beast reeking of acrid smoke had clawed, toxic miasma from the foundries of hell in heady tendrils about its paws.

Gradually the amorphous form revealed contours most corporeal; those of an older man, sweeping towards us at a markedly unsupernatural pace. He moved furtively, shoulders raised to his ears protectively, eyes deep set and impatient. Closer he came until he stood before us on the crest of a mossy embankment. He stood still for address, unsure if we were brigands, bounty hunters or worse. He cast a long glance over each of us in turn, tracing our brows, testing the mettle behind our eyes, down the chest to the navel, to our stained feet and upward again. He shoved a letter into his pocket and I saw on his ringfinger he wore an enormous golden signet, though I could not discern any detail in the dimness.

With his green gillet stained polkadot and wild sideburns adjoining beard and hair, he appeared more victorian eccentric than hiker. I soon learned that his name was Dalliard, a local with roots deeper than those from which his wiry gruaig sprang, a mad albino nest atop his wisened head. He spoke with a thick lilt, a strange medley of gaelic and slang, almost saxon sounding if I didn't know the name Dalliard wasn't Northon. He was assuredly a kill-your-son-and-live-with-your-wife-in silence-for-twenty-years-over-the-lend-of-a-spade type.

Beneath his snowy bristles lay zit red cheeks. I imagined his mouth when it moved as a bubbling postule, his tongue glorious pus emerging like a curious worm's head. As he elbowed past I caught his eye, or rather disturbed him rudely staring. Next I wondered whether the creases on his brow were newly formed, ever present or mere projections of my exhausted, possibly delirious state. No, unmistakably this Dalliard recognised me. Something he saw worried him. Probably some pervert up to no good in the old churchyard, worried we would stumble upon his vile derelictions. Perhaps some looter of antiquities, wondering if I'm here for the same. All this passed in a moment, soon he was long passed and speaking overshoulder.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

Emboldened by closeness we came on fast to devour the remaining track, leaping from ledge to mossy shelf with educated precision like trained fleas. How quickly one became accustomed to difficulty; it was not hard to see how we proliferated across every inch of the globe, until even the secret and sacred places of the world were sullied by our refuse; their tranquility strangled by our inanities. Without fire to christen me, mine had been a baptism by stone. Keeping in pace, I turned to Lar and Fergus. 'Know that Dalliard chap well, do you?'

'We don't send cards at Christmas. Lives on the other side of the valley. Different schools, different everything, same parish. Posh eccentric sort. Had some affiliations with the good lady. Why? I'm sure he'd love to take a lovely lass like you for a stew any evening of the year.' Lar bellowed.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'

[alchemisland]

The Moors Mutt IV: Old Stone

Lar had set plates of milk and egg on the exterior ledge in tribute to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient mounds. Ah, how rugged tradition. Despite innumerable era-defining events happening daily across the world, for the village of Sperrin it was just another day when the sun rose and, with luck, set again in the evening. They hadn't time for dullards in tailed suits dictating tastes, but they had still team to tend the interspecies relations their ancestors cherished. By all accounts I have heard, to spurn the giving of tributes and gifts incurs great penalty from these entities, with many a workman rising with thorns in his bed after rooting out on the old Hawthorns, which are so revered entire networks and key routeways, which I say should serve to modernise this place a bit, are diverted from their course to leave the old fairy trees in peace. Even now I puzzle at this strange practice, at the contrast between past and present evident in all things once you leave the big cities. The fae, I have since learned, are a race of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread; its boils gaping swordwounds, its pus the belch of industry, and always fatal. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' spake thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seems to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in this practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of adherents, there are more worshippers in these bog towns, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the tide." Thackeray made no mention of an egg dish though.

A scarred moggy had the scent hot on his nostrils, thought he what fine folks we to leave a sup for me. I watched him furtively take the decking and slink toward the dish. First he tapped the rim to glean what consequence he might incur, but seeing the clear craned and began to lap its contents delightedly, soaking its whiskers. Fergus thundered out the door, beelining towards the cat which he had spied through the window. He lifted a knee with all grace of rusted Talos and swung the appendage toward the hissing feline. Bold, but not careless, the moggy bailed, zipping from sight before Fergus' hobnail hit. I supposed it a tad overreactive, but when one considers the fae as a true belief system, that cat was essentially gobbling up our good faith, and I thought with another opportunity I'd have done the same.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The barframe served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern keep, and a fur mantle he wore most Heraclean. He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels by his side, two loyal hounds never stumped for purpose. In his great shadow, one felt a gratitude for civilisation; a concept voluntary for men like Lar. Every second a short man, like me, spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

I swanned to his side, eager for revelation, suddenly taken by the spirit of adventure. Not quite the long walk to the docks before an age on the high seas, for indeed the only thing Sperrin had to resemble the rippling sails of farbound triremes were the sad slanted fabric roofs in the central square still hanging from the Christmas Market, but it was no less a proud moment and a little death; the death of office and oath, of duty, of tedium; for that day I was no longer a swaddled urbanite, good only for council meetings and book reviews, I was reborn in renown; I set off toward the unknown with all the zeal of a whorebound sailor, as of old heroes had.

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took my first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did. Before she got her toxic claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy? My father was a man of intense private faith. Very distrustful of institutions. He encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves, not to puzzle overmuch the mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen.' I exhaled my irriation. 'I know my bible well as any bishop; better even. My father wanted to join the priesthood, alas it was not to be. A noble ambition, even unfulfilled. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this church business. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasional queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why it's so special.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude, if a higher place exists than this, the dead will bid us good fortune.

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a temple for their desert god, refuse from the cold of the islands. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod. Slithered out from eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Worshippers twisted as their idols took every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forebears. An epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the soft ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I didn't know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus' hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more. Why are you asking if you already know? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I knew more, and still all this time there was the beast, presumably furious at having been picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man burying his secrets and his spade daubed in clay remained. I found most curious the cairn's relocation. Lar had not seemed confident imparting the reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

Dawnflame pulsed in seductive ruby, splintering to a prism that dazzled in its royal array, from bold scarlet to princely vermilion, and in that sanguine bank we found hopeful portent. Other larks stirred from roadside redoubts to wave passage. Husbandmen mostly, any whose labours were bound to the rueful star's whim. Breaking from the road we made for pasture, cutting due Northwest across the plain. Dawn's jewels, stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot, brittle things past season returning to aether.

Lar and Fergus scouted ahead, rudely parading superior vigour. They whispered among themselves. Fifty years old the pair of them, they still moved like Herne the hunter through all terrains. Fergus gave credence to the theory empty vessels howl loudest, guffawing at every ribaldry Lar conjured from the sewer he called a brain. With spare breath I might have cursed them, but my fury came a decliate whisper, peeling like nighttime bells; loudly and to no one. I wished barren the bellies of the sows that held them.

Ego as engine, for a furious mile I kept pace, propelled solely by a need for petty victory. Predictably, for those bones had long been cast, I quickly slowed back to a sad trudge, slower than my previous languid pace.

Themselves ramblers taking long walks for leisure, Lar and Fergus waited at each fence feigning to check their watches, teasing with so many rests between arrivals a man might never tire. Gladly I obliged, quipping Aesop's lessons were lost to them. What else had I but meek agreement. Nod and smile, chaste to make a Roman wife blush, icily injecting scorn where possible unnoticed.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors. Badger, fox and mole strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid. At the helm, Lar thought himself Alexander in Hanyson, immortal thirst his guiding star. I remembered how ended that tale.

How hard it seemed rising after only a moment stilled. How quickly a hard-earned graceful step replaced by rhythmless clomping. It was not until several minutes treading passed that semblance of form returned, and soon after, the next reluctant stop, the mossy bank where last we halted still visible shortly behind.

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

This terse land existed long before man's dominion and would reign unchanged in the wake of our expiry. Here she gave no quarter. Gaia dressed for war in all her plate. All twisted briar and stinging barbs, long tunnels of night giving to treacherous muddy groves where a man might be taken by the bog and the old things therein.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

We watched Fergus' return, arms extended like some horror out of Jotunheim. Wet cloth clung to his forearms like setting plaster, arousing suspicions he had endured some minor aquatic tragedy. My dry mouth prevented inquiry. I snatched the skin and quaffed generously, muttering thanks. Quite unsympathetically, I had to force myself not to ask 'Water we going to do now?' or comment that it was growing colder the further we went up, in fact 'ri-very cold.'

I produced a flask. Cursed with muteness, Fergus could not explain what manner of calamity had befallen him. Louder his teeth clacked. A mirror pool formed about his feet, spreading wider until he stood aft a glass plinth. I offered a lash. The whiskey shot fire through his veins. His eyes bulged as the water of life reignited the dampened kindling of his passions.

Lar, hitherto predisposed with watering of a different sort, emerged fastening his trousers and immediately noted something awry. He lifted his chin an inch, gave us the once over and bounded towards Fergus. He took a clump of wet tweed and squeezed until it wept through his clenched fist. 'Christ. What happened?'

Lar claimed little of Fergus remained. A friendly shade of what once he was. He assured me what others perceived as emotion was mere instinct. Nerves and twitches, mimicked gestures. Still I swore he had recognised his own foolishness at having fallen into the stream. How shyly he stared to his feet, if only for one moment of divine clarity.

Lar was concerned about Fergus' garments. Wet clothes would spell disaster for the burgeoning expedition. I offered my scarf. Lar followed suit. Like a freed condemned, he slipped the coarse rag from around his own neck. Flattened parallel, they formed a hugging shawl around his sodden shoulders. Gently, by degrees, we warmed Fergus. He took another swig from the flask. In his gargantuan hands, fingers like rolling pins splayed across its scratched surface, the flask appeared little more than a doll's trinket.

Upon imbibing the second drop, revelling its minor anaesthetic quality, his cheeks flashed pink, rouge to blush a whore. When great cities crumbled and ancient wisdoms were lost, when mankind regressed to a baser form, bestial and philistine, beloved of ignorance, the denizens of ancient Ireland had brewed this potent potable, and on its warmth resisted the great debasement. Fire exhumed ice in his veins. The fire of life; the fire of the elixir I had given him, which of old the anointed ones consumed seeking arcane knowledge, devolving their mind to its primal state, therein discovering secrets lost to time.

Ahead the vanguard, Lar spied him first. A shambling form moving quick through the trees. With a limp wave he halted us. Behind we mimed his stoop. On haunches he held the order with a trembling hand, for which we never blamed him. Everyone had reached the same conclusion; the beast was upon us. We had wished without proper consideration. Now our twisted desire was made flesh. From the underworld the beast reeking of acrid smoke had clawed, toxic miasma from the foundries of hell in heady tendrils about its paws.

Gradually the amorphous form revealed contours most corporeal; those of an older man, sweeping towards us at a markedly unsupernatural pace. He moved furtively, shoulders raised to his ears protectively, eyes deep set and impatient. Closer he came until he stood before us on the crest of a mossy embankment. He stood still for address, unsure if we were brigands, bounty hunters or worse. He cast a long glance over each of us in turn, tracing our brows, testing the mettle behind our eyes, down the chest to the navel, to our stained feet and upward again. He shoved a letter into his pocket and I saw on his ringfinger he wore an enormous golden signet, though I could not discern any detail in the dimness.

With his green gillet stained polkadot and wild sideburns adjoining beard and hair, he appeared more victorian eccentric than hiker. I soon learned that his name was Dalliard, a local with roots deeper than those from which his wiry gruaig sprang, a mad albino nest atop his wisened head. He spoke with a thick lilt, a strange medley of gaelic and slang, almost saxon sounding if I didn't know the name Dalliard wasn't Northon. He was assuredly a kill-your-son-and-live-with-your-wife-in silence-for-twenty-years-over-the-lend-of-a-spade type.

Beneath his snowy bristles lay zit red cheeks. I imagined his mouth when it moved as a bubbling postule, his tongue glorious pus emerging like a curious worm's head. As he elbowed past I caught his eye, or rather disturbed him rudely staring. Next I wondered whether the creases on his brow were newly formed, ever present or mere projections of my exhausted, possibly delirious state. No, unmistakably this Dalliard recognised me. Something he saw worried him. Probably some pervert up to no good in the old churchyard, worried we would stumble upon his vile derelictions. Perhaps some looter of antiquities, wondering if I'm here for the same. All this passed in a moment, soon he was long passed and speaking overshoulder.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

Emboldened by closeness we came on fast to devour the remaining track, leaping from ledge to mossy shelf with educated precision like trained fleas. How quickly one became accustomed to difficulty; it was not hard to see how we proliferated across every inch of the globe, until even the secret and sacred places of the world were sullied by our refuse; their tranquility strangled by our inanities. Without fire to christen me, mine had been a baptism by stone. Keeping in pace, I turned to Lar and Fergus. 'Know that Dalliard chap well, do you?'

'We don't send cards at Christmas. Lives on the other side of the valley. Different schools, different everything, same parish. Posh eccentric sort. Had some affiliations with the good lady. Why? I'm sure he'd love to take a lovely lass like you for a stew any evening of the year.' Lar bellowed.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'