#the black ink itself is a really beautiful rich black and the SHIMMER... IS SO....!!!

[blujayonthewing]

I also have a black ink with blue shimmer that I'm lowkey obsessed with but I don't wanna have to clean glitter out of the feed of my main everyday pen and I'm not confident a shimmer will behave in and look nice used with this nib size anyway :')

tornnn between lavender ink or high-shading orange ink or dark red innnnk

[ktzt96-blog]

Back in Time 2(Xiao Yuan Zhi) Chapter (11 to 20)

😣 Chapter 11 : Runner Yuan Zhi

Yuan Zhi was known for his stubbornness, a trait that had grown stronger with age. But when it came to the subject of attending school, his stubbornness took on a new form. He didn’t want to go, and he made that very clear to anyone who would listen.

It wasn’t that Yuan Zhi didn’t want to learn—on the contrary, he was naturally curious and bright. He loved reading the ancient texts in the family library, and he could spend hours engrossed in studying various subjects. It also not he hated the idea of attending school, of sitting in a classroom with other servants' children. But he didn’t want to be around the other kids, especially not Gong Zi Yu, the Sword Master’s son, with whom he had a complicated relationship. And above all, Yuan Zhi didn’t want to leave his Ge Ge’s side. The thought of being away from Shang Jiao, even for a few hours, was unbearable to him.

Every time Shang Jiao mentioned the need for him to attend classes, Yuan Zhi would find a new excuse, each one more creative than the last.

Determined to encourage his brother, Shang Jiao decided to make the prospect of school more enticing. He carefully selected the finest stationery for Yuan Zhi, hoping that the allure of these new tools might pique his interest. He chose brushes of various sizes, each made with the softest, most precise bristles. The ink bottle was crafted from rare, shimmering glass, and the ink itself was of the highest quality, its deep black hue a testament to its richness. The scrolls were made from the finest paper, smooth and flawless, perfect for practicing calligraphy and writing.

When Shang Jiao presented these gifts to Yuan Zhi, he did so with the hope that they would make the idea of going to class more appealing. “Yuan Zhi, I thought you might like these. They’re the finest tools I could find, just for you.”

Yuan Zhi’s fingers brushed over the delicate brushes and the smooth surface of the ink bottle. He couldn’t deny that they were beautiful, and he appreciated the effort Shang Jiao had put into choosing them. But the thought of going to school, of being away from his brother and around other children who didn’t understand him, still filled him with dread.

“They’re beautiful, Ge Ge,” Yuan Zhi murmured, his voice soft. “But I don’t need them if I’m just going to stay here.”

Shang Jiao sighed inwardly, realizing that the gifts alone wouldn’t be enough. He had always known that Yuan Zhi was not swayed by material things. His brother was far more complex than that, and his resistance to school stemmed from a place of deep-seated insecurity.

Sword Master Yu’s words echoed in Shang Jiao’s mind as he stood by the window of his study, staring out into the vast gardens of Jiao Gong. The master’s suggestion was practical, rooted in the wisdom of experience, but it also felt harsh, especially when he thought of Yuan Zhi. He imagined his little brother, with his stubborn will and sensitive heart, being sent off to school against his wishes. Would Yuan Zhi really be fine after crying for a week or two, as Sword Master Yu had suggested? Or would it leave a scar.

The boy was nearly nine years old, and though he was already advanced for his age, there was so much more for him to learn. New challenges, new friendships, and new experiences awaited him, but how could Shang Jiao make him see that? Shang Jiao sighed, had he spoiled Yuan Zhi too much? But maybe, just maybe, that had made Yuan Zhi too dependent on him, too fearful of stepping out into the world on his own.

The memory of Zi Yu running away and hiding in the woods after his first day at school played out in Shang Jiao’s mind. Zi Yu had been scared, just like Yuan Zhi, and though he eventually came around, it had taken time and patience. Madam Wu Ji’s decision to hide him was understandable—she had acted out of love, just as Shang Jiao wanted to—but was that really the best course?

“Yuan Zhi,” Shang Jiao called gently, approaching him with a soft smile.

Yuan Zhi looked up, his eyes brightening at the sight of his brother. But there was also a flicker of unease in his gaze, as if he was anticipating another conversation about school.

“Ge Ge,” Yuan Zhi said quietly, his voice tinged with apprehension

“Ge Ge, I…” Yuan Zhi hesitated, his voice wavering. “I don’t want to go.

Shang Jiao couldn't help but feel a mix of amusement and exasperation as he thought about Yuan Zhi’s latest antics. The boy had always been stubborn, but this level of avoidance was new. Yuan Zhi had taken to hiding, avoiding any potential conversation about school, and now even Jin Fu, the loyal servant, was struggling to keep track of him.

As Shang Jiao stood in the hallway, contemplating what to do next, a thought sparked in his mind. If Yuan Zhi was determined to avoid him, perhaps he could use that to his advantage. A subtle smile tugged at the corners of Shang Jiao’s lips as an idea began to take shape.

Chapter 12 : Only in School

One evening, while Yuan Zhi was avoiding everyone as usual, he overheard a conversation between some of the older students. They were excitedly discussing Shang Jiao’s latest class on the martial arts world.

"Master Jiao’s teachings are incredible," one of them said with awe in his voice. "The way he explained the intricacies of martial arts, the hidden techniques, it was like he’s unveiling secrets no one else knows."

Another student chimed in, "Next week’s class is going to be even better. He’s going to discuss hidden weapons in the martial arts world! I’ve never been more eager for a lesson in my life."

Yuan Zhi’s curiosity was instantly piqued. Hidden weapons? Secrets of the martial arts world? These were things he had never heard Shang Jiao talk about before. Why wasn’t Ge Ge sharing these things with him? Why was he only discussing them in school?

That night, Yuan Zhi couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer. He approached Shang Jiao in his study, trying to sound casual as he asked, "Ge Ge, what were you teaching today?"

Shang Jiao looked up from his scrolls, a knowing smile on his lips. "Oh, just some things about the martial arts world, nothing too important."

"But… what exactly?" Yuan Zhi pressed, trying to keep his tone light and innocent. "Maybe you could tell me?"

Shang Jiao’s smile widened, but he shook his head. "I’m afraid I can’t, Yuan Zhi. Those lessons are for school. They’re connected to other masters’ teachings, and even if I explained them, you wouldn’t fully understand without the proper context."

Yuan Zhi’s face fell. He tried to mask his disappointment, but it was impossible. Shang Jiao noticed the shift in his expression, and while it pained him to see his little brother upset, he knew this was a lesson Yuan Zhi needed to learn.

"I can tell you another story, if you’d like," Shang Jiao offered, hoping to lighten the mood.

But Yuan Zhi wasn’t interested in stories. He pouted, stomped his foot in frustration, and left the room without another word. Shang Jiao watched him go, a soft smile on his lips. He knew Yuan Zhi’s curiosity was a powerful force, and it was only a matter of time before it pushed him to take the next step.

As the weeks went by, Shang Jiao’s classes became the talk of the manor. The other students were captivated by his teachings, and the excitement around his lessons grew with each passing day. Yuan Zhi, on the other hand, was growing more frustrated by the minute. His brother’s time and attention were slipping away from him, and no matter how hard he tried to get Shang Jiao to share those fascinating lessons, he was always met with the same answer: "This is for school, Yuan Zhi."

"Ge Ge!" Yuan Zhi called out, his voice laced with anger and desperation.

Shang Jiao turned to face him, calm as ever. "Yuan Zhi, what’s wrong?"

"I want to attend your class!" Yuan Zhi declared, his eyes flashing with determination.

Shang Jiao raised an eyebrow, surprised by the outburst. "Yuan Zhi, we’ve talked about this. If you attend my class, you have to attend all the classes. That’s the rule."

"But I don’t care about the other classes! I just want to learn from you!" Yuan Zhi’s voice was shaky, a mix of frustration and pleading.

Before Shang Jiao could respond, Sword Master Yu, who had been watching the exchange from a distance, stepped forward. "Yuan Zhi, school isn’t just about learning from one person. It’s about gaining a well-rounded education. If you want to attend Master Jiao’s class, you have to commit to the entire curriculum."

Yuan Zhi glared at the Sword Master, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Ge Ge, you’re not helping at all!" he snapped, feeling betrayed. "Why can’t you just let me learn from you? Why do I have to listen to anyone else?"

Shang Jiao sighed, walking over to Yuan Zhi and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Yuan Zhi, I understand that this is difficult for you. But part of growing up is learning from different experiences and different people. I’m always here for you, but you need to broaden your horizons. You have so much potential, but you have to be willing to step out of your comfort zone."

Yuan Zhi shook his head, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. "But I don’t want to! I don’t want to be away from you, Ge Ge. I don’t care about the other things. I just want to stay with you!" The thought of spending hours away from Shang Jiao made his chest tighten with fear and sadness. So, he played his final card—the one thing he knew his brother couldn’t resist.

Sword Master Yu, who had been observing the exchange, noticed the flicker of hesitation in Shang Jiao’s eyes. He stepped forward, his voice gentle but firm. "Yuan Zhi, I understand that you want to stay beside your Ge Ge, but it’s not very far, you know. The school is just in the Yu Gong study room, and it only takes a few hours a day. You’ll be back home before you know it."

Shang Jiao knelt down in front of Yuan Zhi, bringing himself to eye level. His voice was calm and reassuring as he spoke. "Yuan Zhi, do you remember when you told me you wanted to help me when you grow up? The more you learn now, the more you’ll be able to help me in the future."

Yuan Zhi’s tears slowed as he listened to his brother’s words. Shang Jiao continued, "And to make sure you’re comfortable, I’ll assign Jin Fu to stay near you during your classes. If you ever feel uncomfortable or want to come back, you can return anytime. Does that sound okay?"

Yuan Zhi hesitated for a moment, his mind swirling with conflicting emotions. But Shang Jiao’s words had touched something deep within him. He wanted to help his Ge Ge, to be strong and capable, just like him. Timidly, Yuan Zhi nodded, and without another word, he threw himself into Shang Jiao’s arms, burying his face in his brother’s shoulder.

Finally, they had reached an understanding. Yuan Zhi was still reluctant, but at least he was willing to try. They had crossed the first hurdle, and that was what mattered.

Yuan Zhi walked out of the study room to find Jin Fu waiting for him, as promised. In his hand, Jin Fu held a small snack, a sweet treat wrapped in delicate paper. "This is from your Ge Ge," Jin Fu said with a smile, handing the snack to Yuan Zhi.

Over the next few weeks, Yuan Zhi began to settle into his routine. Every day after class, Jin Fu would be waiting with a snack or a small gift, always accompanied by a message from Shang Jiao. It became something Yuan Zhi looked forward to, a reminder that his Ge Ge was never far from his thoughts.

While Shang Jiao’s own duties kept him busy, he made sure to carve out time for Yuan Zhi’s studies. Occasionally, he would visit the classroom to teach his own lessons. These were the moments Yuan Zhi cherished the most. Shang Jiao’s classes were always filled with fascinating stories about the martial arts world, hidden weapons, and ancient techniques. Yuan Zhi hung on every word, eager to learn more.

😊 Chapter 13 : The Jar of Bugs

Yuan Zhi had always been a curious child, he would spend hours studying the insects he found, captivated by their intricate movements and the delicate balance of nature they represented. His Ge Ge, Shang Jiao, had noticed this passion and encouraged it in his own way.

When Yuan Zhi excelled in his studies, his teachers were full of praise. They often remarked on his quick learning and sharp mind, qualities that made Shang Jiao proud. As a reward, Shang Jiao gifted Yuan Zhi a jug made from a large, polished shell. The intricate patterns on the shell reflected the boy's keen interest in nature. Yuan Zhi was overjoyed with the gift, treasuring it as one of his most prized possessions.

But instead of using the shell jug for water, as intended, Yuan Zhi had other ideas. He decided it would be the perfect home for his beloved bugs. He carefully placed the tiny creatures inside, and whenever he felt bored or lonely, he would take them out to play. The jug became a constant companion, always hanging from his waist as he roamed the manor.

It wasn’t long before the faint jingle of small bells could be heard echoing through the halls of Jiao Gong. The bells had been another gift from Shang Jiao, and Yuan Zhi proudly wore them in his hair. The combination of the jingle and his habit of carrying bugs around earned him a rather ominous nickname among the servants: "Jingle Sound and Deadly Bugs." To them, it sounded like something out of a thriller, but to Yuan Zhi, it was just a bit of fun. He never intended to frighten anyone, but he did enjoy the little reactions he got when someone unexpectedly encountered one of his bugs.

One day, however, things took a turn. Yuan Zhi had brought his shell jug to class, as he often did, but he hadn’t noticed that the lid wasn’t securely fastened. As the lesson progressed, the bugs began to crawl out, unnoticed at first. It wasn’t until one of the students screamed that chaos erupted. The classroom descended into pandemonium as students leapt from their seats, trying to avoid the insects scurrying across the floor. Yuan Zhi, too, was startled, and in the confusion, his beloved bugs were trampled underfoot.

When the dust settled, the room was a mess of overturned desks and scattered papers. Yuan Zhi’s heart sank as he saw the remains of his tiny friends. He felt a deep sadness, one that lingered long after the other students had left, still nervously laughing and teasing each other about how they’d reacted.

That night, Yuan Zhi didn’t eat anything. He sat by himself under the moonlight, staring at the jug, which now felt hollow and empty. The loss of his bugs weighed heavily on him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was his fault. The swollen and bruised state of his right hand told the story of his futile attempt to save them, and he didn’t want to face anyone, especially not his Ge Ge. He feared Shang Jiao would think he was an idiot, or worse, be disappointed in him.

But Shang Jiao was always able to see through his little brother’s silence. When he found Yuan Zhi sitting alone, he approached gently, knowing that something was wrong. He noticed the bruises on Yuan Zhi’s hand and immediately understood what had happened.

“What happened to your hand?” Shang Jiao asked, his voice calm and steady.

Yuan Zhi didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the jug as if it held all the answers he didn’t want to give.

“Did you try to save your little friends?” Shang Jiao asked, his tone softening with understanding.

At this, Yuan Zhi finally looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He nodded, a lump forming in his throat as he braced for the scolding he thought was sure to come.

But instead of reprimanding him, Shang Jiao simply smiled and extended his hand. “Come on, let’s go put some ointment on that hand. We wouldn’t want you to miss out on catching more bugs with me and Jin Fu, now would we?”

Yuan Zhi’s eyes widened in surprise. His sadness didn’t disappear, but it was eased by the warmth of Shang Jiao’s words. His Ge Ge was different—where others might scold, Shang Jiao always found a way to turn mistakes into lessons, to show kindness where others might show anger.

The young boy nodded, a small smile breaking through his sorrow as he took Shang Jiao’s hand. Together, they walked back to the manor, the moonlight casting a gentle glow over them. Yuan Zhi’s heart felt lighter, not just because of the promise of catching more bugs, but because he knew that no matter what, his Ge Ge would always be there to help him, to guide him, and to understand him in a way no one else could.

😎 Chapter 14 : Little Hero

The reputation of “Jingle Sound and Deadly Bug” had begun to follow Yuan Zhi, a phrase that Shang Jiao found unsettling. The words, spoken in hushed whispers and casual conversations, felt like a shadow over Yuan Zhi's growing fascination with dangerous insects. Shang Jiao, ever the protective elder brother, disliked the association but refrained from using his authority to silence it. He understood that controlling the narrative through orders would only fuel the rumors further. Instead, Shang Jiao devised a plan—one that would channel Yuan Zhi’s interests into something beneficial, both for him and for the Gong Clan.

Last week, Yuan Zhi lost one of his bugs, despite enlisting Jin Fu’s help in searching for it. The loss had weighed heavily on Yuan Zhi, Shang Jiao, unable to bear seeing his brother so distressed, took matters into his own hands. He made an announcement to the entire Gong Clan, instructing that anyone who found strange or scary bugs should report directly to Jiao Gong. Yuan Zhi, with the assistance of two skilled physicians, would handle the bugs.

At first, there was skepticism. The idea of letting a young boy take charge of dangerous insects seemed absurd to some. But as weeks turned into months, Shang Jiao’s plan began to bear fruit. Yuan Zhi was not only retrieving his lost bug but also collecting many others. Each successful retrieval boosted his confidence, and gradually, the whispers of “Jingle Sound and Deadly Bug” turned into murmurs of admiration as "The Little Hero".

Yuan Zhi soon became a hero in the eyes of the Gong Clan. His bravery and skill in handling the dangerous bugs earned him respect and popularity, particularly among the young girls of the clan, who admired his courage. Though many praised him, showering him with toys and snacks as tokens of gratitude, Yuan Zhi remained indifferent to their adoration. For him, it wasn’t about fame or recognition; it was about the joy of collecting and studying the bugs that fascinated him.

One evening, as the Gong Clan gathered for tea and conversation, the children played nearby while the adults discussed various matters. Yuan Zhi, however, stayed close to his Ge Ge, as he often did. The warmth and safety of Shang Jiao’s presence were far more comforting to him than the boisterous games of the other children.

Suddenly, a sharp cry broke through the chatter. Zi Yu, the younger son of Sword Master Yu, was shouting and running frantically, his hands flailing above his head. Yuan Zhi’s sharp eyes quickly spotted the cause—a small insect had found its way onto Zi Yu’s head, sending the boy into a state of panic.

For a moment, Yuan Zhi stood still, watching the scene unfold with a mix of curiosity and amusement. The sight of Zi Yu, usually so composed, losing his composure over a tiny bug was oddly satisfying to Yuan Zhi. He should help him, right? But then again, the idea of watching Zi Yu squirm a little longer was tempting.

Yuan Zhi glanced up at his brother, searching for a cue. Shang Jiao was watching the scene with a calm smile, his eyes soft as they met Yuan Zhi’s. He wasn’t going to interfere. Instead, his expression seemed to say, Do what you think is right. It was a look of trust, of confidence that Yuan Zhi could make the right decision on his own.

The next few seconds felt like an eternity to Yuan Zhi. Zi Yu’s panic grew, his shouts becoming more desperate as the insect crawled through his hair. Finally, as Zi Yu ran past him, Yuan Zhi made his decision. In one swift, practiced motion, he reached out and caught the bug between his fingers, deftly plucking it from Zi Yu’s head.

Zi Yu stopped in his tracks, panting heavily, his face flushed with both fear and embarrassment. The relief in his eyes was palpable as he turned to Yuan Zhi. For a moment, it seemed like he wanted to say something—a word of thanks, perhaps—but the words caught in his throat.

Yuan Zhi, meanwhile, simply examined the bug in his hand with a calm, measured gaze. It was a harmless insect, really—nothing compared to the dangerous creatures he often dealt with. But the look of awe and gratitude in Zi Yu’s eyes, and the soft smile of approval from Shang Jiao, made the moment significant.

“That’s a brave one,” Shang Jiao remarked, his voice carrying just enough warmth to let Yuan Zhi know he was proud.

Yuan Zhi looked up at his brother, his heart swelling with a quiet joy. Shang Jiao’s approval meant more to him than all the compliments and gifts in the world. He didn’t need to be a hero to anyone else—being his Ge Ge’s little brother was enough.

Yuan Zhi felt a flicker of pride himself, though he quickly pushed it down, not wanting to show too much emotion. Instead, he gave a small nod, carefully placing the bug into a shell container he carried with him, always prepared for such moments.

The other children, who had witnessed the entire scene, began to cheer and clap, their playful banter turning into words of admiration for Yuan Zhi. Even the adults paused their conversation to acknowledge what had happened, offering smiles and approving nods in Yuan Zhi’s direction.

Zi Yu, still catching his breath, finally managed a quiet “Thank you” before retreating to a corner, clearly mortified by the incident.

Yuan Zhi didn’t care much for the applause or the gratitude. As long as he could continue collecting his bugs, he was content. But there was something about the way Shang Jiao looked at him in that moment—something that made Yuan Zhi feel lighter, happier. It wasn’t just about catching the bug. It was about knowing that, in his Ge Ge’s eyes, he had done well.

From that day on, the reputation of “Jingle Sound and Deadly Bug” transformed entirely. It was no longer a phrase that Shang Jiao disliked, but rather a title that spoke of Yuan Zhi’s bravery and unique talents. And as long as Yuan Zhi was happy, healthy, and under his watchful eye, Shang Jiao felt at peace.

🥱 Chapter 15 : The Mystery of Sleepiness

Shang Jiao had always been attuned to the subtle changes in his younger brother, Yuan Zhi. So when Shang Jiao noticed Yuan Zhi falling asleep during the day, more frequently and in odd places, he was quietly concerned.

One afternoon, Shang Jiao had passed by Yuan Zhi’s study, intending to check on him. The door was slightly ajar, and through the gap, Shang Jiao saw Yuan Zhi slumped over his desk. At first, he smiled, thinking the boy had simply exhausted himself from too much focus. But as the days passed, the sight of Yuan Zhi asleep at his desk became a common occurrence.

The next time it happened, Yuan Zhi was in the garden. Shang Jiao had been in the middle of a conversation with Elder Yue when he noticed something unusual in the distance. Yuan Zhi was lying on the grass, not playing with the small collection of bugs he adored or lost in thought as he often was. He was sound asleep, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. Shang Jiao excused himself from the conversation and walked over, kneeling beside his brother. He hesitated to wake him, concerned that there was more to this than just youthful exhaustion.

Then there was the evening when Yuan Zhi fell asleep mid-game, a rare occurrence for a boy as energetic and competitive as he was. Shang Jiao had joined him in the courtyard, where they were supposed to be playing a game of strategy with wooden soldiers. But as Shang Jiao moved a piece on the board, he noticed that Yuan Zhi’s head had dipped, his eyes closing slowly until they were completely shut. His hand still loosely clutched one of the soldiers, now leaning precariously on the board’s edge. Shang Jiao watched, worry gnawing at the edges of his heart. He gently took the piece from Yuan Zhi's hand, setting it aside before lifting him up to carry him to bed.

The final straw came one evening at dinner, and Yuan Zhi, usually lively and full of questions, was unusually quiet. Shang Jiao observed him closely, noticing how Yuan Zhi's head bobbed slightly as he fought to stay awake. Just as Shang Jiao was about to speak, Yuan Zhi’s head dropped forward, his spoon clattering to the floor. The hall fell silent as all eyes turned to the boy, who was now softly snoring, his head resting on the edge of his plate.

Shang Jiao’s heart sank. He gently lifted Yuan Zhi's head, brushing a few stray grains of rice from his cheek. "Yuan Zhi," he whispered, but the boy didn’t stir. Shang Jiao glanced around the table, catching the worried expressions of the attendances'. He signaled for the servants to quietly remove the plates and then, with a tender smile, carried Yuan Zhi to his room.

That night, as Yuan Zhi slept peacefully in his bed, Shang Jiao sat by his side, watching him. The soft moonlight spilled into the room, casting gentle shadows on the walls. Shang Jiao reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Yuan Zhi’s forehead. His brother’s face, usually so animated and full of life, now seemed weary, as though the weight of something heavy rested upon his small shoulders.

Shang Jiao’s mind raced, trying to piece together what could be causing this sudden exhaustion. Yuan Zhi had always been a diligent student, but this went beyond mere dedication. He thought back to their conversations, their interactions in recent weeks. Yuan Zhi had seemed distracted, often lost in thought, his responses more delayed than usual. There were times when he had caught Yuan Zhi staring into the distance, a slight frown creasing his brow.

In the days that followed, Shang Jiao kept an even closer watch on Yuan Zhi. He spoke with the attendants, asking if they had noticed anything unusual. Some mentioned that Yuan Zhi had been waking up earlier than usual, often before dawn, to study or train in the courtyard. Y

uan Zhi had woken with a start, his heart pounding, the remnants of a terrible dream clinging to him like a dark cloud. His first instinct was to go to Shang Jiao, to seek out that familiar comfort. But he hesitated. He knew his brother was busy, didn't want to be a burden, didn't want to disturb his Ge Ge, who always had so much to do. So, he stayed in his room, curling up under the covers, trying to chase away the lingering fear on his own.

The next morning, when Shang Jiao rose to start his day, he noticed something amiss. Normally, Yuan Zhi would have been up by now, a small whirlwind of energy, ready to help his Ge Ge with whatever needed doing, following him around like a shadow. But today, the manor was strangely quiet.

"Where is Yuan Zhi?" Shang Jiao asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Young Master is still sleeping," Jin Fu replied, trying to hide the surprise in his tone. It wasn’t like Yuan Zhi to sleep in, not even when Shang Jiao urged him to rest more. The boy was always up early, eager to start the day.

A frown creased Shang Jiao’s brow. Something didn’t feel right. "Is he sick?" he asked, already moving towards Yuan Zhi’s room.

Shang Jiao approached the bed, his hand gently brushing over Yuan Zhi’s forehead to check for any signs of fever. The boy stirred at the touch, but didn’t wake, only nuzzling closer, seeking the comfort of that familiar presence even in sleep. Shang Jiao felt a pang of guilt. Had Yuan Zhi needed him during the night? Had he been too absorbed in his work to notice?

One evening, as the skies darkened and the air grew thick with the promise of rain, Yuan Zhi felt a familiar anxiety creeping in. He tried to distract himself, focusing on his studies, but the moment the storm broke, he jolted awake, heart pounding. The memories flooded back, the terror so vivid it felt as though he were reliving it all over again. He trembled violently, his small body shaking with fear as he curled up, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to block out the noise, to shut out the world.

“Yuan Zhi, Yuan Zhi, are you okay? Don’t be afraid, I’m here. It’s okay,” Shang Jiao’s voice was gentle, soothing, as he cradled Yuan Zhi against his chest. The boy trembled in his arms, his face buried in his older brother’s shoulder, but the sound of Shang Jiao’s voice began to cut through the fog of terror.

By morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a quiet, gray dawn. Shang Jiao learned that Gong Zi Yu had also been troubled by nightmares during the night, but he had his foster mother by his side to comfort him. Shang Jiao felt a sharp pang of guilt. He should have been more careful, more attentive, he should have known.

😈 Chapter 16 : Conquer the Nightmare

"It's okay to be scared and cry, Yuan Zhi, but don't let fear control you," Shang Jiao would say, guiding his younger brother through yet another stormy night. The sound of rain and the sudden crash of thunder transported him back to the horrific night when Wu Fone spies attacked the Gong Clan, leaving deep emotional scars that resurfaced whenever the skies darkened.

Shang Jiao had noticed this fear and decided to take action. The first step was to teach Yuan Zhi to channel his fear into something productive. Martial arts training became a refuge, a way for Yuan Zhi to regain control when he felt powerless.

Next, he encouraged Yuan Zhi to read and write. "When the storm outside feels too overwhelming, let your mind focus on something else," he would advise. Yuan Zhi, who was always eager to please his brother, would bury himself in scrolls and texts, his small frame hunched over as he tried to distract himself from the chaos outside.

When these methods didn’t entirely banish Yuan Zhi’s fear, Shang Jiao proposed something unexpected. "If all else fails, Yuan Zhi, you can always shout during the thunderstorm. Scream whatever comes to your mind. No one will hear you over the storm, and it’ll help release the fear."

But it was the final suggestion that truly surprised Jin Fu and the others—Shang Jiao proposed that Yuan Zhi shout whatever came to his mind during the thunder. Yuan Zhi followed his Ge Ge's advice, but rather than simply shouting to relieve his fear, he found joy in the act itself. He yelled out all sorts of things, from playful insults to heartfelt declarations. "Gong Zi Yu is a brat!" "Jin Fu is boring!".

Occasionally, Yuan Zhi’s shouts would be too loud or miss the timing, and his mockery of Jin Fu, other servants, Gong Zi Yu, and anyone else he disliked would echo through the manor. While his words sometimes drew smiles and laughter from those around him, it was clear that Yuan Zhi's well-being and happiness were more important to them than his occasional outbursts.

😇 Chapter 17 : Forgiveness is the Bravest thing

Everyone in the Gong Clan believed that Zi Yu and Yuan Zhi should have been the best of friends. With a three-year age difference, Zi Yu was often seen as the older, wiser one who could guide Yuan Zhi, while Yuan Zhi was expected to look up to Zi Yu as a big brother figure. However, despite all the assumptions, Yuan Zhi never accepted Zi Yu's hand in friendship.

Zi Yu tried his best to win Yuan Zhi over. He was always the first to offer a game, to share his toys, or to invite Yuan Zhi to join him in some new adventure. But each time, Yuan Zhi's response was the same—a cold rejection, averted eyes, and a distant demeanor that left Zi Yu feeling both confused and hurt. It wasn't just a matter of disinterest; sometimes, Yuan Zhi seemed to go out of his way to make Zi Yu feel unwelcome. If Zi Yu tried to be kind, Yuan Zhi would find a way to dismiss him. If Zi Yu attempted to include him, Yuan Zhi would retreat, often with a biting remark.

As the days passed, Zi Yu grew more frustrated with Yuan Zhi's indifference, and in a moment of childish spite, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He knew how much Yuan Zhi treasured the toys given to him by Shang Jiao, how he treated each one like a precious artifact. So, Zi Yu, hid one of Yuan Zhi's favorite toys—a small, intricately carved wooden soldier that Shang Jiao had gifted him.

The moment Yuan Zhi realized his toy was missing, his entire world seemed to collapse. He searched every corner of Jiao Gong and Zhi Gong, his small hands tearing through drawers and cupboards, his eyes frantic as he called out for the toy. The servants joined the search, despite their efforts, the toy remained missing, and with each passing hour, Yuan Zhi's distress grew.

Shang Jiao, upon hearing of Yuan Zhi's cry, immediately went to comfort his little brother. He pulled Yuan Zhi into his arms, soothing him with gentle words. "Don't worry, Yuan Zhi," he murmured, brushing a hand through the boy's hair. "I'll buy you another one, even better than the last."

But Yuan Zhi couldn't be consoled. The loss of the toy was more than just the loss of an object, his small body wracked with stress and anxiety. Soon, his condition worsened, and he fell ill, vomiting and slipping in and out of consciousness. His fever soared, and in his delirious sleep, he murmured Shang Jiao's name over and over, his voice filled with a heartbreak that no child should ever have to endure.

Next morning, It was in the midst of this anguish that a knock came at the door. Shang Jiao looked up, his expression darkening as Sword Master Yu entered, with a tearful Zi Yu standing by his side. Zi Yu, his face pale and eyes swollen from crying, stepped forward. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I hid the toy. I didn't think... I didn't think it would hurt him so much."

Yuan Zhi, weak and feverish, turned his head away, refusing to acknowledge Zi Yu's presence. Shang Jiao could see the pain and stubbornness in Yuan Zhi's eyes, a refusal to forgive or forget. But Shang Jiao didn't push. He didn't force Yuan Zhi to accept the apology, nor did he reprimand Zi Yu in front of him. Instead, he remained by Yuan Zhi's side, comforting him with his presence, letting him know that no matter what, he would always be there.

After Zi Yu and Sword Master Yu left, the dam finally broke within Yuan Zhi. He burst into tears, the pent-up frustration, sadness, and anger spilling out all at once. "It's not fair, Ge Ge!" he sobbed, his small fists pounding weakly against Shang Jiao's chest. "I hate him! I want to beat him!"

Shang Jiao held Yuan Zhi tighter, "I know it hurts, Yuan Zhi," Shang Jiao said softly, his voice calm and steady. "But holding onto that anger will only make you feel worse. Zi Yu did something wrong, and he knows that now. Sometimes, forgiveness is the bravest thing you can do."

Over the next few days, Shang Jiao remained close to Yuan Zhi, giving him the time he needed to heal both physically and emotionally. He didn't push Yuan Zhi to forgive Zi Yu, but he did encourage him to focus on the love and care that surrounded him. When Yuan Zhi was feeling better, Shang Jiao surprised him with a new toy, one that was even more intricate and beautiful than the last.

🤩 Chapter 18 : Reciting Poem

Yuan Zhi stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching as Gong Zi Yu confidently recited a poem before the gathered masters and elders. The boy’s voice was clear and sweet, his posture straight and poised, capturing the attention of everyone around him. The elders smiled warmly, nodding in approval, while the masters exchanged glances of pride. Even the usually stoic Shang Jiao allowed a small smile to play on his lips, nodding slightly as he agreed with the compliments showered upon Zi Yu.

From where Yuan Zhi stood, a shadow of doubt and resentment began to creep into his heart. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Shang Jiao’s expression. It wasn’t often that his Ge Ge openly showed approval, and here he was, smiling at Zi Yu with what seemed like genuine affection. The sight made Yuan Zhi’s stomach churn with an unfamiliar bitterness.

The longer he watched, the more Zi Yu’s every action grated on him. The way he recited the poem with such ease, the way he bowed politely after finishing, the way he smiled so modestly as the elders patted his head—all of it seemed calculated, like an act meant to garner favor. In Yuan Zhi’s eyes, Zi Yu wasn’t just performing a poem; he was performing for the attention and love of everyone around him, including Ge Ge.

By the time Yuan Zhi reached his room, he couldn’t shake the memory of Shang Jiao’s expression. It haunted him, replaying over and over in his mind. As he sat on the edge of his bed, he began to wonder if he should try to do what Zi Yu had done. Maybe if he recited a poem, or did something similarly impressive, Shang Jiao would look at him with the same affection. The thought was tempting, but it also made Yuan Zhi uneasy.

He stood up and paced the room, trying to imagine himself standing before the elders, reciting a poem with the same grace and confidence as Zi Yu. But the image felt wrong, like a cloak that didn’t fit. Yuan Zhi wasn’t the type to perform for others, especially not in such a way. The very thought of acting cute or seeking approval through a performance made him cringe. It wasn’t who he was, and it wasn’t something he could see himself doing, no matter how much he wanted Shang Jiao’s attention.

Shang Jiao had noticed something peculiar about Yuan Zhi these past few days. The boy, usually so confident and carefree, had been acting strangely. Whenever someone approached him, he would abruptly stop whatever he was doing and pretend as if nothing was amiss. Jin Fu and the other servants had mentioned this odd behavior too, their voices laced with curiosity and concern. At first, Shang Jiao assumed Yuan Zhi was up to his usual mischief—perhaps playing with dangerous bugs again, as he was prone to do—but this time, it wasn’t that simple.

It was well past midnight when Shang Jiao was stirred awake by a faint humming sound. Groggy but intrigued, he slipped out of bed and made his way toward the source of the noise. As he approached Yuan Zhi’s room, he was surprised to see Jin Fu, the famously stoic servant, peering through the slightly ajar door with an uncharacteristically wide smile on his face.

Jin Fu, who Yuan Zhi often teasingly referred to as “Stone Face,” didn’t seem to notice Shang Jiao’s approach until the last moment. When he did, he stepped aside, giving Shang Jiao a chance to peek inside the room. There, standing in front of a mirror, was Yuan Zhi, practicing the recitation of a poem. His expression was serious, his brow furrowed in concentration, and he was mouthing the words with such focus that he seemed completely unaware of anything else around him.

Just as Shang Jiao turned to leave, he noticed Jin Fu still lingering by the door, stealing another glance inside. Jin Fu’s face was a mixture of pride and amusement, clearly enjoying the sight of Yuan Zhi’s earnest efforts.

“Just give him some time,” Shang Jiao whispered, a smile playing on his lips.

Jin Fu, still watching Yuan Zhi with a soft expression, sighed quietly, almost as if he was reluctant to leave the scene. “He’ll never do it in front of us, Master Jiao. He’ll only show it to you. He doesn’t want anyone else’s blessing—only yours.”

Days turned into weeks, and Shang Jiao could see that Yuan Zhi was waiting for the right moment to share his poem. The boy was timid and hesitant, and Shang Jiao knew it was up to him to gently pave the way. One afternoon, with a knowing smile, he decided to give Yuan Zhi the nudge he needed.

“Today, I have some free time, Yuan Zhi,” Shang Jiao said casually, his tone gentle. “Do you have something interesting to share with me? Perhaps about herbs, bugs... or maybe a poem?”

“I-I can... show you the bug,” Yuan Zhi stammered, quickly trying to change the subject. He made a move to walk away, clearly not ready to recite the poem. But Shang Jiao wasn’t about to let him off the hook so easily.

Before Yuan Zhi could escape, Shang Jiao gently took hold of his wrist. “Yuan Zhi, Di Di, I would love to hear your poem,” he said softly, his voice filled with nothing but patience and encouragement.

Yuan Zhi hesitated, but seeing the sincerity in his Ge Ge’s eyes, he nodded and gathered his courage. He took a deep breath, but his nerves got the best of him. His breathing quickened, and he looked like he might bolt again.

Shang Jiao noticed the panic in Yuan Zhi’s eyes and immediately reassured him. “Yuan Zhi, if you’re not ready, it’s okay. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

But Yuan Zhi shook his head, determined to go through with it. He took a moment to calm his racing heart, inhaled deeply, and then began to recite the poem. At first, his voice was shaky, and he stumbled over the words. He was timid and stiff, his eyes glued to the floor as if afraid to meet Shang Jiao’s gaze.

But Shang Jiao’s unwavering smile and gentle nods gave Yuan Zhi the strength to continue. With each passing second, Yuan Zhi grew more confident. His voice steadied, his posture straightened, and soon, the words flowed more naturally. .

When Yuan Zhi finished, Shang Jiao clapped loudly, his applause filled with genuine pride. “That was wonderful, Yuan Zhi! You did so well.”

Yuan Zhi was both shy and happy, a rare combination on his face. But just as he was about to bask in his Ge Ge’s praise, he heard a noise from behind him. Startled, he turned around and saw Jin Fu and several other servants from Jiao Gong peeking in through the door, their faces alight with amusement and admiration.

Yuan Zhi’s eyes widened in shock, and embarrassment flooded his cheeks with color. He immediately turned back and buried his face in Shang Jiao’s chest, tears of mortification threatening to spill over. “Ge Ge, Ge Ge! Jin Fu is bad, they’re all bad!” he cried, his small frame trembling with the intensity of his emotions.

Shang Jiao, still holding him close, couldn’t help but chuckle at the situation. But he also knew he needed to comfort his little brother. Stroking Yuan Zhi’s hair, he addressed the servants, “How was Yuan Zhi’s poem?”

“Very good!” one servant chimed in.

“So cute!” added another.

“Our Young Master is really talented!” they echoed.

“Our Young Master was even better than Young Master Yu,” one particularly bold servant said, causing a murmur of agreement among the group.

Yuan Zhi, still hiding in Shang Jiao’s arms, peeked out cautiously. His large eyes were filled with uncertainty as he quietly asked, “Really?”

“Yes!” came the cheerful chorus from the servants, their voices full of admiration.

A small, shy smile tugged at Yuan Zhi’s lips as he looked up at Shang Jiao. His Ge Ge, too, was smiling, his eyes sparkling with pride. “You did so well, Yuan Zhi,” Shang Jiao said, gently cupping the boy’s cheek. “This is the best poem recitation I’ve ever experienced.”

From that day forward, the servants of Jiao Gong couldn’t stop talking about how cute and talented their Young Master was at reciting poems. Word spread quickly through the Gong Clan, and soon everyone wanted to witness Yuan Zhi’s poetic skills. Even Sword Master Yu tried to coax a recital out of Yuan Zhi with the promise of a rare golden bug, and Elder Yue offered a Snow Lotus in exchange for just one line of poetry. But Yuan Zhi refused them all.

He had already given his all to that one recital, and he had done it for his Ge Ge. For Yuan Zhi, no one else’s approval mattered, and Shang Jiao respected that. He never pressured Yuan Zhi to recite for anyone else, content to keep that precious memory between just the two of them.

In the end, Shang Jiao was more than happy to have witnessed Yuan Zhi’s one and only poem recital—a performance filled with such determination, love, and adorable shyness that it left a lasting impression on everyone who had the privilege of hearing it.

🤫 Chapter 19 : "The Silent Sentinel"

From a young age, Yuan Zhi had been given a level of freedom that others in the manor could only dream of. He was allowed to explore the vast gardens, study or play as he wished, and indulge in his many curiosities without much interference. Shang Jiao’s philosophy was simple: allow Yuan Zhi the space to grow, but never let him stray too far. It was a delicate balance, one that required constant vigilance.

Though Shang Jiao appeared to grant Yuan Zhi the freedom to do as he pleased, his watchful eyes and ears were always on his younger brother. He was like a shadow, always present yet never intrusive, ensuring that Yuan Zhi was safe and protected. There wasn’t a corner of Gong Manor where Shang Jiao’s influence didn’t reach, and Yuan Zhi’s every movement was subtly observed.

Despite this silent surveillance, Shang Jiao rarely reprimanded Yuan Zhi directly. Instead, if something went wrong or if Yuan Zhi made a mistake, it was usually someone else who bore the brunt of Shang Jiao’s wrath. If Yuan Zhi broke a precious vase while playing, the servant responsible for supervising him would find themselves on the receiving end of a stern lecture. If Yuan Zhi’s curiosity led him to wander into dangerous territory, the guards would face punishment for their failure to keep him safe.

One time, after a particularly reckless adventure in the woods, Yuan Zhi returned home with a torn robe and a guilty conscience. He had been chasing a rare bird, completely ignoring Jin Fu’s warnings about the dangerous terrain. When he returned, muddy and triumphant, he expected a stern lecture from his brother. But Shang Jiao merely smiled and asked if he had enjoyed his day. Yuan Zhi’s relief was short-lived, however, as he overheard Jin Fu being reprimanded later that evening for failing to keep the young master safe.

Weeks turns into months, Yuan Zhi was wandering through the garden, lost in thought, when he spotted it—a bug unlike any he had ever seen. Its wings shimmered with iridescent colors, and it moved with a grace that was almost mesmerizing. Yuan Zhi felt an immediate urge to catch it, to study it up close. The idea of waiting for help crossed his mind, but only for a moment. What if the bug flew away before he could return? The thought was unbearable, and so he decided to act quickly.

In his haste, Yuan Zhi forgot Shang Jiao's warnings. He reached out with bare hands, eager to capture the beautiful creature. But as his fingers closed around it, a sharp pain shot through his hand. The bug had bitten him, and Yuan Zhi dropped it immediately, watching in dismay as it flew away. The pain was intense, spreading from the bite mark and sending a cold shiver through his body. Yuan Zhi looked down to see the red mark swelling on his hand.

His heart pounded in his chest as he recalled Shang Jiao’s stern warning: ���Never catch bugs on your own, Yuan Zhi. Some of them can be dangerous.” Yuan Zhi’s eyes welled up with tears. Ge Ge had been very clear about the dangers of some bugs, and Yuan Zhi didn't want to face the disappointment in his brother's eyes. So, he decided to handle it on his own.

Slipping away from the garden, Yuan Zhi headed to the library. He spent hours poring over the medical books, searching for an antidote. His hand throbbed with pain, but he ignored it, determined to fix his mistake before Shang Jiao found out. Finally, he found what he was looking for—a detailed recipe for an antidote that matched the symptoms he was experiencing. Relieved, Yuan Zhi planned to go to the infirmary after dinner to prepare the antidote.

Dinner that evening was unusually quiet. Shang Jiao noticed that Yuan Zhi barely touched his food, and his normally lively eyes were dull and unfocused. Something was wrong, but Yuan Zhi was being uncharacteristically reserved, giving short, distracted answers whenever Shang Jiao spoke to him. Shang Jiao’s instincts told him that something had happened, but he decided not to press the issue—at least, not yet.

After dinner, Yuan Zhi tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness washed over him. He reached out to steady himself on the table, but it was too late. The room spun, and everything went black.

Shang Jiao was quick to act. He caught Yuan Zhi before he hit the ground, his heart pounding with fear. As he cradled his brother, his eyes caught sight of the red, swollen mark on Yuan Zhi’s hand. His blood ran cold. "Yuan Zhi," he whispered urgently, "did you get bitten by a bug?"

Yuan Zhi's eyes fluttered open briefly, but he quickly averted his gaze, shaking his head in denial. He was too afraid to admit the truth, too afraid that his brother would be angry. But Shang Jiao knew better. The evidence was right there on Yuan Zhi’s hand, and the boy’s condition was deteriorating rapidly.

Shang Jiao let out a sigh, a mixture of relief that Yuan Zhi was conscious and frustration that his brother hadn’t come to him sooner. He didn’t have time to be angry, though. He needed to act fast. Without hesitation, he called for the physician.

The next morning, Yuan Zhi woke to the sound of activity in the garden. Curious, he managed to get up and look outside, only to see the servants carefully removing bugs from the garden under Shang Jiao’s orders. It wasn’t long before the entire garden was cleared of insects, much to Yuan Zhi’s surprise.

He understood the message his brother was sending—Shang Jiao wasn’t angry with him, but he wanted Yuan Zhi to remember the dangers of acting impulsively. The garden would soon fill with bugs again, of course, but this was a reminder, a warning not to take unnecessary risks. It was Shang Jiao’s way of protecting him, of teaching him without scolding him directly.

He didn’t complain about the punishment Shang Jiao had imposed by having the garden cleared of bugs. Instead, Yuan Zhi became unusually quiet and focused on his studies, spending his days in quiet concentration. He was determined to prove that he had learned his lesson, that he could be responsible and careful, just as his Ge Ge wanted him to be.

🙃 Chapter 20 : The Pool and Paper Boat

The thickening poison fog that enveloped the Gong Clan was both a curse and a blessing. It acted as a natural barrier, protecting the clan from external threats and keeping unwelcome visitors at bay. But as the fog grew denser, the dangers it posed increased. The adults of the clan were tasked with clearing the toxic plants that thrived within the fog, plants that, if left unchecked, could spread their deadly toxins even further.

For the children, this meant confinement. They were forbidden from venturing outside their manors, the risk of exposure to the fog too great. Zi Yu had his foster mother, his sister Zi Sheng, and his brother Huan Yu to keep him company during this time of forced seclusion. The three of them would play together, their laughter echoing through the halls of Yu Gong, creating a warm, familial atmosphere despite the circumstances.

But Yuan Zhi had no such company. Unlike Zi Yu, who was surrounded by siblings and a loving foster mother, Yuan Zhi was often left alone. His Ge Ge, Shang Jiao, and his loyal attendant, Jin Fu, were preoccupied with their duties, supervising the cleanup efforts and ensuring the safety of the clan. Yuan Zhi, who usually spent his days romping in the garden and exploring the edges of the forest, found himself trapped indoors, with no one to play with and nothing to distract him from the growing boredom.

In Shang Jiao's study room, a middle-sized, square-shaped water pool, known as the ink pool, was a striking feature. This pool was not merely an ornamental piece; it held a significant place in the daily rituals of Shang Jiao, serving both as a spiritual sanctuary and a practical tool. The ink pool was shallow, its water level barely reaching the ankles of an adult, yet it was large enough to occupy a prominent space in the room. It was meticulously maintained, its surface always calm and clear, reflecting the room's elegant décor and the gentle light that filtered through the windows.

The primary purpose of the ink pool was not for relaxation or play, but for the cultivation of Shang Jiao’s internal Qi. Bored and restless, Yuan Zhi wandered through the grand halls of the manor. His usual playgrounds were off-limits due to the thick poison fog surrounding Gong Clan. Feeling confined and uninspired, his eyes fell upon the ink pool in Shang Jiao's room. It was a large, shallow basin filled with clear water.

In a burst of childish mischief, he remembered a craft lesson on folding paper boats—an activity he had once deemed useless. Seeing an opportunity for entertainment, he meticulously folded a small paper boat, its creases sharp and precise. With a grin of anticipation, he gently placed the boat on the still surface of the ink pool.

As minutes turned into hours, Yuan Zhi’s playful spirit took over. He climbed into the pool, which was only ankle-deep, and began to splash around. His excitement was palpable, and soon the ink pool, usually pristine, was filled with water splashes and a jumble of floating paper boats. The once-clear water now swirled with ripples and tiny paper fragments.

Oblivious to the mess he was creating, Yuan Zhi continued his playful adventure, soaking himself through and through. When Shang Jiao returned to his room, the sight that greeted him was nothing short of chaos. The usually tranquil pool, had been turned into a playground of floating paper boats, scattered water. Yuan Zhi, soaked from head to toe, stood ankle-deep in the water, his expression a mix of excitement and apprehension. The servants, who had also noticed the scene, held their breath, fully expecting their master’s wrath to descend at any moment.

Yuan Zhi, sensing the tension in the air, braced himself for the worst. His mind raced with thoughts of how angry his Ge Ge might be, and he prepared himself for a scolding. But to everyone’s surprise, Shang Jiao’s reaction was far from what they expected.

Shang Jiao slowly approached the pool, his expression calm and composed. He knelt beside the edge, looking at the paper boats bobbing gently on the water's surface. “Can you fold a boat?” he asked, his voice gentle and curious.

Yuan Zhi’s face lit up with unexpected delight. “Yes, Ge Ge!” he exclaimed, the fear momentarily forgotten. His enthusiasm was infectious, and for a moment, the tension in the room eased.

“Come here,” Shang Jiao said softly, extending his hand. Yuan Zhi hesitated for a moment, but he cautiously walked over to his brother, placing his small hand in Shang Jiao’s.

“How long have you been playing in here?” Shang Jiao asked, his tone still calm.

“A… a… after lunch,” Yuan Zhi stuttered, his earlier excitement replaced by a hint of nervousness.

“Now it’s almost dinner time. Don’t you feel cold, Yuan Zhi?” Shang Jiao’s eyes were soft as he observed his younger brother’s soaked clothes and slightly trembling hands.

“No,” the boy whispered, though his voice lacked conviction.

“But your hands are cold,” Shang Jiao noted, gently taking Yuan Zhi’s small hands in his. The warmth of Shang Jiao’s touch made Yuan Zhi realize just how cold he had become, but he still didn’t want to admit it.

“Are you mad, Ge Ge?” Yuan Zhi whispered, his voice barely audible, eyes downcast.

“Do you really want to know?” Shang Jiao asked, his tone unreadable.

Yuan Zhi hesitated, biting his lip before shaking his head slightly. The last thing he wanted was to hear how disappointed his brother might be.

That night, after the chaotic events in the ink pool, Yuan Zhi developed a slight fever. Normally, he would put up a fuss, refusing to take any medicine, but this time he was unusually compliant. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from the day’s activities or the lingering guilt over the mess he had caused, but Yuan Zhi quietly accepted the medicine, allowing himself to be cared for.

As he slept, a soft giggle escaped his lips, bringing a tender smile to Shang Jiao's face. Watching over his little brother, Shang Jiao couldn’t help but gently squeeze Yuan Zhi’s cheek. "Naughty," he murmured fondly. In his sleep, Yuan Zhi mumbled, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry, Ge Ge. I was wrong.”

Even if it was just a murmur from a dream. Shang Jiao gently stroked Yuan Zhi's hair, soothing him from whatever bad dream he was having.

The next morning, Yuan Zhi woke up feeling much better. To his surprise, Shang Jiao presented him with two small, beautiful bugs that he had found in the mountains. Yuan Zhi’s face lit up with joy at the sight of the delicate creatures, their vibrant colors a marvel to behold. “Thank you, Ge Ge!” he exclaimed, his earlier worries seemingly forgotten.

However, as the day went on, Yuan Zhi overheard some of the servants talking. He learned that the servants in charge of Jiao Gong yesterday had been punished—lashed, even—because they hadn’t known what he was up to the previous evening. The realization hit Yuan Zhi hard, dampening his earlier happiness.

Although Shang Jiao hadn’t scolded him directly, the punishment had been meted out in a way that made Yuan Zhi understand the consequences of his actions. It was a subtle, yet powerful, lesson that his Ge Ge had imparted, ensuring that Yuan Zhi would think twice before acting so impulsively again.

[katsukikitten]

In which Shoto is an asshole Oni and I am the author that wrote the majority of this fic tipsy, you’re welcome! Bnharemcollab masterlist found here

Warnings: Non con bruv. Claws horns? He's an oni bud

"And they say he's been stealing the hearts of beautiful women for centuries. So don't go talking to any ole handsome man that steps over a threshold." The tour guide adds to the end of her ridiculous story about some Demon King that drags women to hell before she leads the group onto the next painting.

Still there was something captivating about the art work, how the man has his back to the viewer and how women bow to him, foreheads pressed into the tatami mats with their own bleeding hearts held high over their heads. Blood drips from their hands, splattering on the mats like rain or tear drops. The man, who is assumed to be the Oni, is looking over his shoulder, hand reaching out for the nearest offering. Both figures are forever suspended in brush strokes and desire for more. The closer you inspect the other worldly looking figure the more your gut tightens. His elaborate kimono hangs loosely from his body but you can still see the broadness of his shoulders, the thick bands of muscle on his forearms, the apparition of elongated nails when you look closer and finally the faint strokes atop of his two toned hair that are in the shape of sharp horns.

A God among men or maybe you should say a Devil among friends. A sigh escapes you as you admire the work before the tour guide announces the title, artist and time period of the next piece. “Wrath of the Mountain God.” A large man, with long hair so deep in hue you first mistake it for black, stands in a Kimono. His chest on display as he stands giving the view his profile, his eyes glow red in the light of the full moon, in his arms seems to be a maiden, a flower crown falling from her hair. It looks as if his strong form had just taken a step, beneath his foot begins a nasty fissure that gapes the Earth for miles and miles. The painting feels charged and emotions practically drip from the ink painting and yet still your eyes flicker to the painting to it’s right. At this angle you can see a faint shimmer in his smoky quartz colored eye. It sends a shiver down your spine as you feel a faint breath on the nape of your neck. Quickly you turn your head, craning your neck to look over your shoulder but no one stands behind you. Just another painting, “Golden God of Destruction.” Red gaze glowering as his hair drips gold, while he walks over the hellish landscape of cooling and erupting lava. You swallow thickly before following the tour guide onto the next section.

The tour lasts another half an hour but your mind lingers on the shimmering eyes of the dangerous entity. The more you think of him the bigger the sinking feeling in your gut becomes, not to mention the more you feel as if something is stalking your every move. Another quick glance over your shoulder as you exit the museum while you ponder over why this particular Oni was handsome when all of the other artworks featuring a yokai or oni were depicted as ugly, grotesque even.

Maybe it was because he was the King? You couldn’t be sure, all you knew is that you could understand why the women would rip out their hearts and offer them up to him. He was hot as hell, no pun intended.

Suddenly the fall air smells of frost and the threat of snow, you wrinkle your nose before you jump out of your skin. .

"So you liked the "Oni King, stealer of heart’s'' piece best?" A smooth voice calls from behind you, you press your hand over your rapidly beating heart as you try to catch your breath. Startled, you turn around to see a handsome man opening the gate, stepping over the grass line onto the sidewalk. Instantly you feel heat rush you as a cool autumn breeze swirls around fallen leaves around your boots.

"How did you…"

"I come here often and no one has ever stopped and looked at that piece as long as you have." He seems stoic and you can just barely see the corner of his mouth lift up. You take a moment to really drink him in, his tall stature, his hair a shocking white with contrasting red and a scar that sits beautifully over one of his gem stone eyes. One a smoky quartz and the other a bright turquoise.

You swallow thickly as you stare at the other worldly man, finding little to no words as your heart beats into your ribcage. You grip at the fabric of your jacket over your heart, it pounds against your rib cage like a fluttering wild bird.

"Where are my manners? I am Todoroki Shoto. But you can call me Shoto." Again he offers his barely there smile, "And you are?"

It's laughable how you stumble over your own name, you have never had issues talking to attractive people before, what the hell was your problem now.

“It sounds lovely.” He says your name, it rolls off of his tongue like music makes you swallow thickly, your knees threatening to buckle and you can’t understand why you’re acting like a love struck teenager again. There is a contrasting air about him, just like his hair. Passion and reservation, raging power and quiet tranquility, and the feel of it is making you dizzy. Tipsy almost, drunk if you linger here too long. Just as you’re about to express how you’ll be late for dinner he smiles at you.

Fully this time.

And you think your heart was going to claw out of its calcium coffin but it stalls when you notice that it doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

“Well since you have a good appreciation of art, would you care to join me in the garden, the Chrysanthemum are in full bloom this time of year.” You swallow as you look at him, a twinge of fear lingering in your blood that is soon lost as he steps over the threshold of the garden, waiting patiently.

“Uh, yea I think I can spare some time.” You smile nervously, he offers out his hand.

“Be careful, the step down can be quite steep.” A genuine small form on your lips now as you remember the first time you set foot into this garden and almost twisted your ankle. You step over the threshold, blinking against the late afternoon sun as you do.

Except when you open your eyes once more, you are no longer in the garden. There are no shrubs and bushes, no cinderblock wall of the old museum, something more sinister stands in its place. The sky is an inky black, the full moon hangs overhead shining down onto a small village that thickens the closer it gets towards a large feudal era looking castle. Fading sunlight filter behind you as you whip your head behind you. A giant Torri stands where the aging fence and garden gate stood before, a hazy image of an autumn afternoon in the shape of the gate rapidly begins to shrink. Panicked you lunge arm outstretched as if catching a full elevator as you’re running behind for a very important meeting.

If only your paralyzing panic was over something so trivial.

A strong set of arms wrap around your waist, pulling you towards a chiseled chest as hot breath whispers cooly in your ear.

“I wouldn’t do that if you want to keep all of your limbs, love.”

Shaking you glance over your shoulder before you watch the portal to home close up.

Just like that the landscape that could be seen through the gate was endless night and rolling hills dotted with homes here and there. When you turn to face your captor his eyes narrow as he studies you. His gem stone eyes glittering in the rich moonlight, following your hands up to your chest. He stills as he listens and while he looks you notice the horns growing from his head. Thin and shaped into a deadly point. He tilts his head as if you are bewitching before he leans closer, capturing your hair between his fingers. Now that you were in the moonlight, in the realm he ruled, you looked...familiar and the feeling made his chest tighten.

“How does your heart feel?” He asks, eyes anywhere but yours. You try to jerk out of his touch but his warm hand wraps around your bicep keeping you well within arms reach.

“My heart?! What does that have to do with me standing in HELL!” You scream and it echoes across the chilled landscape. Some women in kimono pass by, keeping their eyes turned down as they pass but once they are a few steps behind this brute’s back, they send you withering glares.

Your attention comes fully back to the man in front of you, or maybe you should say demon. He presses his hand over your heart with a puzzling look. Your body heats from the contact and embarrassment, you were sure he could feel how hard your heart was pounding. All the while his brows knit upwards.

“Seems you aren’t affected…”He murmurs to himself, tonguing his cheek. Suddenly he tears your sweater, pressing his hand against your chest and part of your breast.

“Hey!” You protest until a burning sensation blooms on your skin, when he pulls away you see kanji puckering up, that reads “Shoto”

“That should keep the lower demons away...for now.” He grabs onto your wrist tightly, too tightly before your world bends and blurs. Folding in on itself as if Space and Time were suddenly a beautiful origami paper creased until the maker was satisfied.

The world is bright when you open your eyes next, cradled in an abundance of candle light as your stomach sours causing you to lurch.

“Ugh, not on the tatami!” A woman’s voice scolds, but her state doesn’t help the nausea that hits you in waves. She wears a beautiful kimono, embroidered with gold and silver thread on violet cloth, the chest stained a deep cherry and a hole is where her heart should be. Her hands stained blood red and you back up, panting as you try to keep a level head.

“Get her cleaned up.” Shoto snaps, “I will want her in my room promptly.”

The women in the room shake slightly, keeping their heads down, distantly you can hear the sound of a thousand thundering hearts, deafening in a sense. The stately woman gently guides you towards the bath in the large mansion, shock sets in as your gaze glazes over. Every hall has a woman, anywhere from the feudal era to today, all dressed in kimonos, most were dressed in the ones they obviously died in or dressed in old clothes with their tattoos and fresh wounds peeking out from beneath the fabric.

Every single person sends you a death glare.

You’re stripped of your clothes and dignity in the company of about twenty women, hands shove you into the steaming water, cupping the cloudy water to wash your skin.

No matter how often the woman dip their hands into the water, the blood never leaves their fingertips, forever stained in their sin.

“We gave them away, you know. Ripped them from our chests….” She looks up at you with a timid look.

“Kiyoko, hush.” An elder hisses as she straightens the thin piece of cloth you were going to wear once you were all pieced together.

“No, she deserves to know..” Kiyoko hisses back, “The story is similar for a lot of us, he appears in a doorway, he seems kind enough, and then we look into his eyes. Gazing too deeply before our hearts seize in our chests, flopping around as if behind your flesh was killing it and it should sit in the palm of his hand. The only logical thing was for us to reach deep inside of ourself and give him what he deserved.” A quite falls over the room before a heavy solem air settles on your shoulders.

“He stopped for a while….after he met you.” Your eyes flash to hers and the elder’s hand wraps into Kiyoko’s hair, pulling her away from you.

“Enough.” She snarls as tears run down her cheeks, down all the women’s cheeks and you swallow thickly.

After an hour of primping you find yourself in front of two sliding tatami doors that have Oni and other yokai decorating their sheets.

“Send her in.” A deep voice sounds from the other side.

“Yes master.” The women answer, opening the doors before one shoves you in.

Doors to the eqwaa are open as he lounges on the polished wood, staring at the moon. He turns his head to look over his shoulder and it eerily reminds you of the painting in the museum.

In an instant he is in front of you, backing you into the plush bed that sat in the middle of his room, you fall onto the raised futon looking up at him.

The lowlight plays tricks on your eyes, the square paper lantern and the moon painting him in strokes of kind, of hurt, not some beastly thing he obviously was. Even his horns seemed soft, but nothing was softer than his lips as he pressed them to yours. Embarrassingly ecstasy blossoms under your eyelids as liquid heat floods your core. His tongue probes yours as he leans over top of you, playing with you nipples through the thin cloth as you moan into his mouth. Your body arches into his his as your heart flutters, trying to pull you away from his addicting touch.

Maybe you could have gotten away, maybe….

If only his hand hadn’t slipped between your thighs where he teased your sex utnil you pruned his figners, singing like the song bird he knew you were. His hard cock presses against your thigh twitching with delight. He kisses down your throat before he shreds the thin white kimono away from your body. He groans audibly before he leans down, one finger pulling at your pebbled nipple while the other pulls it between his teeth.

“Shoto…”You cry and he moans into your supple skin. Taking off his own thin kimono to align himself up to your fluttering hole. Eyes glued to your heart, fingers tracing the kanji as he eases himself in inch by inch. Stretching you and filling you pleasantly. He sits for a moment, taking in your body and how you burn under his touch. Free hand roaming your body as the other prods your fresh burn. Tracing the strokes over and over as if he wrote it himself.

Well technically he did.

“Please.” Your mouth betrays, hips pressing up into his to get any sort of friction, his free hand comes down, slamming your hips into the bed.

“Say it again.” He huffs, “Say my name again.”

“Shoto.” It's a hushed, reluctant breath but your skin was icy hot, lifeforce feeling as if it were evaporating away from the heated tension that sat between you two. He watches your body wither, feels your cunt clamping down onto him desperately and it’s all he can do not to thrust into you widely.

“Again.” He barks, pulling at your nipple harshly.

“Shoto.” You moan, the sound is enough to make him start his harsh pace. Pelvis slamming into yours as his tuft of pubic hair glides across your clit. Your vision blurs with tears, it feels so good. Better than anything you’ve ever had or could ever remember as his claws ghost over your soft skin.

“You thought you could escape me.” He grunts, ramming himself into you harder, you moan in response, “I marked more than your flesh two hundred years ago, I marked your soul.”

“You couldn’t help yourself, coming back to the very piece of art you created.” He continues with a laugh, claws raking down your skin, slicing at your skin superficially. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you cannot fathom what he’s said. All that there is the feel of his hands, the pleasure that threatens to snap in your stomach.

He watches the way your cunt coats his cock in a silvery sheen that has his lips parting. Taking wanton ruts, the motion of it rattling the art on the wall. Pieces fall around you and any of the scrolls that try to block his view of you get shredded mid air. His thrusts turn sloppy as he comes down to bite at your neck.

“Shoto!” You cry out, vision going black as your body convulses around him, eyes rolling in to the back of your head as you forget your name and only cry out his.

“That’s right, tell me who you belong to. Who owns you love.” He pants, holding his own release for a moment longer just to hear your sweet voice scream his name over and over. Finally your milking cunt sends him over the edge. He grunts, staring into your eyes as he paints your wall a creamy white.

“Mine.” He growls, biting at your breast, at the skin over your heart. You feel his spilling cock harden again as your body melts into the sheets.

Most of the night is spent in mind numbing ecstasy and in those few short hours you forget you were ever brought here unwillingly.

You sit on a throne, overlooking the vast landscape of Yomi, Oni running the underworld as heartless women wander the streets. Their mortal heartbeats keeping time as they ceaselessly beat just beneath your feet. Mind’s eye miles away as you see a ghost of a hand before you. Memory playing out as you take careful brush strokes against your canvas, hoping this would serve as a warning for other women as you dab the brush in the deep colored liquid that stains the tatami floor of your home.

Ever the artist you wanted to add final touches even as you drew your final breaths, having thought it better to take your own life than to sit at the right hand of a demon, your chest was already mutilated with his name.

Irony weighs heavy in your stomach as you realize how futile it was to even make that masterpiece. It did not serve as a warning.

No if anything, it served as a beacon, drawing you like a moth to flame until you circled to close.

Burning up in the flames of the very thing you admired.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

another season has passed, the pleasant winds of spring has shifted to the basking heat of summer, and as the seasons change there brings the smell of opportunity, the taste of something different, new and perhaps exciting, and as such the Raven has felt inspired to greet the occasion with a plethora of fresh colours from her ink collection (this is my fancy way of asking raven if she’s got any new inks to show us please?)🥰

:000 I really enjoy these types of asks, as it gives me the chance to get creative~ so thank you very much for sending it, Anon!

You can read more about Miss Raven’s various enchanted inks here!

"This year, I paid a visit to the Scalding Sands to view their annual fireworks festival. I was very inspired by the rich history and culture of Silk City, its markets, and by the holiday itself, so I decided to model this summer collection of enchanted inks after them. I have also brewed a few inks in honor of the Star Sending ceremony, and various others inspired by more general summertime experiences."

Silk Swathe, a soft blue base with sheer veins of color shooting through it. Orchid purple, electric yellow-green, and bright turquoise tangle, yet somehow also maintain their own unique forms, like swathes of silk weaving together in the sky.

Spice of Life, a deep brown, leaning warm, and flecked with red and orange particles. There are larger bits floating in it, sticks of snapped cinnamon and star-shaped cloves of anise. If you lift it to your nose, you are greeted with several ground spices, which produce an earthen, comforting smell--reinvigorating you with a fondness for life.

Bizarre Bazaar, a kaleidoscopic formula, shifting constantly in the light. Uncorked, voices drift out from the ink, calling you to look, to test, to buy. When you replace the cap, the voices still and coalesce in the colors again.

Food from Afar, a dainty cream decorated with dots--capsules containing pure, concentrated flavors. Crushed, the taste and aroma of a particular dish released and spread across the paper like upon the tongue and coloring the cream into something new. Green for silk melon, yellow for starfruit, red for shawarma, blue for delightfully stretchy ice-cream... and many more.

Sky Blossoms and Sparklers, an inky blue fading into sunset, with periodic bursts of light coloring it. The pops released heat, warming your hands and shaking the bottle that held the ink.

Waterways, a clear, sheer aqua blue, complete with tiny white beads to replicate bubbling and foaming. Plain, at first glance, but its simplicity is its strength. Loaded into a pen or on the nib of a quill, it works wonderfully, even for beginners. A smooth ink, flowing like the most pristine of waters.

Unwinded Time, a crimson kept in an hourglass-shaped bottle. As the ink slowly trickles into the other side, it transitions into a cool blue. Left untouched for an hour, it becomes yellow. In direct sunlight, an opaque black--by direct moonlight, an equally as opaque white. (“Y-Yes, I’m aware the proper phrase would be ‘Unwound Time’, but allow me some poetic license!” Raven huffs.)

Diamond Sky, a navy littered with silver sparkles and glitter. Shake it, and all the particles seem to shimmer in unison, as if daring onlookers to soar through and pluck each one of its silvery stars out.

Dragon in Jasmine, a deceptive lime green that sheds its original skin in favor of a teal hide every few seconds. There is a beautiful white flower floating in the bottle, imparting the lovely aroma of jasmine.

Wish Come True, an ink the color of daydreams--pink, lilac, and baby blue, with a slight pearlescent shimmer. It radiates a faint light when you hold it close to your heart, as if seeking your innermost desires.

Dark and Stormy Ceremony, a story blue beset by viscous grey blobs--one of which is distinctively whale-shaped. The ink smells of ozone, telling of thunder and a coming storm.

Real Boy, a cool and metallic silver, bits of it lighting up with cobalt. When the blue light fades, the silver turns into a warm and flushed peach. Alas, when the light comes again, it’s back to silver.

Bop to the Top, a color kept in a madly bouncing bottle. It rapidly runs through the full spectrum of blues, as if in a rush. (Raven looks a bit nervous and says, “I’d recommend keeping this one under lock and key--it’s always attempting to fly off the handle... but play it some music, and it will bop along to the beat instead of attempting to launch into the sky.”)

[antihero-writings]

Jack of All Trade, in This Masquerade (Ch2)

Fandom: Pandora Hearts 

Fic Summary: Jack's stream of consciousness describes how society is like a masquerade, while his dreams show his own hypocrisy

I'll put the link to ch1 in a reblog, as well as do a reblog-version of this chapter that includes both chapters!

Notes: 

Nope, I didn't forget about this fic, haha! Actually this fic has been sitting on my computer taunting me for WAY too long. This is probably the fic I open and try to work on, and then close again, unable to work on it, more than any other...

Lately I've been going through old fics that I left unfinished on my computer and trying to post them by whatever means necessary. For a number of them, those means are simply cutting it earlier than I planned to. I desperately wanted this fic to be included in the mix. First I only wanted this fic to be one chapter, then I wanted it to be two...now it's gonna be three or more XD I've just been super unsure about how to write the next part for a very long time, but I have had this part done for too long...and the dissonance between the two made it hard to go anywhere with it. I hope posting this will help me be able to figure out the next part, haha!

Another reason I was hoping to write the next part too is because I wanted to use the second chapter of this for the "Lock" prompt of Phmonth19... but this chapter doesn't really work for it. So just know that was my goal, haha!

I mentioned this in the other chapter, but the song "Masks" by Aviators is absolutely perfect for this fic, and I highly recommend listening to it during or after you read it, haha!

If you enjoyed this, I'd really really appreciate if you could leave me a comment to let me know!! They truly do motivate me to continue, and make my week!! If you want to read more of this fic, I can assure you I'll be faster at writing the next chapter, if I know people are actually going to read it!!

Chapter 2: The Color of Tragedy

The scene shifted, paint on a canvas smearing, and Glen became a black satin stain beneath layers of paint, the crimson and commanding presence disappearing as the world rearranged itself.

The many Jacks faded into the background too, until he couldn’t tell if they remained mirrors—(mirrors hidden within the many halls and rooms, built within the walls of his heart)—or if they were strangers and friends again; other people, not himself.

The pillars to the ballroom slowly dissolved, as if in water, changing into a courtyard green sprouting up all around.

The music had always been an unfamiliar tune he was expected to inherently know the moves to. And no matter how much he listened to it, it never became innate. Now, after all this time, it morphed into something familiar. But familiar did not mean un-painful or un-maddening.

The soft tune of a pocket watch tiptoed on his brain, each footfall a syringe in his thoughts, dripping cold beautiful insanity slowly into his soul, one drop at a time, infecting it until it blocked out every other melody, and his feet forgot the moves he had so ruthlessly sewn in.

When he turned, the source was behind him; a man standing in the courtyard. All black now; black hair, black cloak. No crimson. Like he never spilt her blood. Like she never existed in the first place. All black…except for the eyes. Gaze fluctuating between daggers…and some emotion he was struggling to keep from escaping; the leader, and the broken boy, crying on the ground. Soot with sparks buried within; glints of violet, glints of gold. Glitches of empathy in the perfect program. His eyes focused on the pocket watch—(a glint in the dark itself)—until they flicked to him, and Jack felt those eyes as a sword at his throat.

At the shift in his gaze, the scene itself turned over again, wind blowing by him, a single spark of violet glowing in the blurred tapestry, and ever, ever that melody, slowly corroding him.

Glen sat in the grass on a sunny day, those violet blades sheathed as he bathed in the afternoon sunlight.

The first respite from the dance in all these years. A rest in the measure.

Glen, sitting in the sunlight. Glen, playing the piano—always that single, haunting melody, laced with a name, filling up Jack’s mind with the harmony until he was drowning in its sound, and could think no other word.

That melody, that word, and her voice—(A memory of her voice, soon given to him by a bloodstained black rabbit)—pulling him through the blurred universe to a balcony, drawn there like he was ink on a canvas, subject to the whims of the artist.

Brown hair, like hers.

Violet eyes, like his.

White dress.

Black dress.

Her existence was not tied down. As if it was a part of the smear itself, and not the concrete picture beneath it. She was a part of all these mistakes the artist tried to smudge out.

Jack pulled a white rose from his pocket.

He offered her a red rose.

“Would you care to dance, Alice?”

******

A little girl held the keys to those chains—held them, held by them all the same; that is to say her world would fall into the dark too, if the bounds were to break. A little girl chose the music, the steps. A little girl ruled the world.

Is that why they call it insanity?

Her daughter.

Gods may be fixed in the sky, watching all our misdeeds, and we believe in them, not they us, but children can be made to believe anything. Such as: men who come down the chimney do so to give them presents, that putting their teeth beneath pillows is anything more than gross. One can make them believe the world isn’t made of malice. You can make them believe you haven’t sewn your mask—and the things you stole to get those jewels, things like lives—into the skin. You can make them think you’re a hero coming to save them, make them more than a blur, a mistake, a prisoner of their own creation, but a part of something real and concrete, when you’re just using them, like everyone else will. Naiveté is powerful and dangerous in that way.

I heard her voice one day. Lacie’s. Not just in my memories. This was real, one piece of her reaching out to me from the black.

She had this toy rabbit. A toy, yes, but to a god, a toy can be a thinking, living, breathing, thing, with nothing more than a thought to animate it. Dolls and figures can be princesses and princes, and their knights and soldiers. Children dream. And lonely children dream the most. And a lonely god is a dangerous thing indeed. Especially a child god, surrounded by lifeless toys. Dangerous, because of the stories they tell themselves in the silence can become real indeed.

It was this toy that brought her voice to me, like a gift, physical thing. Packaged up a memory and sent it off to me.

So it was back to the dance. But this time it was different. Because even if there were other melodies out there somewhere, other moves to know, my ears only heard one twinkling pocket watch, my feet would only obey one conductor.

And this melody was not bound by little girls, and lonely gods, and broken, blood struck leaders. This one I could make up my own moves to, intertwine them with the motions and melodies of the rest of the world, so no one would know I was dancing to my own song.

This rabbit, the one who brought her voice to me had a name. Oz—(like Oswald…but not like him at all)—was to be my chain. A chain different from the rest. A chain that was not friendship, or love, or hate, or malice. A chain that was not sanity or insanity. A chain that was not keeping the world upright. A chain to break all other chains. Bringing her to me. Tying me to her. My chain, to destroy all the chains keeping me from hearing her voice again, and her from the world she loved.

A god who creates something that can destroy their world is dangerous indeed.

Little girls and their dolls, toy rabbits and puppet kings, a tear or two, and some spilled blood couldn’t stop me now.

******

The world blurred in black and white, gold and red, violet and green.

Which color was real?

Was it the black and white; just the game of chess?

Was it the endless violet in the king’s eyes?

The gold of shimmering lights, and the eyes of scared little boys just trying to help?

Was it the green, the vibrant, envious green of his clothes, his eyes?

Or was it all the red they spilled?

And there was. So much red. One could have painted with it. He did. The floors. The walls. The roses he once promised she’d see. The world.

But even within those colors… nothing was quite solid, quite sure.

Because the gold didn’t shimmer anymore. Those golden eyes were full of fear, determination. They didn’t gleam with false riches, but with real poverty; a poverty that comes not from losing your money, but losing your friends, or your sanity.

Because that green wasn’t the vibrant bloom of a garden. It was not envy or eternity or ephemerality and it—he—too was dyed with red.

Because when Oswald truly put a sword to Jack’s throat his eyes held no sting. Those violet blades held nothing more than infinite sorrow. He called him his friend. But he saw him at the end of a sword, at the end of themselves, at the end of the world.

Or at least, that was Jack’s goal.

But the king made sure the only world that ended was their own, cutting off the hand for the sake of the rest of the body. Gouging out the eye for the sake of the face.

And there was another Jack trapped within the reflection on the sword—(mask or real?)—looking like a broken thing determined to hold itself together. And when something gets to that point, is broken enough…it doesn’t care. About much of anything. Not itself. Not the friend on the other end. Just whatever it is holding itself together.

The king’s head is lying on the board.

“Glen?”

Jack is calling his name, cradling his red-stained head in his hands, tears smearing the green of his eyes.

How did he die? Who killed him? How can he make them pay?

But his hands are covered in blood.

What’s the mask? The blood? Or the tears?

And now everything, once too blurred, once just a smear on a canvas, a move in the midst of a dance, is too real, too concrete, too irreversible.

Checkmate. But he doesn’t feel like he’s won the game.

And as he cries, as he screams and demands why, the masks peer out of the corners of the board, stare his way, snickering at him from the hidden passageways deep inside him.

The closer he got to his goal, the more those chains fell apart, finally creating his own moves to the dance…the less he he noticed something wrapping around his arms, his legs.

He rushed to the tower where the god-girl will grant his wishes at last—the bottle for the genie—where he will be free.

And she would have granted him all, if only he would have freed her from her bottle.

She wouldn’t have hesitated to destroy the world for him.

Were it not for her other half, the rabbit’s tears, and a pair of scissors.

At last the machine remembers the wrench; the one that tried to change the patterns, the melody, long ago, all for a single distortion in the system that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The one whom its gears once kicked to the bottom, the one who clawed his way back up. And it knows kicking him back down there again won’t be enough.

Fine. If he wanted to change the system, the dance, the melody, then the system would exclude him, treat him as an error. The dance will leave him with everything he wanted, everything he was, everything he created.

He opens his eyes.

There is no ballroom. No dance. No dancers. …Maybe there never was.

A cell. Or at least, he thinks it is, but he doesn’t see any walls or floors, just navy darkness, and a crack in the dimension above, like a slit in the prison door, letting in the tiniest bit of light.

He takes a step.

There’s a sloshing noise.

So there’s water in the bottom of this cell. Is the prison’s being flooded? He ought to tell the guards.

One more step.

Something cuts the air. A terrible sound; like somebody took a beautiful thing and melted it down, and melded it into something it was never meant to be.

Laughter. Twisted, reckless, mirthless, soulless laughter. As if he stepped on a malfunctioning Jack-in-the-box, with no need for the song.

There’s no music anymore. And the the absence of it threatens to suffocate him.

Another step, another laugh, different, but no less jagged.

He doesn’t want to look down. Doesn’t want to see. To face it. He knows. He knows what he’ll find there.

But he does it anyways.

Beside his foot is a mask. A fine porcelain one, like from a theater, that would cover the whole face. The slit-eyes are curved down, the mouth curved up, to signify happiness.

It’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen.

But he knows, if he were to put it on, it would fit his handsome face perfectly.

He puts a hand over his mouth to barricade the sick, to cloister his silver tongue, and takes a step back.

But when he does, another warped sound wrenches open the air. This time it’s crying.

He spins around. His heel is on another mask.

But, as he looks upon it, his eyes are pulled upward as if on strings. There is something far worse behind him. It’s like a snowy mountain.

Masks, endless, empty, lifeless masks. This place is surely built upon them.

All the masks he ever wore.

Does he even have a face anymore?

[a-deadly-serenade]

The Shield and the Sword: Chapter 4: Light After Dark [Alucard/Reader]

You’re a witch that is skilled in herbology, one that has been persecuted by the church for practically your entire life. In spite of this, moving throughout different towns has allowed you to pick up some chatter about a woman in a village called Lupu. She is supposed to be a wonder when it comes to medicine, and this immediately perks up your interest. So after plucking up some courage, you’ve made it to her door… hoping that she takes you as her apprentice.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724856?view_full_work=true

~ Click here for the masterlist.

tag list: @pastelteabubbles, @heartwards, @2-many-fandoms-2-count, @top-notch-shitposting, @theotakufairy, @illiniana

if you want to be added to the tag list, please send me a message and i will tag you in every update!

True to her word, as soon as things were cleaned up in the kitchen, Lisa was leading you up to the library that had all of the medical textbooks. You went up several winding staircases and through at least a dozen hallways, and you realized, to your dismay, that you were going to have to have Lisa lead you here for quite awhile before you felt brave enough to walk here on your own.

When the both of you finally made it to an arched doorway, she pushed it open and all of the candles simultaneously came alight.

You noticed that this library was a lot smaller than the one you had been in last night, but that did not mean it was any less magnificent. The ceiling was a large glass dome that stretched up high above your heads. Small circular windows lined the north and south panes, each filled with beautiful, intricate, stained glass designs of stars and planets.

Twisted shelves covered every flat surface, filled and piled high with thick books, ancient books, books whose titles even you could not decipher. There were multiple desks that stood in front of the massive towers of books, made of rich, dark oak that shimmered almost black in the sunlight.

Parchments had been slapped on any free surface, all of them filled from top to bottom with diagrams of the human body, certain organs, or even classifications of plants and minerals. One of the most cluttered desks had piles upon piles of parchment, all of them scribbled with extensive notes. There was a large stack of quills, coated in ink, some of them looking as though the top half had snapped off. Beakers lined one corner, obviously having been scrubbed clean, as the water droplets that clung to the glass glistened like morning dew.

“I see that you’ve found my work station,” Lisa admits sheepishly. “It’s not the most organized, but its my space and where I have found to be the most productive for me.

“I was not judging you, Lisa,” you teased. “My mother certainly did not get her tidiness from my grandmother, let me tell you.”

Lisa chuckled, and walked you over to a nearby desk that had been placed nearly adjacent to hers. “This is where you will be seated whenever you need to come here and do some independent study, but when you must sit next to me, there will be a chair but beside my desk. You can also use that if you ever had any questions!”

You gave an elated smile, and ran your fingers across the smooth surface. “So,” you said. “What is the first lesson on the agenda?”

The two of you spent the rest of the morning, as well as most of the afternoon, in the library. Lisa had took the time to go over the very basics of human anatomy as a refresher, as you only had a very vague concept of the body. She wanted you to familiarize yourself with each part, and she made it much easier to remember by breaking up the body into what she called, “systems”.

There were 12 of these systems that ran throughout the human body. There was one to help you breathe, (respiratory!) one that dealt with your nerves (nervous!), and even one that contained solely your blood vessels (circulatory!). It was quite extraordinary.

She stressed that it was important for you to know all of this so that you could adequately pinpoint where the problem was and then be able to do the necessary tests to make a diagnosis.

Even when you countered that you could easily heal simple coughs or fevers with your magic, she wanted you to understand where they came from, and not just rely on your skills to be a good physician.

Luckily, when she started to touch on the treatment options available, you were much more familiar with these terms, as they were all plants! If there was one thing you knew you were capable of, it was making a good potion or tonic.

Even Lisa was impressed by your mastery of herbology, and you went so far as to offer her some tips after she gave you several samples of a brew she had been in the process of perfecting. It had been for the treatment of a respiratory infection, and after seeing the astonishing amount of ingredients Lisa had at her disposal, you offered that she add more starburrs and aloe, picking up that her potion lacked the clearing effects of getting rid of mucus, and the soothing effect patients needed for their chest tightness.

You believed that it had been an incredibly eventful day, your arms filled with an array of books and several rolls of parchment as you sat back down in front of your desk. You had chosen texts that were all about liver, not really knowing all that much about it, except, like your grandmother had stressed so many times, it takes care of all the alcohol.

Not like you had ever been too big of a fan of drinking to begin with.

You dipped your quill into some ink, and started to take some notes, your eyes widening when you read that it was capable of regenerating itself.

You had no idea how long you spent in the library, your yellow sleeves getting dotted with stray ink, with some ending up on your nose after pushing your hair out of your eyes. You had moved on from the liver, having conquered other important organs such as the big and small intestine, the appendix, and the kidneys.

Your intense focus was suddenly broken by a tapping on your shoulder, which caused you to nearly leap out of your skin.

“Whoa!” Lisa exclaimed, her hands up in surrender. “It’s only me!”

You froze, pink dusting your cheeks in embarrassment. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” you blurted out. “I just… get really caught up in my work…” She gave you a pat on the shoulder. “It’s alright, I know what that’s like. I just wanted to see if you would like to join us for dinner?”

At the mention of food, your stomach let out a loud growl that caused you to flush while Lisa laughed.

“I guess that answers that,” she said, and while you thought you were heading to the kitchen, she instead lead you to an amazing dining hall.

A beautiful, long table was the main center of attention, its legs being dark claws that clung greedily to the plush red carpet underneath. The top was a glistening marble that glowed under the candles that hung above in an extravagant chandelier, topped by a soft red runner. Silver candelabras hung from the walls, large Renaissance paintings of food, feasts, and parties adding just the right amount of color and pop to the black and gold wallpaper.

Once again, a decadent feast adorned the tabletop and your mouth watered at the sight. There was a large rotisserie chicken topped with an array of herbs and surrounded by vegetables like potato, zucchini, onion, carrot, and squash. There were fancy cheeses, golden loaves of bread, expensive wine, and a pot of steaming homemade soup.

Lisa had made herself comfortable beside Vlad, who was sitting across his son.

Adrian already had his plate filled with his pickings, and he gave you a smile from across the room as he took a sip from his goblet, presumably of some of the red wine.

“So, Hippocrates decides to join us.” Vlad teased, biting down on the piece of chicken at the end of his fork.

Adrian burst out laughing, having to grab his napkin to cover his mouth as he entered a coughing fit.

You huffed, annoyed that Adrian found this so funny, arms folded across your chest as you sat down beside him. “I don’t see what’s so amusing,” you repeated, “He just compared me to the father of medicine. I would say that’s quite the compliment.” you stated matter-of-factly, cutting yourself a piece of chicken and pouring yourself some soup.

“She’s well-versed in the history as well,” Vlad said, a smile on his face. “Impressive.”

You grinned, shooting Adrian another glare as he continued to chuckle. The dinner was delicious, and it surprised you how quickly you had grown comfortable around Lisa’s family. It had only been a day, but you could not have felt more at home.

As you helped Adrian collect the dirty dishes, Lisa poured a coffee for herself and her husband, who gave her a kiss on the cheek as she leaned down to fill his cup.

Your eyes glazed over in happiness, filled with a small bundle of peace after witnessing such pure affection. As you turned on your heel to head in the direction of the kitchen, Vlad calling out for you stopped you in your tracks.

“Oh, little one, I almost forgot: meet me in my study before you head back to the library. There is something that I would like to discuss.”

Your voice trembled slightly as you replied, “O...oh, alright.” your arms shaking a bit as dread starting to poison that previous sensation of contentment.  You snuck a glance at Lisa before you exited the room, and although you felt some relief for how calm and normal she looked, the thought of being alone in a small room with one of the most powerful vampires still made you incredibly nervous.

Even though the dishes were being taken care of in an efficient manner, you almost wished that it had taken longer so that you could stall this conversation. You tried to assure yourself that it was not over anything bad, you knew that Lisa would never willingly let you be placed in a dangerous situation. Perhaps… perhaps he just wanted to discuss something?

You nibbled on your thumbnail as you followed after Lisa, who had come over to fetch you and direct you to Vlad’s study.

It’s fine… you think to yourself. You just need to relax. I’m sure it’s nothing.

Lisa stopped in front of a doorway, and you could hear the distinct sound of a fire cracking. She gave you the indication to step inside and you took head of her invitation.

The room was smaller than others you had been in, with a large pointed chair in the middle of an ornate red carpet with intricate golden details. A portrait of Lisa holding a bouquet of white lilies hung on the wall in a beautiful frame, a large bookshelf sitting beside it, neatly filled with hundreds of books. A marble fireplace held the fire that occasionally popped and hissed as embers danced along the iron gate blocking them from singeing the rug.

Above the fireplace was another portrait, this one hung in a more oval frame, and you realized it was of Lisa, Vlad, and Adrian when he was only a baby. Your lips curled into a smile at seeing Adrian, so small and adorable, with tuffs of golden hair on his round head, held in the arms of a beaming Lisa. Vlad looked rather dashing in his suit, and he glowed with a sense of pride, one of his hands resting gently upon his son’s small shoulders.

“I’m glad that you could join me,” Vlad’s voice suddenly called out to you.

You jumped from surprise and whirled around to find him standing beside a tall mirror. You could have sworn that he had not been here a moment earlier…

He unclasped his cloak from around his neck and draped it across the top of the chair before you. His boots tapped softly against the rug, the tall vampire pouring himself a cup of tea once he situated himself.

He took a sip, a content sigh falling from his lips. “Sit,” he stated, and gestured to the small chair in front of him, a small table standing in between the both of you with an additional tea cup and a large tea kettle.

You nervously took your seat, and you fidgeted a bit, fingers twirling around a stray thread from your shirt.

Vlad poured you some tea as well, and you accepted the drink with a quiet thank you.

After several moments of silence of the both of you sipping your tea, the fire crackling behind you, he finally made to speak.

“I wanted to preface this by saying that I am in no way upset with you, if you were worried about that.”

You let out a breath you did not know you had been holding, tension releasing itself from your shoulders as he said this. “Was it that obvious?” you laughed, and he gave you a smile.

“The fact that you even came to join me let’s me know that you trust not only me, but my wife as well. I know how… well, scary, I can seem,” he chuckled. “Even if you are a witch, you are not a fool.”

You gave a sigh of relief, before you let out a quiet laugh at his statement. “I appreciate it.”

Vlad’s smile broke a little, and you saw his eyes cloud over a bit, from what, you could not tell. “You won’t appreciate what I am about to ask you. I ask you to forgive me but…” he was silent, before he leaned forward. “I need you to tell me what happened to your coven.”

Had you not been so comfortably seated in your chair, you might have just collapsed at what Vlad just asked you to do. The world seemed to crumble around you, lip trembling as you swallowed back tears. Instinctively, you shoved your hands into your pockets and pulled out a charm bag, dumping out its contents to grab a necklace that had been created around a piece of amber infused with black obsidian and flecks of rose quartz.

It had been the last birthday gift that you received from your mother, a powerful amulet of protection. You carefully put it around your neck, and allowed the stone to rest near the dip between your breasts, pressing it against your hammering heart.

You were grateful that Vlad had remained quiet during all of this, worried that you would not have been able to handle someone immediately berating you with questions.

“Take your time,” he said softly.

You gave him a nod, and after a couple deep breaths, you opened your eyes. “Thank you… for letting me collect myself. I… needed a minute…” you whispered, voice a little hoarse.

“Not at all,” his tone was calm, soothing. “If ever you need to stop, let me know. I want you to take as long as needed, you’re in no rush.”

“Thank you…” after taking one last calming breath, you started to retell your story, the story of how you lost your entire family.

“It had been at night,” you recall. “My grandmother had mumbled something about a bad feeling, as though she could sense the anger in the atmosphere. It was a dark night… pitch black, and the ocean….she churned, she was so… so violent. I had never seen the ocean look like that before. My mother simply said that a storm was coming, it was nothing more. But, I believed my grandmother.”

You took a sip of tea, lips pursed, before you continued. “She and a couple other witches, older wise women that had been in my grandmother’s original coven, were all saying the same thing, that there was an omen on the horizon, and although quite a few other witches were keen to believe them, we just thought they were saying all this because the ocean was in a fit and we could not feel the moon’s presence on us. If only… if only we had listened.

I had been asleep, before being woken up by screams… so many screams. My mother was frantically running around, I could hear her. She was yelling something at my grandmother, and then she was in my room, pulling me up and ushering me out the front door. I was so confused… I had no idea what was going on. Outside was pure chaos. There were fires as far as my eye could see, the flames licking at my face and the trees in the nearby forest. I could pick up on witches crying out spells, and we’d occasionally see the glow of protective runes being activated.

My mother had her wand in her hand… an ancient thing, made of elm… her hand was clasped tightly around mine, and as we ran, we found other families that had been calling out for any familiar faces. We eventually ended up as a group of maybe six or seven children, and five adult witches. We were nearly at the edge of the forest, where we could hide and be protected, before… before we ran into them…”

You stomach churned with disgust and your eyes welled up with tears as your pictured the men that had blocked your path to freedom. “It was a group of priests in red robes… they had these smiles on their faces…the cruelest expression that you could possibly imagine, as though they were starving cats that had happened upon a pack of terrified rats.

We tried to fight them off, but they were just too many of them… it’s as if they were hydras. Absolute beasts... and I remember…. I remember the things they did to my sisters… the horrible, filthy things they did… the tools that they had…”

Your whole body was trembling with rage, angry tears trailing down your cheeks as your gripped the edge of your seat for dear life. “My mother….” your voice faltered. “My mother…! She… she sacrificed herself! To save me!” you exclaimed, more tears leaking from your eyes.

“She and I had been one of the few who had not been captured, and… and she told me to run, to find the secret paths of the forest nymphs. We had been in good standing with them for centuries, as my coven protected both the sea and the woods that bordered our small community. So… I… I ran, I ran into those woods like she said, but…”

You gritted your teeth, voice coming out in a sob. “She didn’t follow me… a barrier materialized right before my eyes, shimmering like gold. It had been a barrier of protection… the last act of selflessness that my mother performed before being captured. I… I wanted to go back, to try and save her, but…. I ran. I ran… and ran until I could not breathe and collapsed under a tree… dirty, tired, and… so…. helplessly... alone.”

Your vision blurred as tears cascaded down your face, a strangled gasp leaving your throat as your began to cry. “They took everything from me…everything.” you heaved, a disdainful look in your eyes as you sat back in your chair. “Pray tell, what kind of God would let his servants kill innocent women and children?”

Vlad’s dark red eyes shone dangerously in the firelight, hands clasped together as he formed a steeple with his fingers. “I have discovered throughout my hundreds of years on this planet, that mankind is nothing more than a miserable little pile of secrets. Scared little things that would rather destroy and chalk up phenomena they do not understand to the metaphysical.”

He leaned forward and placed a strong grip on your shoulder. ���I am terribly sorry for all of the loss that you have suffered at the hands of ignorant, scared little men. Your mother was a brave woman, a strong woman. I’m sure you are very proud of her and the rest of your coven.”

You nodded your head. “Yes… I often find myself filled with such rage that I can barely think… but I lived with the nymphs for some time, and they helped me channel these feelings of resentment into something constructive. It was through their teachings that I became so well-versed in the knowledge of herbology.”

“You are very wise not letting this hate consume you. Too many times have I seen good, honorable men fall under the spell of this deadly obsession,” Vlad said, as he released your shoulder and poured more tea into your cup.

Thanking him, you take a large gulp, only now just realizing how dry your throat had become. “If it would not be too presumptuous of me to ask,” you began. “Do… would it be alright if I headed to the library? I need to clear my head.” you confessed, a strained smile on your visage.

Vlad nodded, his large hand going to ruffle the hair on the top of your head. “You did very well, little one. My only wish is that you do not stay up all night working, for I know how easy it is to lose track of time when immersed in your studies.”

“I will make sure to head to bed at a… reasonable hour,” you said, thanking Vlad for his kindness once more, before you headed back to the library.

Your mind was so abuzz with thought that it was difficult for you to concentrate. It was almost as if you were in a thick fog, uncertain of where to go. As you sat down in front of your desk, you were thankful that Lisa kept a stash of scented candles around to dull the smell of stale old books.

With the flick of your finger you had lit the wick of a candle that had reminded you of fresh rain, pulling out books on the brain and known diseases, topics you knew would be complicated enough to keep you stimulated and wash away the unwanted memories.

The moon hung high in the sky, her bright white rays resting upon your shoulders as you scribbled down notes on a spare bit of parchment. You could sense her as she moved across the sky, an obvious indication of how long you had already been at work.

As she continued her slow trek across the night, you could feel your eyelids grow heavy, but you tried pushing through the exhaustion.

Just let me finish this last sentence…!

Your body won over this battle against your brain, your eyes slipping shut and head resting against your arms as sleep fell upon you.

Something… something was tugging on your hair.

Was it morning already? Had you really slept the entire night at your desk? Well, that’s embarrassing--

“Excuse me?”

That didn’t sound like Lisa.

You groaned, body cracking and muscles aching as you rose from your sleeping position. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, before you went to massage your sore neck. To your surprise, there was no one around you. So, who had said that--?

“Excuse me!”

You felt another tug, and you whirled around to find… a fairy.

“A fairy?” you exclaimed.

“How rude!” she snapped, hands on her hips. “The name is Aria, thank you very much!”

She could not have been any bigger than a children’s doll, and one could have almost mistaken her for one, with her porcelain white skin and big blue eyes. She had long blond hair that shone like strands of gold in the low candlelight, and she sported a blue dress with a slit down the middle fluttered that around her legs, which were covered by tiny white boots. Sprinkles of fairy dust trailed from out of her wings, beautiful little things that looked almost like a dragonflies.

“Aria, huh?” you said. “What brings you here? I would think that someone such as yourself would rather be outside in the woods than in some dark castle?”

“I live here!” she shouted.

“Really?” you drawled, surprised at her answer.

“Do not speak to me as though I am a child, witch.” she hissed. “My master wanted to come in here to study, and what do I find? You, asleep at a desk!”

“Master?” you repeated.

“She means me.”

Adrian makes himself known from a nearby corner in the room, lounging lazily against an empty desk.

Aria flew over to where he stood, and then pointed at you. “I was making sure that you would have a nice, quiet place to practice, and I find her in here!” she shouted.

“Guess I can venture a guess and say that she’s not a fan of me?” you ask, getting up out of your seat and stretching out your sore muscles.

“She means well,” Adrian said, and walked over to join you where you stood, a tome tucked under his right arm.

Aria plopped herself onto his shoulder, her tiny hands grasping at his long locks of hair, humming quietly as she busied herself by braiding several strands.

“She certainly has an attitude,” you snap, and give her a smirk as she sticks her tongue out at you. “What’s this I hear about you coming in here to “practice”? You do know that this is the library dedicated to medical science?”

“Of course. I came up here to practice my healing magic.” Adrian responded, and opened the book he had with him. It was a magical tome, one that was written specifically about healing spells.

Your eyes widened at the sight and you made to grab it to look through it yourself, but Adrian quickly snatched it away before you could do so.

“Don’t be childish,” you grumbled. “I just want to flip through it. I will give it right back. If anyone knows a thing about healing spells, it’s me.”

“You’re not the only one who knows magic in this castle.” he challenged.

“Oh really?” you snapped back. “Well, if you’re so confident, why don’t you show me some of this magic?”

You noticed that his eyes widened slightly at the test, but he gave you a confident stare as he put down his book and ordered Aria to take a seat on your shoulder-- much to her dismay.

“So, what have you got for us?” you questioned.

“I’ve recently mastered the skill of transmutation.”

A whistle rang out from your lips. “Now that is some impressive magic. Only witches vying for the title of supreme have been able to pull that off.”

Adrian smirked. “Well then, all the more impressive that I can do this.” he said, and closed his eyes.

For a moment, he stood there, completely still, before he flitted out of view, as though you were trying to focus your vision. In a second, he reappeared on the opposite side of the room, a triumphant grin on his face as Aria started cheering and doing loops in the air.

“See?” he cried, clearly proud of himself. “What did I tell you?”

He disappeared again, only to reappear in front of you. “Seems as though I am magically gifted as well.” He vanished before you could say anything, but you knew that this cockiness would do nothing but bite him in the ass.

Karma came much quicker than you expected, for the third time he tried to transmutate, he ran straight into one of the bookshelves, causing a pile to tumble on top of him as he collapsed onto the ground.

Try as hard as you might, but you could not suppress the laughter that bounded out of you after seeing this. Your voice rang throughout the library, arms clutching at your sides as you absolutely lost it.

You could hear Aria yelling how rude you were before she raced off to try and help Adrian, but you couldn’t care less. A tear managed to slide down your cheek, and you wiped it off, finding it ironic that you were crying out of happiness, when a mere few hours ago, it had been tears of utter sadness.

Aria was trying her best to get the books off of him, but they were much too heavy for her. She nearly dropped one onto his foot, before you caught it within your grasp.

“Let me help you with that,” you said, offering Adrian your hand.

He looked up at you and accepted your assistance, his chilled skin causing goosebumps to run across your arm.

You hoisted him back up on his feet, a slight flush on your cheeks when you realized how close the both of you were. You immediately relinquished your grip and took several steps back, laughing nervously.

“Transmutation, huh? I mean, even I can’t do that! So, that was pretty impressive! Well, before… you know…” you trailed off awkwardly, shying under his intense gaze.

He suddenly burst into a fit of laughter, the sound causing your heart to skip a beat and butterflies to flutter in your stomach. It was strange, seeing this stoic, composed man act so… so human.

“I’m glad that you appreciated the show,” he said, running his fingers through his hair to settle himself down. “Even if it ended in utter disaster.”

“That’s alright,” you replied. “It took me quite a while to master my pyrokinesis. Whenever I would practice, I usually ended up setting something on fire. Oh, there was this one time, I accidentally lit my mother’s ceremonial robes on fire,” you cringed at the memory, but gave a smile small as Adrian laughed. “It just takes practice.”

“Practice…” he hummed. “As much as Aria can try and argue against this, my original intentions for coming up here were to ask if you could help me in the practice of magic.”

“What?!” Aria shrieked. “Master Alucard, surely there is no need for you to--” she was silenced by Adrian putting a finger against her mouth, the fairy glaring at him before she stomped her foot and landed on his head in a huff.

“Surely you must have gotten some practice at your mother’s clinic,” you said, as you recalled Vlad and Lisa’s conversation on Adrian once working there.

He grimaced at the mention. “Yes… well, I did want to earn some experience helping her there, but after a particularly nasty incident, mother thought it best if I remain at home in pursuit of my studies.”

“Would you mind telling me what happened?”

“It’s not an embarrassing memory,” he said. “It’s merely that… well, I had been helping mother for two weeks or so, and things had been going fine. It was not until this woman walked in, that things started to take a sour turn.”

Your eyebrows raise in piqued interest. “Woman?”

“She came in with an infected leg, a nasty thing, one look at it would tell you as much. I asked her what had happened, and she told me that she had received a cut while working one day, and instead of cleaning and wrapping the wound… she had tried cutting out the small infected tissue, which of course, only made it worse.”

“What?” you gasp, completely boggled.

“Exactly!” Adrian exclaimed. “I was completely dumbfounded after she told me this, and I asked her why she would do such a thing. She said that’s what her neighbors had told her to do, and that she had merely come to me for some sort of tonic to dull the pain until it healed.”

“At that point, it would have made the most sense to cut it off.” you commented.

“I was thinking the same thing, but she just kept insisting that it was not serious and it was going to go away on its own--!” he let out a frustrated growl as he told the story. “One thing led to another and, well, we got into a rather heated argument. I was this close to losing it before mother stepped in and took care of the situation.”

You looked up at Adrian, a small smirk on your face. “When you say “heated argument”, does that mean you said something to her? I don’t think Lisa would essentially kick you out for debating with a belligerent patient.”

Adrian went quiet, his gaze darting away from you as he cheeks flushed a very faint pink. “I… may or may not have called her an “insolent fool”, one who’s lucky she’s alive believing that kind of codswallop.”

You nodded, as giggles threatened to erupt from your mouth. “That’ll do it.”

Adrian looked back down at you, and that was game over, the two of you bursting into a fit of raucous laughter.

“Oh, please don’t tell me that those are the kinds of people I’ll be dealing with,” you said, as the both of you began the walk to your bedrooms.

“Thankfully those are the outliers. Most of the villagers that come in are very nice,” he said. “They were very grateful that my mother was there, for every other person they had come across claiming to be a physician was nothing more than a crazy old woman who promised that drinking a brew of leaves and acorns would cure their rhumatismes.”

“Lisa is such a wonderful and smart woman… I’m so grateful that she’s accepted me into your home.” you said, and gave him a bright smile. “I’ve only been here a day, but I feel so at home here… as though I’ve finally found my place.”

He returned your smile, and stopped as you find yourselves in front of your bedroom door. “You never answered my question.”

Your eyes flitted up to look at him, and they twinkled with mischief as you rocked back and forth on the soles of your feet. “You really want to learn more about magic?”

He nodded. “My father is a powerful sorcerer, and I think your teaching, combined with his advice, will be able to help me perform at my full potential.”

“Alright,” you replied, without missing a beat. “I will help you, but! You better make sure to dial that arrogance down a couple levels when we’re together. If you’re not willing to listen, you will learn nothing.”

“Understood,” he said and took a hold of your hand, lifting it to his lips so he could place a kiss along your knuckles. “Rest well, then. I will see you in the morning.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, hand hanging limply at your side as he disappeared down the dark hallway with Aria trailing silently behind him. You felt light on your feet as you danced over to your bed, feeling excited at the prospect of teaching the son of darkness all of your magical secrets.

Yeah, you thought. I’m definitely home.

author’s note: hehehehe SURPRISE!!! >:3 i got TWO chapters written today!! i hit such a good stride, that i thought: why not write two chapters? so that's what i did!! you get some more backstory in this one, and some cute moments with adrian. afterall, this IS an adrian/reader fic. oh! and shoutout to my friend morgan!! she's the one who came up with aria's name, who's based off of the fairy familiar in symphony of the night!! give her a follow @princessmorgan. she's super talented!! i hope you enjoyed this chapter lovelies!! i promise the next update won't come in 4 months ;w;

see you later!!

[bad-end]

the ecliptic (5/11) - brumaire

brumaire| 3087 words

elsword | EE, AP

priest!AU: a peaceful life for two people waiting for the rain.

The crops in the garden today hung low on their branches and bent their backs low in the dirt with the heavy toil of the corruption beating down. There was no reason to stand in the garden and watch each day, but Erbluhen always stood there anyway. Maybe one of these days, the crops would bloom and he would find himself blessed by Ishmael.

Behind him, Aspostaia fetched the oversized sunhat he had discarded to the side from the fencepost and placed it on Erbluhen's head. He whipped around and gasped, "Sia, when did you get there?"

"Surprise." Apostasia said with almost a smile in his voice, "Come inside." He held the door open.

"Oh," Erbluhen smiled, "Welcome back. Did you have a safe trip?"

Apostasia nodded languidly and held out a scroll of parchment, "Letter for you."

The smile disappeared. He stared at the letter in Apostasia's hand and his expression fell as he accepted it. It was like someone who was expecting failure and had it delivered to him on a silver platter. "Well, thank you.... Did you go to the old camp today?"

A nod.

"Why?" Erbluhen thumbed the outlines of the parchment, dragging out the moment he would have to break open the seal, "There's nothing there."

"I went to make sure the dead stayed dead."

"We.. burned the bodies. There's nothing to reanimate." The thought made his stomach churn. His former companions, reanimated. While it wasn't impossible, the thought that it could occur made him sick.

"This place plays with your perceptions and your memories. Had to check and make sure they didn't spread this far."

"You're... I know you're right. I just don't want to believe it."

Although that was what he said, he was more focused on the letter in his hands. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and ramming itself against his chest. The personal seal in the shape of a spear made his breath hitch. Arme Thaumaturgy had written his reply. No doubt it was about the promise. Erbluhen hadn't forgotten the promise, but with the way things were going, he wouldn't be back before the first flowers of spring.

With a deep sigh, he broke the seal. The navy blue ink shimmered off the parchment. He could see the richness of the pigment and Arme bent over his desk as he so painstakingly wrote the letter. Arme's beautiful calligraphy only made his chest tighten even worse. He could only afford a quick scan since any longer a gaze would make it hard to breathe.

In the letter, Arme accused him of something or another. Despite the harshness of Arme's words, the worry leapt off the page. The ink gathered in some places as the writer hesitated and held back on his words. Words scratched out indicated that Arme had to rewrite his words, choosing words that were more gentle so as to not insult Erbluhen completely

But he couldn't do as Arme said in these letters. Instead of responding or pouring over the details, he folded the parchment back up and followed Apostasia into the house.

The smell of warm tea and powdered sugar drowned any other smell of the living room. The dust that had made itself home so many months before disappeared as soon as Erbluhen got his hands on some cleaning supplies.

Apostasia poured him a cup of tea in one of the three delicate cups that did not belong in the wild. His eyes fell upon the cup that was meant for him. The glint of the candle against the warm, honey-coloured tea made a shiver run up his spine.

He thought it odd that there was no question about the letter or where it had arrived. He reasoned it as Apostasia being polite, and that he chose to respect his privacy. Either way, telling Apostasia about Arme would make a complicated story, and he'd rather not open another can of worms. This peaceful life was just fine.

"I'll get started on dinner, " Erbluhen smiled, placing the folded parchment on the table, "I was able to get some of the potatoes today, so let's have some baked potatoes."

Apostasia sipped from his own black and silver cup. His eyes had fallen soft and were focused on Erbluhen instead. Meanwhile, the priest reached for the same apron to tie around his waist. He was babbling about potato dishes he knew how to make even though they didn't have many ingredients at all.

They were mostly simple dishes, stuff he could make in large numbers to feed the mouths that begged at the church, but filling nonetheless. Apostasia listened as if he was speaking in revelations.

A week or so had passed since Apostaia invited him to move in. Erbluhen quickly took over the household chores Apostasia neglected in his solitary life. Dusting, sweeping, cooking, cleaning, laundry and gardening was no match for the likes of him. When he was offered help, Erbluhen rejected it all vehemently. It was all his. No one else was supposed to touch anything else.

All the chores were just an excuse. The restlessness settled in any moment he was not moving. He was waiting for something. Even though he knew what it was, he didn't know when. There was nothing he could do until then but to keep working and keeping himself busy.

In the meantime, he had discovered the tiny house had not one, but three bedrooms on the second floor. Apostasia's room could barely be qualified as a room. It was a tiny hole in the wall with a single blanket over a rotted wooden floor with an unreachable, slit-sized window. "Don't you want at least some candles in here?" Erbluhen asked, and received a negative response.

Erbluhen's room was the room in the back of the house. It wasn't spacious, but it had the biggest window and the best source of light. When the weather shifted and the fog lifted just a bit, the sun almost shone through. The bay window had a comfortably extended sill, where Erbluhen had taken to overlooking the garden in the back. Sometimes he would sit there for hours, seeing something nostalgic even though he had never been here before.

A green, lush garden and surrounding forest decorated the barren garden in his mind.

The last room was locked. Apostasia said he had lost the keys a long time ago.

But sleeping in a real bed, eating at the table, talking peacefully with Apostasia and doing these daily chores made his restlessness even worse. There was someone missing. The three rooms, the table with three chairs, the three teacups with only two being used, Erbluhen could only think about that person stuck in the capital, worrying about him in the wild.

After a modest dinner of baked potatoes, Erbluhen took the letter from the table and shoved it in a drawer in the corner of his room.

A week turned into two, and slowly the daily chores became normal. Breakfast was followed by a break, and then they would go for a walk around the garden or maybe even into the forest. Erbluhen would pluck carrots or potatoes or whatever had managed to grow that day and they would put them in a basket for lunch or dinner. When the weather permitted them, they would do laundry. They would have lunch afterwards and Erbluhen would try to bake something for tea time with almost no sugar and the little potato flour they had. Eventually, they would have dinner and retire to their own rooms.

Thankfully, Erbluhen noted, the small well by Apostasia's house seemed to have a comfortable amount of safe water.

But other than that, there wasn't much to do, and when they had nothing to do, Erbluhen prodded at Apostasia's buttons: Where he had come from, what he could remember, what he thought the world was like before the corruption, and especially what he meant when he said that he 'had been here since the world began'.

Apostasia stayed tight-lipped, even as Erbluhen threaded his fingers in Apostsia's hair and pulled them into long braids and placed an affectionate, chaste kiss at the top of his crown when they bid each other good night.

Every couple of days, Apostasia would return to the abandoned camp. "This place plays on your memory, I need to make sure it's safe here, so stay." Erlubhen did, dusting furniture he had dusted a hundred times before, or wiping dishes he had wiped a thousand times already.

What he was really waiting for was the letter. When he saw it in Apostasia's hand upon his return, the nerves would return. The colour of his usual joy drained from his face with only the dread remaining. His throat seized up, and he would cough and find his voice dying in his throat.

Apostasia asked, "...There are no pigeons here, how are the letters arriving?"

Erbluhen recited a practiced response with a hollow smile, "Ishmael's shrines are all connected. The pillars from which they are built remember where they were born. All it needs it to be linked to Ishmael through the blood of her kin."

Cryptic, he thought, but he thought of the rock Erbluhen had given to Chase and Rune and understood. "Chase and Rune won't be coming back."

"My friend in the capital will make sure of it. I don't want them coming back here and risking their lives."

Without letting Apostasia ask another question, Erbluhen broke the seal. His expression fell as usual, and the farther he read, the more downtrodden his expression became.

Apostasia wanted to not care, but something in his chest he thought had stopped hundreds of years ago begged him to reconsider. "Who's writing all of them?"

Erbluhen swallowed and searched for right words "My partner. He's one of the most important people in the world to me."

"One... of?"

" Arme Thaumaturgy, the goddess herself, and you."

"... Doesn't that sound contradictory? You would favour an outcast and a goddess at once?"

"I would. I decide whose important to me, and that's not something else anyone else can decide for me."

With his faith reaffirmed, Erbluhen returned to his letter.

How the letters made Erbluhen so upset made Apostasia upset too. He knew Erbluhen kept them all in a drawer somewhere as if clinging to the one thing linking him to his old life but didn't want anyone to find out. "Why didn't you deliver messages to the capital earlier, back at the camp?"

"To tell you the truth, in the chaos of it all, I had forgotten."

But Erbluhen looked more like he was trying to convince himself, so Apostasia changed the unpleasant topic, "What's the capital like?

"It's the biggest human settlement in the past several hundred years that we know of. It's protected by Ishmael's protection and tall white walls surrounding the settlement. You can see the church from miles away." Erbluhen sighed, "I would have liked to take you there one day. The streets are wide, and the people are kind. It's rare for us to need anything.

"But I don't know the way back. We wouldn't be able to go now."

Again, Erbluhen looked like he was trying to convince himself first.

The weather permitted them to do laundry one day. The clouds covering the sun had lifted a bit, and Erbluhen scrambled to get the clotheslines up. All their dirty clothes, not that there were many, hung from the laundry line, blowing in the wind.

Erbluhen watched the way the wind played with the fabric, and how it tossed Apostasia's hair into a messy bundle and laughed such a lively laugh he had not heard for weeks. Apostasia brushed the hair from his face and watched Erbluhen surrender himself to the breeze. He looked so at peace, Apostasia thought that if he wasn't careful, Erbluhen would disappear without warning.

Apostasia said suddenly, "We should go to the church."

Erbluhen opened his eyes slowly, "I'm ready when you are."

With a brighter sky above them, their path seemed only half as long. Unlike the last time, the branches were absent from the undergrowth, and the trees parted easily as they crossed. They had arrived in the church by the early afternoon.

The sun was shining from above. Erbluhen basked in the warmth of it all. The air was crisp and fresh. He took deep, big breathes as the stale air cycled out of him. He didn't go inside like Apostasia would have expected him to. A prayer, perhaps, to his goddess. But he didn't do that, he merely sat down on the grassy hill the church stood on and ran his fingers against the grass and invited Apostasia to join him. Erbluhen stared into the green horizon as if seeing a mirage, but broke it off and leaned against Apostasia instead.

"Thank you, " He buried his face into Apostasia's shoulder,  "I've been having a great time. I'm glad to have met you. I'm glad you came with me when I asked."

He wasn't there. Sure, he was there physically, but the soul that made Erbluhen the light that he was, wasn't there. Erbluhen wasn't talking to him but through him. Panic shot through Apostasia's spine, and he whirled around to seize Erbluhen's shoulders, squeezing them too roughly with his nails digging too deep into his skin and his face leaned too far forwards to invade ERbluhen's private space. The pain was good. It would remind him that he was still alive.

Apostasia's eyes, which had once been so hollow, had never before been so full of emotion, but Erbluhen's warm, emerald coloured eyes as sweet as honey, had grown dull and cold. Apostasia could see nothing in the void that had shrouded them.

"Come back," Apostasia whispered with the desperation of a pleading child, "Don't go, not yet. Stay with me just a little longer. Come back, Erbluhen, stay here. Don't go to her. It's not your time yet.

"Sorry-I... spaced out?" Erbluhen blinked, several times, and when the flush of his cheeks turned pink again, and the sun had returned to his expression, Apostasia finally sighed of relief and let go, "Did you say something?"

Apostasia lied, "No, nothing at all."

But he leaned his head on Erbluhen's shoulder and closed his eyes.

They sat in that position until the sun over the church began to set and the brilliant evening glow set the heavens ablaze.

The next couple of days passed eventlessly, but eventually, rain fell from the heavens above. They were small patters at first, and eventually, a rolling thunderstorm had formed in the badlands. The pellets pounded against the windows. So far, Erbluhen had relied on Apostasia's judgement on whether water or safe or not and thus it was the first time he had seen rain in several months.

He glanced at the laundry on the living room table and sighed. Even though he had finished washing it earlier, there was no point in hanging it up now. By tomorrow, they would have started smelling. Oh well, they'd just have to do them again.

Apostasia's footsteps behind him disturbed whatever thoughts he had. Instead of moping about the pie, Erbluhen smacked his cheeks to shake the thoughts out and turned around to greet him. "Sia, let's bake a pie. It'll be fun."

Apostasia played along, "... I don't have a recipe."

"It's just pie. We'll figure it out together." Erbluhen rolled up his sleeves and handed Apostasia the apron, "I was gonna do laundry, but it's raining and we can't go out anyway, so help me!"

Apostasia pulled apart the curtains to check. Indeed, water was trailing down the window panes, and the rain didn't seem like it was going away any time soon. "Alright then, let's bake a pie."

Baking a pie was rather difficult without a recipe, and it took most of the day and several failed attempts, but Erbluhen made sure a rather lopsided pie was sitting on the counter, ready to be consumed. Erbluhen looked more lively than he had in weeks, and Apostasia sighed in relief as he watched Erbluhen poke and prod at it to make sure it was the right amount of baked.

Erbluhen served him a slice of pie, "Try it!"

The sweet of the sugar and the sour of the dough in the pie made the taste not quite right. By all means, it was a pie in look, but Erbluhen had made do with the actual ingredients. It was a little sour and a little undercooked, but they had done well for a no-recipe attempt. In any case, Apostasia was a poor judge of taste to begin with. "Erbluhen, you should-"

But Erbluhen had spaced out again. Apostasia placed ah and over Erbluhen's hand, and the moment they made contact, the priest jerked out of his trance.

"Don't forget about the laundry."

"Oh! It's raining today, so let's do it tomorrow. When the weather is better."

"Alright," Apostasia said with hesitation, "I'll remind you tomorrow."

"Thank you. Anything else?"

"Have some pie, you worked hard on it. It's not bad."

Erbluhen shook his head, "I'm not hungry. Later, for sure."

But by bedtime, Erbluhen still wasn't hungry, and he didn't want to pressure Erbluhen into doing anything he didn't want to do. Still, he couldn't fall asleep and spent the night staring at the light that filtered through his thin slit of a window.

The stairs creaked underneath Erbluhen's weight. His own breath was peppered by small coughs. Although he was trying to be as silent as possible, the efforts had failed.

Concerned, Apostasia followed him under the guise of shadows. The rain hadn't made the house any colder, but in the den, Erbluhen had lit the fireplace.

The drawer of personal letters was set down in front of the fireplace, and Erbluhen was feeding each letter individually into the flames. The way his eyes reflected the flames sent a shiver down Apostasia's shrine, but tomorrow they would do laundry, he reminded himself.

Tomorrow, the rain would stop, and tomorrow, they would do laundry.

He left Erbluhen and his letters at the fireplace, and returned to his dark room, wishing for a tomorrow that would never come.

A letter arrived at the collapsed shrine in the abandoned camp in the middle of the corrupted lands that Ishmael had forsaken for a priest she no longer claimed as her own.

.a -

.uoy rof emoc I litnu ecalp taht evael t'nod 

『 if just ONE THING is eliminated, then this world will continue on. 』

[ombudsm-an]

On Changing Conceptions of Art

I’ve never had any formal training in art history and for a long time I actively proclaimed that I didn’t “get” art, and didn’t really seek it out as a result. I now am starting to understand how stupid that statement and resulting action was. To think that art is some monolithic entity that one either “gets” or doesn’t is pretty dumb. I still admit that I don’t “get” a bunch of art, but I also assume that this is the case for every human being on the planet as with music and all of the other art forms that we as a species have dabbled in.

Over these last few months I have seen certain pieces that have fundamentally changed my perceptions of art and what can be gained from experiencing it. Some of these have been politically charged and others pleasing on a purely aesthetic level. Some play tricks with ones vision as you gaze into the work and others are pleasing owing to the technical skill and abilities of the artist.

Piece 1: All That Is Solid Melts Into Air – Mark Boulos

I saw this at Museum Ludwig in Cologne and was immediately struck by the tone and intense political nature of the piece. You stand in between two large screens, one showing Chicago oil traders at work on the trading floor, the other showing rebels in the Nigeria delta who regularly attack and steal from the oil pipelines that crisscross the landscape.

The juxtaposition couldn’t be clearer. On one side are the 9-5 traders in Chicago going about their business, yelling and cajoling, profiting off of the resources flooding out of countries like Nigeria. On the other are the rebels, machine guns in hand, living and fighting in the jungle and doing everything they can (including murder) to get something as the wealth lying beneath them disappears overseas, the average citizens of Nigeria seeing nothing.

There is something psychopathic at play with both sides of this story, the intense fetishisation of oil by the traders and the ruthlessness of the rebels. I found this piece to be a pretty damning assessment of modern capitalism and people’s interactions within that system. The way it was presented was very clever and thought provoking.

Piece 2: Self Portrait in Grey Felt Hat – Vincent Van Gogh

The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam is a very well put together museum. It has a clever logic to it as it guides you through the works and writings of Van Gogh. Along the way you see the Potato Eaters, Sunflowers and Irises, and these are each brilliant. You also learn that Van Gogh produced more than nine hundred paintings in only ten years, including more than a painting a day over the last two months that he was alive. Incredible.

The best of them all, and probably the best painting that I have ever laid eyes on, is Self Portrait in Grey Felt Hat. I had seen prints of this previously, but seeing the real thing was stunning. The richness of the colours and the detail in each of the lines and dots that make up the painting elevates it to something almost transcendental upon viewing it. It is paintings like this that make you realize how unique Van Gogh’s work was.

Piece 3: Signal Systems – Yuri Zlotnikov

Whilst in Munich, we visited the Haus der Kunst, which provided a nice detour from the intense Nazi related site seeing that we had been doing up to that point. Whilst there, we saw the Postwar: Art Between the Pacific and the Atlantic, 1945-65 exhibition. It was full of incredible pieces from all over the world, highlighting the different movements and strands that shaped human expression during that period.

The section that I found myself drawn to most was called Concrete Visions, devoted to simplistic and abstract images and sculptures. The chapter featured works by Max Bill, Ellsworth Kelly, Helio Oiticia and many more.

The series that caught my eye the most was Yuri Zlotnikov’s Signal Systems. The paintings couldn’t be simpler. They feature only circles, rectangles, lines and squares of different colours. The description card mentioned that Zlotnikov was influenced by physics and the possibilities of nuclear power and these paintings seem possibly to be Zlotnikov imagining atomic particles and refuse floating in space. I really loved the simplistic aesthetics of these pieces.

Piece 4: The Ambassadors - Hans Holbein the Younger

The National Gallery in London is what I imagine many people would think of when imagining the art galleries of old Europe. It is a massive and regally adorned building, filled with art going back almost 1,000 years. It can be a little tiring at times (“another picture of the Crucifixtion?”), but it is certainly worth a visit.

One image that stood out amongst all others was The Ambassadors. Seen from afar, the picture looks like another of the many images that feature aristocrats of the age (the Ambassadors was painted in 1533). The detail is incredible, as with many of the other paintings in the room.

As you get closer to the painting however you can make out a strange image leaning at forty-five degrees on the floor, which as you move to the right becomes clear as a skull. It is a brilliant example of anamorphic painting, the skull only becoming fully visible when looked at correctly.

I include this here as I am always drawn to those who step outside the norms of their time to produce something that is artistically unique. This seems a pretty fantastic example of that, given that it was produced in the 16th century when most art seemed devoted to religious observance. The painting itself is also stunning to look at. It is full of strange imagery, the meaning of which is still debated to this day apparently.

Piece 5: Civil Tapestry 4 – Theaster Gates

I was a little skeptical about visiting the Tate Modern initially, as much of my previous aversion to art stemmed from what I considered modern art to be. I was delighted when I went to find that my preconceptions were completely false. The gallery is wonderful and covers the vast expanse of art over the last 100 years or so.

Theaster Gates’ Civil Tapestry 4 was immediately engaging. It is made from a series of decommissioned fire hoses, lined next to one another and forms something akin to the sorts of minimalist abstract pieces produced in the 1950s and 60s.

When I think of fire hoses and their relationship to the 50s and 60s, I immediately think of those videos of black civil rights protestors in Montgomery, Alabama having the hoses turned on them. That is what Gates’ piece immediately brought to the forefront of my mind. I was honestly floored by the way it evoked those images so immediately.

The description of the piece also mentioned that it could be seen as a critique of the abstract and minimalist artists of the 50s and 60s, who, with the tumult of the civil rights movement happening around them, failed to engage with it through their art. What a brilliant means of critique if so.

Piece 6: Ink Spash II – El Anatsui

Some of the great things about the Tate are the free hourly tours that are given in the gallery. These are especially useful for people like me with a limited knowledge of art history. During the tour that I attended, I see Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain, the explanation of which totally changed my conception of the work, as well aPicasso piece and Man Ray’s Cadeau.

Ink Splash II by Ghanaian artist El Anatsui was the most interesting piece that I saw on this tour. Made entirely out of flattened bottle caps connected by wire to one another, it has the look of a worn and stiff shower curtain. But this is a curtain that shimmers in hues of silver, gold and blue, the arrangement of the caps giving it a 1980s 8-bit Galaga like quality. It is beautiful to look at.

Beyond the aesthetics, we are told that there is a potential connection between the piece and Ghana’s colonial past. The British banned the sale of the locally produced moonshine that was a staple in the country and replaced it with imported alcohol sold in bottles. In using the tops from these bottles to create his art, Anatsui is, whether intended or not, reclaiming the refuse from Ghana’s colonial past as a reminder of, and a reflection on that past. I found this to be a very interesting comment on the meaning of the piece, one that I likely wouldn’t have known about had I not gone on this tour.

Piece 7: Flag I – Teresa Margolles

Located directly across from Thaester Gates’ Civil Tapestry 4, there is a dirty and ragged looking flag lying limply against the pole that it is fixed to. I remember initially thinking, “ok, a dirty flag.” It looked to be one of those works that I didn’t “get”.

Once I began reading the description however, my idea of the piece was completely changed. It is not just dirt that the flag is covered in, but blood and other substances and residue, taken from sites of murder around Mexico. What a brutal way to convey the horrors that have befallen Mexico as the cartels continue to battle one another for control of the drug trade. The country sees between fifteen and twenty thousand murders a year, a rate of fourteen out of every hundred thousand people.

The flag was hung outside of parliament in Mexico City, as if to say to the government, “why aren’t you doing something about this?” I found this to be an incredibly brave and provocative act by Margolles. The politics of this piece spoke loud and clear.