#the certainty of what happens after the fears are passed on may have an effect on the moral debate in 199??

[jjlawidaho]

Personal injury lawyer in Boise and Nampa ID explains the importance of timely action

A personal injury lawyer can help you file a case in due time. Personal injury lawyer in Boise and Nampa ID can help you protect your rights in a personal injury case. Accidents happen when we least expect them, often resulting in personal injuries that can have long-lasting effects on our lives. Whether it's a car crash, a slip and fall incident, or medical malpractice, the aftermath of an injury can be overwhelming. In such situations, taking timely action is crucial to protect your rights and pursue the compensation you deserve. One crucial aspect of timely action is understanding and adhering to statutes of limitations in personal injury claims. In this article, we will explore the importance of statutes of limitations, their purpose, and the implications they hold for victims seeking justice.

What are Statutes of Limitations?

Statutes of limitations are laws that establish a specific time limit within which an individual can file a lawsuit or claim after an incident has occurred. These time limits vary depending on the jurisdiction and the nature of the claim. In the context of personal injury claims, statutes of limitations serve as deadlines for initiating legal proceedings against the responsible parties.

The Rationale Behind Statutes of Limitations:

Statutes of limitations exist for several reasons, all aimed at achieving a fair and efficient legal system. Firstly, they encourage prompt action, ensuring that claims are pursued while evidence and witness testimonies are still fresh. Delayed claims can make it challenging to gather accurate evidence and can prejudice the defendant's ability to mount a defense.

Secondly, statutes of limitations provide legal certainty and closure for all parties involved. After a certain period has passed, potential defendants should no longer have to live with the constant fear of litigation, allowing them to move forward without the threat of old claims resurfacing unexpectedly.

Thirdly, these limitations prevent the accumulation of dormant cases and unreasonably burdening the courts. With a defined timeframe, the legal system can allocate its resources more efficiently and focus on resolving disputes in a timely manner.

Implications for Personal Injury Victims:

Understanding and respecting the statutes of limitations is crucial for personal injury victims seeking justice. Failing to file a claim within the prescribed time limit can result in the forfeiture of their right to pursue compensation. Once the statute of limitations expires, the defendant can raise the defense of the claim being time-barred, and the court will likely dismiss the case.

It's essential to recognize that statutes of limitations differ from one jurisdiction to another and can vary depending on the type of injury or incident. While some states may allow several years to file a claim, others might impose shorter deadlines. Consequently, it's crucial to consult with a qualified personal injury attorney as soon as possible after an injury to understand the specific time restrictions that apply to your case.

Exceptions to Statutes of Limitations:

While statutes of limitations are generally strict, there are exceptions that can extend or suspend the time limit in certain circumstances. These exceptions are known as tolling provisions and typically apply in cases involving minors, individuals with mental incapacities, or instances where the injury is discovered long after the incident occurred.

However, relying solely on exceptions is risky and uncertain. It is always advisable to take timely action and consult an attorney promptly to ensure you have the best chance of pursuing your claim within the standard statute of limitations.

The importance of timely action in personal injury claims cannot be overstated. Statutes of limitations play a vital role in ensuring fairness, efficiency, and the smooth functioning of the legal system. Personal injury victims must be aware of the specific time limits applicable to their cases and take immediate action to protect their rights. Seeking legal advice from an experienced personal injury attorney is crucial to understand the complexities of statutes of limitations and ensure that no opportunity for justice is missed. Remember, time is of the essence when it comes to personal injury claims, so act promptly to secure the compensation you deserve. How a Personal Injury Lawyer in Boise and Nampa ID Can Help:

Navigating the legal complexities of personal injury claims can be overwhelming, especially when considering the time-sensitive nature of statutes of limitations. This is where the expertise of a personal injury lawyer becomes invaluable. If you find yourself in a situation where you've suffered a personal injury in Boise or Nampa, Idaho, seeking the assistance of a knowledgeable attorney is crucial. Here's how a personal injury lawyer can help:

Understanding the Applicable Statutes of Limitations: Personal injury lawyers are well-versed in the specific statutes of limitations that apply to your case in the state of Idaho. They will review the circumstances surrounding your injury, assess the relevant deadlines, and ensure that your claim is filed within the required time limits.

Gathering and Preserving Evidence: Building a strong personal injury claim requires compelling evidence. Attorneys experienced in personal injury cases know how to collect, preserve, and present evidence that supports your claim. They will conduct a thorough investigation, gather medical records, accident reports, witness statements, and any other relevant evidence to build a solid case on your behalf.

Assessing Damages: Personal injury lawyers have the expertise to evaluate the full extent of your damages. They will consider medical expenses, lost wages, future medical treatment, rehabilitation costs, pain and suffering, and other factors relevant to your case. This comprehensive assessment helps ensure that you pursue appropriate compensation for your injuries.

Negotiating with Insurance Companies: Dealing with insurance companies can be challenging, as they often try to minimize settlements or deny claims altogether. A skilled personal injury attorney will handle all communication and negotiations with insurance companies on your behalf. They will advocate for your rights and fight for a fair settlement that adequately covers your damages.

Litigation Representation: In some cases, negotiations with insurance companies may not yield a satisfactory outcome. If litigation becomes necessary, a personal injury lawyer will provide strong representation in court. They will prepare your case, present arguments, cross-examine witnesses, and utilize their litigation skills to fight for the compensation you deserve.

Providing Peace of Mind: Dealing with a personal injury can be physically, emotionally, and financially draining. Engaging the services of a personal injury lawyer allows you to focus on your recovery while knowing that your legal rights are being protected. Having a knowledgeable advocate by your side provides peace of mind and reassurance during a challenging time.

Work with a personal injury lawyer in Boise and Nampa ID Jacobson & Jacobson Law Firm, since 1982, is committed to serving the Boise and Nampa, Idaho areas for your top Criminal Defense, Personal Injury, Business Law, Estate Planning, Family Law, Immigration Law, and Litigation needs. Contact us today to get started. For a free 30-minute consultation, book here: https://calendly.com/jfj-1

[salvagedsouls]

this is a non-canon compliant explanation around the murders of howard and maria stark, and will include information about protocols for missions, pieces from bucky's trial before being placed with SHIELD and the Avengers, and thoughts from bucky and james. this is a long post of two drabbles and then info under a readmore. it isn't extensive so much as providing the scene for what seems to have happened and what actually happened.

                                       DO NOT REBLOG.

tw warnings for the following: violence, suicide mention, torture, physical & mental abuse, manipulation. please message in private if additional tagging or warning is necessary or preferred for personal comfort.

There were few certainties under HYDRA: most notably, however, is making sure to keep a conditioning on the Winter Soldier ( James fronting ) for a fear response in the face of disobedience of superiors or failure of a mission. This became so specific a process that the asset has to perform missions a certain way, or he is punished, even if the target is dead.

In earlier missions, when at first they ploy him undercover ( in the days before only distance and muzzling ), that means keep to the dialect of the region he’s meant to sound like he’s from, get close, take care of the target. In some cases that means either ghost immediately, or stay around up to two weeks before leaving in a perfectly normal fashion.

In later missions, however, things change as technology begins to rise. Take care of the listening device underneath the phone. The one-way screen in the office. The camera watching the door. As electronics become more involved with the environments the asset needs to work in, he’s given an order to check both before and after completing a kill.

 Late missions go one way: kill quietly with minimal witness. Deaths that look like hunting accidents or suicides when up close, clean shots as a sniper all other times. The change in process is the only hint of how much time may or may not pass between bouts in cryo, but it means little to the Soldier anyway so long as he can do what needs to be done.

It’s a deviation from routine for many reasons then, when he is ordered take a high-profile target when the target isn’t travelling quite alone. Civilian deaths had never been part of the Winter Soldier’s line, but questioning it would only result in pain so he doesn’t. The next deviation is cause for worry: destroy the camera only after the target and witness are dead, and secondary crew will take care of footage while making sure the scene is set correctly.

He says nothing, in the end. And he does not hesitate in doing exactly as ordered.

          _________________________________________________

The video seems quite damning in Bucky’s eyes, but the lawyers say it will make a stronger case for brainwashing and not operating on his own will. Mostly he expects them to be gone any minute though, because those people on tape were Tony’s parents. Howard recognized Bucky’s face, and it hadn’t been enough though he is surprised the man hadn’t said Sarge or just called him Bucky. Tony paying-for-the-defense Stark’s parents, and rational wouldn’t be what the former assassin expects to be anywhere in the equation once he sees the footage.

They don’t leave though; in fact, Stark makes a point of meeting with him to explain they won’t be. Tony had made a promise to back him, and he would see it through. He promises not to tell anyone Bucky cried over the news either.

What Bucky doesn’t anticipate happening is being told the film is a fake. A setup. A second camera’s feed had been found, and it painted the rest of the story: he had been deposited into an elaborate stage on a road closed to the public. The only real part was the bodies, the special effects like something straight out of Mission Impossible. Explains the lack of familiarity from who he thought was Howard, though a part of him wonders if it was a real couple. Someone else’s actual parents. It isn’t an explanation he gets.

And he’s still stuck with the memory of their faces when he killed them.

TL;DR for the above info and explain why things play out the way they do:

The Soldier was given incredibly specific orders to let the camera record the elimination of his targets, and then to only destroy the camera itself not the footage or feed

he knows not doing this would have resulted in varying forms of pain and punishment, likely including the Chair ( which still elicits one of the highest fear responses from James or Bucky )

In the moment does not recognize being called ‘Barnes’

may have been able to pause if he’d been addressed more personally but most people don't know Bucky & Howard were also friends during the war, which may explain the ‘slip’

The crash itself was not something akin to the Soldier’s usual M.O. at any point during his run of missions and would not have been recognizable to an outside source as his work

Eventually papers also surface with the secondary footage that heavily indicate the involvement of Obadiah Stane in the orchestration, though it takes quite a while to find solid proof that he actively had a hand in the matter

It remains unclear as to why HYDRA agreed to stage anything but it's posited as a further use against either Tony or the asset in the future, should something else need to happen, or even to keep Stane in control as he was taking up the Stark Company after Howard's death

Despite being exonerated on their deaths, James ( who often shares memories with Bucky ) can vividly still see both Starks die by his hand

Bucky can see it too, but it’s not as clear or detailed, partly because memory sharing isn't a simple or easy process

this is one of a handful of events that regularly haunt nightmares even though they understand the attack was not actually on the Starks

[welcometogrouchland]

The tma TV adaptation essay(?) I promised:

GOD Trying to organize my thoughts on a tma adaptation has been crazy because like.

It could genuinely be so good to look at!!! You could do so much with the costuming of characters, the SFX (sit here with me and imagine practical effects Jarod hopworth and Jane Prentiss. Doesn't that make you go crazy insane??? Doesn't it???), the idea of using pixilation or stop motion and compositing to make Nikola, putting intentional continuity errors in scenes with the distortion, never using closeups in scenes about the lonely so you feel distant, never getting wider than a midshot in scenes about the buried so you feel claustrophobic, using rotoscoping and weird filming techniques and on and on- this is stuff that could not only look cool but could actively elevate the written text through visuals... y'know. LIKE A GOOD VISUAL ADAPTATION IS MEANT TO DO!!!

But as good as it could look, like with a lot of people, it begins to all fall apart at story and structure for me. Because how would they deal with the shows nature as an anthology?? Would it lean into it, or remove it?

Give it hour long episodes (as opposed to 20 ish minutes) that can fit multiple, more plot relevant statements in, with scenes of the characters interacting used to break up the statements and weave the meta narrative in more from the start? Well that's certainly an option and the main one I've been pondering. Giving two statements per episode cuts the 20 episode runtime down almost by half which would fit neater into an average series of television these days. (you could probably finagle the multipart finales into single episodes but idk if that'd be the wisest idea structure and pacing wise) but that format could still be A) unfamiliar to long time podcast listeners who want the show to be formatted like the podcast and B) hard to market to casual audiences?? it takes the podcasts method of gradually blurring the lines between statement and meta plot over the course of the show and instead starts off with them already muddy. That doesn't even solve the problem of how you'd go about filming statements, let alone what the hell you'd do when it came time for season 5.

But you can't remove the statements, they're important to the plot. If you do, you change the show so drastically that you're going to chase away original fans of the podcast, who'd likely male up the first core wave of fans who support your show before it takes off (at least. That's what I'm guessing???) So, back to square one, re: tma is formatted in a way that is built around it's own strengths and limitations as an independent podcast, which would clash badly with current models of TV production.

And in all honesty? TV doesn't usually get the luxury (or budget) for experimentation to the same capacity film (or hell, an independently produced passion project audio drama) does. Any of the more experimental ideas I mentioned would probably be left on the cutting room. It sucks but it's my best guess as to what'd happen (grain of salt: I don't work in film and TV and my knowledge is second hand! All I know is that coming to studios with an idea that's a) hard to film and b) doesn't have big names that guarantee a return on the money put into the series is. Generally considered unwise)

Sigh. It's like. I've tried to make this post at least 3 times now, and every time I struggle to accurately convey how much I think tma could flourish in a visual adaptation!!! and so how much I think the best things about it would hinder it in a TV setting. I get why people want it! tma is (as admitted by Jonny), a first draft, and a really good first draft afterwards. We want to bring our favourite podcast to it's full potential, and I think it has so much potential visually...but I've already made all my points for why I'm not sure I'd want it to be adapted to a visual medium, on a purely technical level. It sucks to be pessimistic about it, because I do love TV as a medium, but fundamentally I think they'd have a very hard time pleasing both new and old fans trying to tell the same story as what we got in the podcast.

So what should they do instead?? I'm not sure, but if you told me to make a tma TV adaptation, gun to my head, this is what I'd do:

Have the show take place Somewhere Else

Not as in, have the show be about Jon and Martin post series. I mean, "somewhere else is an alternate universe where things are Slightly Different, as a meta explanation for the changes made to the story to suit TV". and at the end of the series have the big twist be that not only are they passing the fears on, this isn't even the first time they've done it (BIG cosmic horror potential here). Maybe have Annabelle explain this in universe, have Jon find this out, have Jonny Sims appear at the end like fucking rod sterling, whatever!! Just pay tribute to the original podcast by directing people to the first iteration of this story, to compare and contrast and revel in the tragedy that across universes, our heroes were always doomed, if in slightly different ways.

"We're just going to pass it on" takes on a whole new meaning now, doesn't it?

[benlaksana]

2021

It's been roughly a year and a half since the start of the Covid-19 pandemic here in Indonesia, and I've recently been trying to understand where I'm at. Not physically, as in physical space, but mentally and probably existentially. What is the state of my mind? I am aware that I've become somewhat bitter, my late nights are sometimes riddled with anxiety for what the next day may bring and reoccurring personal-collective grief has at times, and recently more often than I would like to admit, numbed me.

This may probably be my mind's automatic coping mechanism seeing all this death mainly as a result of how my government has failed us, its citizens, especially during a time of crises. And I really need to stress this point: how my government has failed us Indonesians during the times we need it the most and I very much believe that it is because of this why many of us Indonesians are in constant misery and haunted by that feeling of despair. If chronic physical pain causes constant daily anguish, I am not surprised if chronic physical and mental pain caused by structural violence causes persistent misery as well.

I'm somewhat fortunate in this regard, I'm grateful that I've learned ways to keep my sanity in check. My contemplative practice is key for me. Honestly, I wouldn't have gotten far in life without it. I have many people to thank, but Art Buehler especially, my former professor in esoteric contemplative/meditative practices who reminded me and pointed a certain possible direction of where I should head when I sense a lost in my life's direction, is one those I should thank the most. I know this seems like an individualized response to structural oppression, and I don't intend to paint such a picture, but I do believe we need some kind of mental stability to keep on going. To survive if not thrive.

Art sadly passed away in 2019. I received an email about his passing. And come to think of it I never really did allow myself to properly grieve for his passing. I don't know why. To be told through a short concise email that someone you cared for died, without having the opportunity to properly say goodbye feels like that person never really passed away. It is horrible way to end relationships. A sudden cut, nothing finalized, and since goodbyes are relational, now nothing can really ever be concluded. I have to make amends with myself and only with myself. If I said goodbye yesterday, or if I say goodbye today or perhaps tomorrow, will it ever be enough for me?

Life is individual yet also relational. It's good to have friends, family, people that care for you or the odd mix of all three to get you through life. So although I have these array of tools to possibly help get me through life but if the people whom you look for some kind direction is no longer present, I'm just not sure for how long I can maintain it if I'm doing all this by myself. Will a breaking point come to me?

The mind is a fickle thing, and the mind is as strong as its habits. Bad habits, bad mind. Good habits, good healthy mind (no habits, no mind?). They also say that things that might happen, will indeed happen. It is just a matter of time. If so, how will I break? To what extent? For how long? What will change? What will I lose? Will there be something renewed? Will I come out the same person? Will I come out changed but for the worst?

This is one of the things that worries me. That certainty of uncertainty. The certainty of breaking, the uncertainty of when and of its form. Will I explode in sudden exasperation, engulfed in madness? Will it be a quick balloon pop yet a slow descend into meaninglessness? An unabashed diatribe rant towards someone I care? Something that's just a twitter post away from me on actually doing it. Will this be an opening, an opportunity for 'satori', a sudden lift of the 'veil', bringing about comprehension and understanding of the true nature of things? Questions, questions, questions, not much when it comes to answers, is all I have for now. To be hopeful is hard these days and with the wavering hope, very much coming and going like waves, it has become incredibly hard to even retain any semblance of kindness. That is something I do not want to actively become a habit of. Without hope, comes the cold embrace of fatalism that many on the 'left' are guilty of. Clutched by fatalism, empathy becomes harder to come by. I've seen it, and I have felt it.

I know that my eroding sense of hope is connected to my personal dreams. Specifically how it has become very hard to actualize it. Rara and I never really planned on staying in Indonesia for long. I was confident enough, a bit too confident come to think of it, that we will be out of Indonesia by 2021 the latest. A mere 2 1/2 years after our last stay in New Zealand. The plan was for me to continue my studies, getting into a Ph.D. program and of course a scholarship. That was our ticket out. Hoping that we'll be back to our old routine in Wellington, in and out the university's library, my head in books, loving our 'flatwhites' while regretting having too much of it, the usual stint doing some university tutoring, community organizing stuff, lazy gardening, out and about on the weekends tramping around Wellington and if Covid did not happen or/and maybe if my government handled things much, much better I think that would've been the case. Or at least I constantly would like to imagine that would be the case.

Yet here we are still in Indonesia, me struggling to do my Ph.D. through this wretched distant learning, initially in the comfort of my home yet steadily devolving into cabin fever. And Rara with her own struggles trying her best to get back on her feet as an aspiring musician. None of it is going as well as we had hoped for. All this while juggling trying our best to keep ourselves safe and our families and friends safe. Both of us have become direct witnesses how challenging this has been, physically and mentally. Both of us slowly grappling with the continual kick in the gut, the never ending structural absurdity, violently absurd.

That slow grueling realization of how fragile our lives are. Not just existentially. It is existentially precarious yet at the same time understanding that precariousness in many of its aspects is structurally and politically maintained. It is this political construction of precarity, which Isabell Lorey elaborates in her book State of Insecurity: Government of the Precarious, that angers and saddens us the most.

Lorey provides a nuanced approach in unpacking and differentiating this thing called being 'precarious'. The three dimensions of being precarious: precariousness, precarity and then precarization. On precariousness, Lorey draw's on Judith Butler's conceptualization of precariousness which she sees as existential, relational and inevitable. I'll insert my existential philosophy and Buddhist values here, to help me see and more importantly accept the transient nature of life and that impermanence or change is the only constant. Our lives, our bodies are destined to die and wither away. We humans are fragile mortal beings. The loss of life, the loss of one's identity, the loss of everything that makes us, us is unavoidable. It's also a 'relational' thing, as in it is also a shared experience. Everyone will experience it. It is the great equalizer some say.

Then we have precarity. Yes everyone dies, but the process of dying or even the process of grieving someone's death is dependent on what Lorey see as the “effects of different political, social and legal compensations of a general precariousness”. Some die at young age due to starvation, riddled with poverty and disease and have nothing or no one to ease their pain, others die surrounded by family and friends in a well-cared for hospital. Some have days or weeks to grieve, others have to go back to work the next day as she or he have no luxury to stop working even just for a moment and simply grieve. To stop working even for a day draws some closer to the possibility of death for the person or those dependent on the person working. This is the inequality of dying and grieving due to our social hierarchies. How fragile we are, is dependent on those social hierarchies.

And last we have Lorey's third dimension, governmental precarization which is the instrumentalization of insecurity by the government. In other words, the government using the idea and the reality of insecurity as a tool or device to control its citizens. The calculated, deliberate attempt by the government in destabilizing our lives in order for us to be easily governed. Insecurity, be it real or due to perceived constructed fear of insecurity is an effective governing tool. The fear of being labeled "useless and lacking in contribution to the nation-state". The genuine insecurity of not being able to get a job due to the false understanding that it is simply a result of an individual's laziness rather than due to systematic government policies. The deliberate attempt in making our lives constantly insecure, constantly on the edge, without us initially knowing it and when we do come to understand, the blame is on us. It is normalized and it is internalized.

This is not simply a social issue, it is a deeply existential one as well. We Indonesians have very little to make us feel safe at the moment. Covid and the government's response to it has severely limited our movements and it's not simply physical immobility, but also an existential one, the inability to even have the imagination that our lives are actually "going somewhere", towards a forward direction. Perhaps some sort of minute incremental progress, but progress nonetheless. This imagined mobility is what Ghassan Hage calls as "existential mobility" and this immobility suffered by many of us is what he also calls as "stuckedness".

Turning an often momentary or the ephemeral nature of a crisis into something prolonged and perhaps even permanent is another part of the strategy of governmental precarization. Our lives or jobs are always on the line and again coupled with the sick prevailing idea that we only have ourselves to find the solution. The crisis is permanent, we don't know why but we've been told that way, if we fail to overcome it is because of our personal inabilities thus proliferating and intensifying this sense of stuckedness.

Forcing us to accept whatever solution the government-messiah presents us with in order to relieve us from this suffering. From labour laws that normalizes precariousness even more, to oppressive new laws that limits our desire and ability to dissent, to including who or how our enemies are defined, easily accepting who is to blame for all this insecurity we are all suffering.

Be it the long dead Indonesian communists, the Chinese Indonesians and the racist perception of them being "selfish and greedy", the Indonesian Islamists - the kadruns and their conservatism, the "foreign forces" whomever they may be constantly trying to take over Indonesia, anyone or anything is to blame. Anyone but the Indonesian government and its affluent patrons. Insecurity and the fear that rises from it renders many of us easily governable and compliant.

This governmental precarization and this 'stuckedness', which Hage sees no longer as a possibility that may or may not happen but an "inevitable pathological state which has to be endured" is how Rara and I feel at the moment.

Rara and I feel our lives are going nowhere. We feel that our lives are stuck, constantly rotating in a hamster wheel trying our best to overcome our precariousness. No progress, no forward movement, no growth, just trying our best to survive from this sustained uncertainty. It's an awful feeling, paving way to existential dread. We are very much looking forward to moving back to New Zealand as soon as possible but with the conditions right now, that is something I can't even dare to imagine.

And although I am grateful that the weave of our privilege with at many times just pure sheer luck has kept us alive and physically well for the time being, we both now realize that we have hit a proverbial concrete wall here. Adding to the already precarious nature of life here in Indonesia, our line of work as a fledgling social science academic and aspiring artist and what Rara and I aspire to do socially, what we aspire to become, easily ends in stagnation if we intend to continue to live our lives in Indonesia. (I want to direct you to Social Science and Power edited by Vedi Hadiz and Daniel Dhakkidae to get the gist of what I'm trying to get at here.)

This is a hard pill to swallow, harder to write and even more so to act upon. I am existentially tied to Indonesia, my family and friends are here, my father is buried here and so will my mother. Memories of the distant past, the colloquial language when shitposting on social media, my mind and body have been shaped by Indonesia in ways I possibly do not even fully realize. This is why I oscillate between guilt towards others and guilt towards the self. I feel guilty for simply having an exit strategy when many others don't, I have the luxury of choice. Yet I also I feel guilty for feeling guilty about this, as it means I am also neglecting the well-being of myself, now and in the future. I need to work on this and find my bearings, being stuck in a guilty limbo won't get me anywhere.

And the future is far from stable, I wonder what is on the other end of surviving this pandemic? There is so much collective grief, collective anger and of course personal anger. All this will amount to something, I'm sure of that. Although I don't know what exactly, I'm not entirely confident this something will be good. John Keane's new book 'The New Despotism' comes into mind.

What do I personally do with all this anger? I’ve noticed how anger, especially when it is on the verge of hatred, morphs itself and easily descends into madness, into aggression and often showing itself, unawaringly to us, when the act of expressing anger happens. Your mind becomes instantly clouded, ending in mindless action. This inability to have control over oneself terrifies me. I already have so very little semblance of control over life in general at the moment, if I truly have no control over myself whatsoever, what then do I have?

And I wonder if it is a waste of time asking these pseudo-intellectual questions? I don't know, yet I do know I live in a society where it hones aggression and hostility, whether it be in physical and digital spaces, and I would like to draw myself away from all this at the moment before I transform myself into something I do not wish to be. Anger I can fully understand, and it is needed and useful. Yet to actively transform it into deep blinding hatred and sustain it daily, is something I feel psychologically destructive for me and I'm trying my best not to go on that path.

I rarely update this blog I know, but this blog has always been used as a personal chronicle of how much I have progressed, digressed or both. And I needed to write all this, because I've never been this least sure of what my life should be like and where it should go. I know I am not alone at this. This pandemic has destroyed the lives of many, our futures, our dreams, our sources of love and I hope that anyone of you reading this finds a way to get through it, doing anything you can do day in, day out.

I'm not sure it if amounts to anything. Maybe it won't, maybe it will, or maybe it has but maybe we just can't see it. All I can personally do for now, is to hold on to these 'maybes', and maybe, just maybe I'll get through this too.

“Where must we go...

We who wonder this Wasteland

in search of our better selves?”

- The First History Man, George Miller

[cozy-the-overlord]

Dances and Daggers

Summary:   The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 12: The Letter

Previous Chapter  |  Next Chapter

Word Count: 1,582

Chapter Summary: The events of the Games have Teki’s head spinning.

A/N:  This is the calm before the storm.

Thanks for reading! 

TW: Mentions of child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @moumouton4 @berriemalfoy

if you want to be tagged, feel free to just send me an ask/message! :)

Read it on Ao3!

Teki picked at the sash of her dress as she sat in her seat on the podium. Before her, the Games continued in all their raucous glory, but she barely registered them. Odin hadn’t spared her even a passing glance when he returned to his seat. Frigga had given her a reassuring smile, but there was a tightness in her face that blocked any comfort she may have intending to bring. Her mind was racing.

What are they thinking? Are they angry? Am I in trouble? Are they going to tell Osvald? Does he know what happened?

And then there was the other thing. The thing that Loki had said just before she went rushing from the tent.

I don’t want you to marry my brother.

Teki didn’t even know how to try to untangle her thoughts on that.

The words still rattled in her head even as she readied for bed that night, once she realized that Osvald was far too drunk to remember whether or not she stayed in her seat the entire day. After helping Brant into his nightclothes and tucking him in, Teki returned to her room in a pensive silence.

I don’t want you to marry my brother.

A secret, selfish part of her had always wanted him to say that. It had been easy to deny when it was hidden away, out of sight. She could ignore the butterflies that fluttered to life every time he smiled at her when it seemed she was the only one who could feel them. But Loki had released them into the wild, and now they were impossible to corral.

I don’t want to marry your brother either.

Tears prickled across her vision. Teki wiped at her eyes in frustration. None of them wanted it. Loki, Thor, Sif, herself—none of them wanted this engagement. And none of them mattered.

She dug under her mattress for her father’s journal. She wasn’t certain that even the familiar script would be enough to soothe her jumbled thoughts tonight, but still she flipped through the pages in search of comfort. The search for her father had been put on the back burner while Loki prepared for the Games, but Teki hoped to continue it as soon as possible. Running her hands down the leather spine, she closed her eyes and imagined him walking through the door for the first time in years, imagined showing him how she had taught herself the pieces he was able to play for her, imagined him meeting Brant, meeting Loki…

Her daydream abruptly stalled when her fingers slipped into a split in the back cover. What? Teki glanced down in surprise. Had she torn the book?

No. There was a flap on the inside cover, a pocket that she had never noticed before. What the Hel? She pulled it open, peering into the grimy leather cavern. It was empty, save for a tiny piece of paper, folded into quarters and yellowed with age.

She recognized her father’s handwriting immediately, although it was a bit more polished than the hurried scrawl she usually found in his journal. It was an unfinished letter, she realized dimly, dated the week before he left, addressed to her mother.

Áslaug—

I understand your frustrations, and I realize your father has put you under considerable pressure. But I beg you to examine why this proposal is so important to you and ask yourself what you hope to gain from it. It’s become alarmingly clear to me these past few months that your highest priority lies in increasing your own social stature, and I fear that you have signed off on this marriage agreement only because of the benefits it would bring you and without a thought given to how it may effect Tekla. I know you argue that it would be good for her in the long term, and perhaps it would, but neither of us can know that with certainty. And in your greed, you would take away her right to choose her own destiny. I cannot allow that. I will not consent to my daughter being used as a bargaining chip for your family’s schemes.

Teki reread the words several times over, their meaning not fully dawning on her for a bit. I will not consent to my daughter being used as a bargaining chip for your family’s schemes. They were talking about her arranged marriage, obviously, but this couldn’t have been her father’s true thoughts. A marriage agreement could not be made official without the wholehearted approval from both sets of parents. He had to have agreed.

Although…

Her father left only a few days before the arrangement was made public. Actually, now that she thought of it, Osvald and her mother’s engagement was announced before her own. She remembered her mother’s frantic insistence that she accept her stepfather into her life as quickly as possible.

We have Lord Osvald, Tekla. He’s your father now.

If he believed Steinn would no longer be in her life, would Odin have accepted Osvald’s word as her paternal consent? Possibly. Probably.

That must have been convenient for her mother.

She remembered Völundr’s hazel eyes, how somber they had grown when Loki asked him if he had heard from Steinn.

I don’t know what happened that night, but I know there’s no way in Hel he left you of his own accord.

Teki closed the journal in a fog, tucking the creased letter within the pages. All at once, she felt as if she was going to be sick.

…

She had hoped for a chance to talk to Loki at some point during the night-long feast that followed the conclusion of the Games. The Great Hall was booming with boisterous celebration. Prince Thor had been crowned champion yet again, the perfect excuse for everyone to get wildly drunk. He certainly was making the most of it—in between overflowing mugs of mead and garbled chants with his friends, he pulled Sif across the dance floor and planted his lips firmly on hers in front of all to see. Teki pretended she didn’t notice the whispers, the scandalized glances as people turned from the Crown Prince to his would-be bride. She waited patiently in her seat for Loki to ask her to dance, fiddling with the sash of her crimson dress.

He danced with other girls first. That bothered her more than it should have. Teki knew of course that she had no claim on the younger prince’s company, but that didn’t quiet the feral growl gurgling in her chest every time she watched him bow to another. Mine. He’s mine.

It didn’t help that for the first several dances Loki didn’t even as much as look in her direction. At first, Teki bristled. Why was he avoiding her? Was he angry? Did he… did he regret what he said to her after his duel?

But as the night went on, Teki began to worry that there was something else going on. His frame was stiffer than usual. His quiet conversation somehow carried over the clamor of the Great Hall. The boy who usually preferred to remain hidden in the shadows seemed to be making a point of emphasizing his presence. She was relieved when he finally made his way over to her seat.

He bowed. “Lady Tekla.”  Teki barely masked a frown. Tekla? Yes, something certainly was off.

Still, she stood and curtseyed as if she thought nothing of it. “My prince.”

“Would you honor me with the next dance?” Loki’s voice was loud, and oddly stilted. Again, Teki felt as if he was putting on a performance. She nodded, allowing him to lead her to floor.

“Is something wrong?” she whispered as they navigated through the throng of merrymakers.

Loki shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “My father,” he hissed under his breath. “He’s had his eye on me all night.”

She glanced back towards the podium without moving her head. Odin sat back in his throne, his disapproving glare fixed solidly upon the two of them. Teki gulped.

“Are you in trouble because of me?” she asked. She thought of the tent, how she had fled first chance she got and left Loki to defend himself alone. Guilt festered in her heart.

“No, no, it’s not your fault,” he said quickly, pulling her farther back across the dance floor. “He’s just… concerned. That I’m getting in the way.” He grimaced, scanning the crowd surrounding them. “You need to dance with Thor tonight.” The words came out stiffly, as if merely voicing them aloud pained him.

“I can’t!” she hissed. Thor was in the corner, surrounded by a group of people Teki didn’t recognize, chugging a goblet of something as they chanted excitedly. “He never asks me.”

Loki followed her gaze, sighing. “He’s a fool. I’ll make sure he asks you.”

The song was nearing an end. She still hadn’t told him about the letter. Teki pulled his arm.

“Loki, I found something else in the journal,” she whispered. “About my father.”

The prince’s eyes widened. “Really?” But the dance was coming to a finish. Loki led her back towards the platform, the two of them wilting under Odin’s stare. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he murmured as he bowed, giving her hand a slight squeeze.

Teki nodded. “Goodnight.” She sighed as her prince disappeared back into the crowd and returned to her seat, resigning herself to a night of waiting for Thor to remember her.

[mikauzoran]

Lukadrien: Zebras Can’t Change Their Stripes: Chapter Six

Read it on AO3: Zebras Can’t Change Their Stripes: Chapter Six

When Marinette opened the apartment door, the script Luka had been practicing on the way over abruptly evaporated from his mind.

Her bloodshot, puffy eyes revealed she’d been crying lately, and the dark circles underneath them told of sleepless nights since their separation.

She looked weary and worn out but still oh so beautiful, and it made his heart ache.

“Luka?” she breathed, a flicker of light and colour coming back to her face and eyes when she realized he was really there and not just some mirage conjured by her exhaustion.

His heart crumbled as she pulled him into a tight hug, and he couldn’t fight the need to wrap his arms around her and hold her.

“…Did you change your mind?” she inquired doubtfully into his chest after nearly a solid minute had passed and she couldn’t allow herself to delude herself any longer.

He pulled away, mournfully shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I wish we could make this work, but…nothing’s changed…and I need to take care of myself. I can’t keep waiting and hoping for things to be different.”

She stepped back, looking away and crossing her arms with a tired sigh. “Okay…but let me know if you do change your mind. I can’t imagine ever stopping loving you.”

She looked back at him, meeting his eye, her own misting with tears. “I do love you, you know. It wasn’t fair for you to say that I didn’t. I can love more than one person at once. You’ve loved more than one person at a time.”

Luka winced, shrinking guiltily. “You’re right. That wasn’t fair of me, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that…but I still can’t be with someone who loves someone else more than me.”

“You are the one who decided that I love him more than you,” she replied coolly. “I’m sorry for whatever I did to make you think that, but isn’t the most important thing that I chose you? I picked you, Luka,” she stressed, a pleading note to her voice.

His gaze dropped to his feet as he muttered, “Because you couldn’t have him.”

“Because I love you and wanted to make a life together because I thought we could work,” she corrected.

He looked up at her, eyes scanning her face and seeing truth there.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t change the past. I come with baggage, and if you don’t think your baggage and my baggage go together…well, I’m really, really sad about that, but it’s okay. I do love you, and I want you to be happy. I’m sad it can’t be with me, but I want you to be happy.”

Tentatively, he pulled her back into his arms. “Thank you. That means a lot to me, Chanson. I want you to be happy too…I just don’t think we can be happy together right now. I’m sorry if that’s my fault.”

She shook her head, effectively nuzzling his shoulder. “It’s not. Not totally your fault. Obviously, I’m part of the problem too.”

They stood there quietly holding one another for a minute before Marinette spoke up again. “…This sucks.”

“Yeah,” Luka chuckled tearfully. “Yeah, it does.”

“We can still be friends, though, right?” She pulled back to look up at him with desperation in her eyes. “This isn’t goodbye, is it? I don’t want to lose you, Luka.”

He gently wiped away the tears that had escaped and were making a break for it down her cheeks.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You won’t lose me. I don’t want to lose you either, Marinette. I think it’s just going to take some time before I’m okay…. I’d wanted to spend my life with you too.”

She nodded, resting her head back on his shoulder. “Okay. I guess…we’ll just see how it goes. Maybe once it stops hurting so bad, if we just act like everything’s okay, we’ll be all right again.”

“Maybe,” he sighed, pulling back. “I hope so. Right now, though, it’s just too painful to be around you. Don’t be mad if I don’t call you for a couple weeks.”

She nodded again. “All right. That’s…that’s a long time.”

He exhaled slowly, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I think it’s going to take a long time to start to feel okay again.”

“Okay.” She blew out a long sigh, relenting and accepting that things were changing and that it was beyond her power to do anything about it. “Well…I hope things get better soon.”

“Yeah,” Luka mumbled, not so sure that was realistic.

“…So…was that what you came here to tell me, or…?” Marinette shifted awkwardly, reaching up to tuck a stray bang back behind her ear. “Did you need something?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” Luka turned around and grabbed the garbage bags full of Marinette belongings that he’d set down next to the door out in the hall. “I was cleaning the flat, and I found some of your stuff. I thought I’d better return it.”

“Oh,” Marinette replied, feeling off kilter as she accepted the bags. “Thank you.”

“I also came because…” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I need to talk to Plagg.”

She winced and shifted her weight again. “I mean, you can try, but…Plagg hasn’t been himself in years. He doesn’t like to come out of the Miracle Box, and he doesn’t like to talk.”

“He’ll want to talk to me,” Luka assured. “I have a message from Adrien for him.”

Marinette’s eyes widened, and she stepped out of the way to let Luka into the apartment. “That…may change things.”

“I hope so,” Luka sighed, running a hand through his hair as he followed Marinette up the steps to her room. “He’s not mad at Adrien for giving him up, is he?”

Marinette shook her head. “He’s mad at himself for not taking care of Adrien better.”

Luka snorted at that. “I’m sure he did his best. Plagg was the closest thing Adrien ever had to a father.”

“…How is Adrien, by the way?” Marinette inquired hesitantly, feeling somewhat better about asking now that Luka had introduced Adrien as a topic of conversation himself.

Luka exhaled slowly. “He’s…a little rough, but he’s going to be okay. He’s safe now, and things are going to get better.”

“Do you think he hates me?” she blurted out, pushing her trapdoor open and then turning around to look at Luka nervously once she was through it.

Luka rolled his eyes, brushing aside her same old fear. “Marinette, I’ve told you a dozen times that he’d never hold you getting his father arrested against you. He helped.”

“What about for keeping my identity a secret?” she pressed, needing to be sure.

Luka shook his head. “That’s probably a complicated subject that you two will have to figure out between yourselves, but he did say he wanted to get back in touch with you, so he obviously doesn’t hate you.”

She heaved an enormous sigh of relief, a hopeful smile filtering onto her lips. “Thank you, Luka.”

He returned her smile with a tired one of his own that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He knew what would happen when Marinette and Adrien reunited. Just because Adrien wasn’t ready for any kind of relationship now didn’t change the fact that he and Marinette would end up together eventually.

And then Luka would lose them both to one another, just like he’d always feared.

“Anyway!” Marinette quickly changed the subject, heading over to her sewing box and retrieving the Miracle Box. “You’re here to see Plagg.”

She pulled out the Black Cat Miraculous and handed it to Luka. “He’ll only come out when summoned by his Miraculous, so you have to put on the ring.”

Hesitantly, Luka took the Miraculous, and it changed to resemble the silver and black ring he used to wear.

Once he slipped it on, a droopy, irritated-looking Plagg appeared in a flash of green light.

“You rang?” he grumbled, making no secret of how put out he felt.

“Hi, Plagg. I need to talk to you, if that’s okay,” Luka greeted.

“Make it quick,” the kwami snorted. “You’ve got ten seconds.”

Luka looked to Marinette. “May I speak in private with him?”

Marinette shrugged, making her way back towards the trapdoor. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re done.”

Luka waited until the door was closed behind her and he heard her footsteps fade before turning back to Plagg.

“Sorry. Adrien isn’t ready for people to know he’s back in Paris yet, so I didn’t want her to overhear,” Luka explained. “Do you want to see Adrien, Plagg? I can take you to him.”

The kwami’s ears and tail perked straight up.

“You know where he is?” Plagg demanded, buzzing around Luka’s head, flying this way and that in agitation. “Is he okay? Where is he?”

“He’s rough, but he’s safe,” Luka quelled Plagg’s fears. “He just moved in with me the other day.”

“Take me to him. Now,” Plagg commanded, a threatening edge to his words.

Luka held up his hands in a placating gesture. “He’s not ready to see you yet. He’s…”

He winced and repeated, “He’s in rough shape, Plagg. What I can do, though, is take you home with me, and you can see him from a distance until he’s ready to see you face to face again. How does that sound?”

Plagg rolled his eyes and crossed his stubby arms. “Why is he not ready to see me?”

Luka shrugged helplessly. “I’m not sure I fully understand it myself. I asked him if he wanted me to go get you, and it looked like he wanted to say yes, but he said no, that he wasn’t ready to face you. He also said something about not feeling worthy of having a Miraculous.”

Plagg snorted hotly at that. “This is all That Man’s fault. He never treated Adrien right. He did everything in his power to erode Adrien’s self-confidence.”

Luka nodded, commiserating. “I’m going to try my best to help with that, but Adrien’s been through a lot, and he just needs a little time before you two are reunited.”

“Fine,” Plagg decided. “I don’t care. I just need to see him for myself and make sure he’s okay.” His voice softened as he added, “…He wasn’t okay last time I saw him.”

Luka nodded sympathetically.

“Take me to him,” Plagg repeated with an air of certainty.

“Okay,” Luka breathed. “Now, I just have to figure out what to tell Marinette.”

Plagg rolled his eyes and waved Luka’s concern away. “I’ll explain it to her.”

To Plagg’s credit, when they went downstairs to confront Marinette, he simply informed her, “I’m going with him.”

Marinette blinked in confusion for almost a solid minute but eventually shrugged. “Okay. Be good, though. Don’t cause Luka problems.”

“I never cause problems,” Plagg insisted.

“My dinosaurs,” Tikki peeked her head out to hiss.

“They had it coming,” Plagg replied, easily shrugging it off.

Tikki let out a bellicose scream and launched herself at Plagg, beginning to chase him around the room as he cackled.

“Wait,” Luka interrupted. “What do you mean ‘okay’? You’re just letting me take Plagg?”

Marinette gave her ex a watery smile, pointedly ignoring the frolicking kwamis. “He’s been moping for years now. He clearly wants to go with you. Why would I stop him?”

“This is why she’s the best Guardian ever,” Plagg praised, flying over to give Marinette’s cheek a sloppy lick.

“Plagg,” Marinette scolded through a shriek of laughter.

“She is the best, isn’t she?” Tikki cooed, perching on Marinette’s shoulder and smiling warmly to see her other half acting like himself again.

Luka almost agreed, but he caught himself. “…Well. I have to get going, but thank you so much. And thank you for trusting me with Plagg. Take care of yourself, Chanson.”

“You too, Bluebird.” She leaned in, giving him an air kiss to either side of his face. “I hope I hear from you soon.”

 Once in his car, Luka texted Adrien that he was heading home and informed Plagg that Nino was there and had just had his reunion with Adrien.

He spent the entire drive white-knuckling the steering wheel as Plagg flitted energetically about the vehicle.

“You’re going to make me crash,” Luka sighed when they stopped at a light. “Could you please take a seat?”

Luka wasn’t sure if it were better or worse when Plagg landed on top of his head, but he decided to refrain from commenting.

 Nino and Adrien were sprawled on the couch when Luka returned to the apartment, their limbs intertwined in a way that made a flame of jealousy flicker to life in Luka’s chest.

Nino was showing Adrien pictures on his phone while telling Adrien anecdotes that made Adrien laugh so hard he had to lean on Nino for support.

The laughter faded when Luka opened the door.

“Nino, why don’t you head on in to my room and get comfortable?” Adrien suggested, disentangling himself from his friend and getting to his feet to go to Luka.

Nino gave a salute and promptly made himself scarce.

“Hey,” Adrien nervously greeted, coming to stand awkwardly in front of Luka, rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet onto his heels.

“Hey?” Luka responded uncertainly. “Everything okay? You having fun catching up with Nino?”

Adrien nodded vehemently. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. No. It’s great. Everything’s great. I just…are you okay?”

Luka blinked, taken aback by the question. “Uh…yeah. Why do you ask?”

Adrien bit his bottom lip. “I saw that you took some of your ex-girlfriend’s stuff with you. Did you go see her? Are you okay?”

Luka’s mouth rounded into a little “o” of surprise. “Um…yes. Yes, I did see her. It…went well, actually.”

Adrien’s shifty attitude immediately evaporated, and a soft smile spread across his lips. “Oh, good. I’m really glad to hear that. And how are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Luka replied honestly with a shrug and a sigh. “Sad. Relieved. Like I’m making a huge mistake…. It was good that I saw her and talked to her, though.”

“Good,” Adrien repeated, pulling Luka into a bolstering hug. “I’m so proud of you. That was really brave, and I’m glad it went well.”

Luka softened into Adrien’s embrace, letting himself enjoy it. “Thank you, P5.”

He kept to himself the fact that he’d only been able to do it because he’d been doing it for Adrien.

He gave Adrien a squeeze and then pulled back. “I’m kind of wiped, so I’m going to my room to rest. Let me know if you need anything, but you and Nino have a good time, okay?”

“Will do,” Adrien assured with a brilliant grin reminiscent of a young child heading out to the park to play. “I’m making chocolate cheesecake in the rice cooker at the moment, and it should be done in about an hour. Do you want me to let you know when it’s ready?”

“Uh… Sure,” Luka agreed, reasoning that Plagg would probably enjoy a slice, even if Luka didn’t particularly feel like dessert. “Thanks, Adrien.”

“Sure thing.” Adrien gave another bright smile before heading to his room after Nino.

 “He’s not eating enough cheese,” Plagg bemoaned once they were sequestered in the privacy of Luka’s room. “He’s so skinny!”

“Don’t worry,” Luka coaxed, tentatively reaching out to scratch behind Plagg’s ear like he’d seen Adrien do in the past. “He’s only been here a day. He’ll fill out with time now that he has a secure source of food. I’ll make sure he eats.”

“You’d better,” Plagg threatened even as he accepted the scritches.

 Plagg managed to go a little over twenty-four hours before outing himself.

He kept hidden while Nino was over and all during the next day, even through band rehearsal.

He woke up in the early hours of the morning his second night in the apartment and phased through the walls of Luka’s room and the intervening bathroom in order to check on Adrien.

His kitten was shifting in his sleep, muttering as he dreamed. He clutched a black cat plushie to his chest that reminded Plagg of the one Adrien had had from childhood and kept in his room back at the Agreste Mansion.

A sad smile tugged at the corners of Plagg’s mouth as a warm feeling welled up in his chest.

He didn’t see the harm in flying in for a closer look…until Adrien blinked his bleary eyes open.

“Plagg?” he asked sleepily reaching out and gently shepherding the kwami in to rest on Adrien’s chest next to the stuffed animal.

“I miss you,” he mumbled as he drifted back to sleep.

“Oh, Adrien,” Plagg whispered, getting choked up despite himself. “I missed you too.”

He gave Adrien’s chest a nuzzle, making Adrien spring back out of the bed and onto the floor with a yelp, suddenly wide awake.

Plagg floated over to peer over the edge of the bed, lime green eyes glowing in the dark. “You okay, Kid?”

“Plagg?!” Adrien gaped up at the kwami before looking around, taking in his surroundings and trying to ground himself. “Is this real?”

Plagg nodded sheepishly, beginning to come up with excuses to tell Luka as to how he’d gotten caught. “I’m as real as you are.”

“Oh my gosh…Plagg!” Adrien scrambled to his feet, scooping up his kwami and bringing him up to his face to nuzzle even as tears started to stream down his cheeks.

“Plagg, I’m so, so sorry. I never should have thrown you away like that. I don’t know if you can ever forgive him, but I’m sorry. I regretted it instantly, and there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could take it back,” Adrien insisted desperately, the words coming out of his mouth as hard and fast as his tears.

Plagg reached out and put a paw over Adrien’s lips, lightly chiding, “Kid…it’s okay.”

Adrien shook his head. “It wasn’t okay. Plagg, nothing’s been okay these past four years.”

Plagg arched an eyebrow. “Are you still a drama queen, or how worried do I need to be about you exactly?”

A bashful smile peeked out behind Adrien’s distress as he admitted, “Okay. Maybe I’m being a little overdramatic, but…things have been really bad, Plagg. Some days I was glad I was all alone in the world because I didn’t think I could bear for anyone to see what had become of me.”

“Oh, Adrien,” Plagg cooed, flying up to nestle in Adrien’s hair and starting to purr soothingly. “I screwed up too.”

“What?” Adrien breathed, trying to look up and see Plagg’s expression.

“If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll deny it, but you have to know that I screwed up too,” Plagg repeated, gently stroking Adrien’s hair. “Nothing that happened was just your fault…so I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I let you down.”

“You didn’t,” Adrien protested, getting back up into bed and fishing Plagg out of his hair.

“I did,” Plagg insisted wearily, not fighting as Adrien brought Plagg to his chest to cuddle. “…but let’s not play the blame game, okay? We can’t change what happened, after all.”

“Yeah,” Adrien sighed, settling back in. “I guess you’re right…but…you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Plagg snorted. “Do you forgive me?”

“I never held anything against you,” Adrien scoffed.

“All right, then,” Plagg declared with finality.

“All right, then,” Adrien agreed softly, a tired smile spreading across his lips.

There was a beat of comfortable silence before Adrien broke it, demanding, “…How did you even get here? Did…?”

Adrien shook his head. “Luka went and got you for me.”

“Luka came and picked me up,” Plagg affirmed, nuzzling Adrien’s chest. “He’s too boring and mellow to be my holder, but he’s a good guy. Definitely one of Sass’s, but…I’m glad you ended up with him to look out for you.”

“I got lucky,” Adrien admitted. “I got really, really lucky running into him…and I think he’s lucky he ran into me too.”

“Well, duh, but how do you figure exactly?” Plagg hummed, looking up quizzically at Adrien.

“He’s going through a rough breakup right now,” Adrien informed, a cloudy expression rolling onto his face. “He could use someone to look out for him too…and I’m much more capable than I was when you last saw me,” Adrien rushed to assure. “I can do all kinds of things now like cook and clean and fix things.”

Plagg nodded. “I know you’ve gained some new skills. I had some of that chocolate cheesecake you made, and it was exquisite.”

“Yeah?” Adrien chuckled, a pleased blushing rising in his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Plagg confirmed softly. “…I’m proud of you, Adrien.”

Adrien drew in a quiet gasp, eyes going wide even as they started to mist over. “You are?”

Plagg nodded, flying up to pat Adrien on the head. “I’ve always been really proud of you. I’m sorry I never told you that.”

Adrien scooped Plagg up and cradled him to his chest again, needing the contact. “Thank you. That makes me really happy to hear that. I didn’t think anyone ever was, no matter how hard I tried to be perfect.”

Plagg mentally kicked himself (not for the first or last time) for always being so tsundere and aloof with Adrien.

In a feeble attempt to start making up for lost time, Plagg gave Adrien’s chest another nuzzle and started another round of purring.

“…I love you, Plagg,” Adrien whispered, giving a weak purr in return.

“I love you too, Adrien,” Plagg confessed, dropping all pretenses. “I really missed you.”

“I’m sorry I can’t buy you expensive Camembert anymore,” Adrien choked through laughter and tears.

Plagg scoffed. “It was never about the Camembert.”

“Part of me knew that, but it’s nice to hear you say it out loud,” Adrien admitted with a lopsided grin.

“Don’t get used to it,” Plagg grumbled, the embarrassment of admitting to having feelings finally catching up with him.

Adrien smiled wider and began to scratch between Plagg’s ears. “It’s a good thing Luka is rich now. He can buy you the kind of cheese you’re used to.”

“I’d eat cheap, sliced cheese if it meant I could be with you again,” Plagg muttered. “Never disappear like that on me again.”

“I won’t,” Adrien promised. “I’m sorry, Plagg.”

“Yeah,” Plagg sighed. “Me too. Now, go to sleep. You look all sickly; you need your rest.”

“Night, night,” Adrien whispered, closing his eyes and drifting off as he petted from the top of Plagg’s head down his back rhythmically, over and over until he fell back asleep.

 The next morning, he woke up early and relished the feeling of Plagg curled up in his hair while Adrien made breakfast.

Having his kwami back by his side made him feel more like himself than he had in years.

When Luka emerged from his room looking like a zombie, Adrien sprinted to Luka’s side and threw his arms around him.

“You’re the absolute best, and I can’t tell you how much I love you for going and getting Plagg back for me,” he gushed into Luka’s shoulder. “Thank you, Orpheus.”

Luka returned the hug and then pulled back with a tired smile. “You’re very welcome. I’m glad I could help make you so happy.”

He removed the ring from his finger and reached out for Adrien’s hand, slipping the Miraculous onto Adrien’s right ring finger.

“There,” Luka decreed as he surveyed his work. “Back where it belongs.”

“I won’t throw it away twice,” Adrien swore, eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you for bringing Plagg back to me. I’ll never forget this. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you, but…I won’t forget everything you’ve done for me.”

Luka reached out and ruffled Adrien’s hair with a fond smile. “Don’t mention it, Perfect Fifth…but if you share some of whatever you’re cooking with me, we can call it even.”

Adrien rolled his eyes. “I made enough for the both of us to start with.”

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” Luka chuckled as Adrien tugged him over to the kitchen. “You’re a godsend.”

A grin of pride quickly spread across Adrien’s lips, and a pleased blush dotted his cheeks with colour.

“I’m glad you think so. Keep reminding me, okay?” he chuckled.

Plagg, meanwhile, rolled his eyes, muttering, “Not this mutual pining garbage again,” as he dug into his all-cheese omelet.

[bestworstcase]

farran rereads lost lagoon: chapters 3-4

- a shot-put ball, according to my cursory research, weighs in the neighborhood of 6-16 pounds. leila howland expects me to believe that princess “hoisted an adult woman 70 ft into the air on the daily with nothing but a pulley and raw upper body strength” rapunzel has a hard time picking up a shot.

anyways

- rapunzel thinks about how she used to talk to herself in her tower when she was isolated (and lonely) but stopped once she came to corona, and this girl looked like she was talking to herself, and it gave rapunzel this weird sense of familiarity! now what in the world could that mean? its so subtle i can’t quite put my finger on it.

again, romance novel.

less sardonically - i will say that tts cass has never struck me as an especially lonely person. yes, rapunzel is quite possibly her first ever close friend, but cass also appears to be on pleasant terms with her coworkers and has at least one or two friendships or mentor-type relationships among the guards (stan and pete). animals in tts are anthropomorphized enough to qualify as humans, and cassandra is unequivocally friends with owl and fidella. she is friendly if not friends with at least one coronan citizen (monty). she’s utterly unfazed by crowley’s crabbiness. she’s able to get along with the pub thugs. in vardaros she befriends vex with ease and makes herself right at home among the citizenry at large. there is zero friction between her and lance - at most she rolls her eyes when he’s being ridiculous. and out of the main cast, cassandra is the one who seems closest to varian in s1 - like, she has actual bonding moments with him. 

THE POINT BEING, cassandra may not have a lot of close friends, but she is nevertheless personable and demonstrates the ability to adapt herself to suit a variety of social environments. maybe i’m projecting here - i have very few close offline friends because my preference for in-person socialization is for it to be very casual - but taken together this doesn’t scream ‘lonely person’ to me. it instead says ‘person who finds social fulfillment in a wide net of friendly acquaintanceships’ and possibly also ‘person who finds close, emotionally intimate relationships worthwhile but very demanding to maintain, and so seldom or never seeks them out.’

this, absolutely, a very subjective reading of her character - it is just as plausible for cass to be someone who is socially competent but feels inwardly unfulfilled until rapunzel comes along. but even in that reading, this implication that cassandra is as deeply lonely, as thoroughly isolated in corona as rapunzel was in her tower is baldly absurd.

- i think i will have more thoughts about how arianna is characterized and the relationship she and rapunzel have with each other later in the story. for now it feels rather mechanical, and like arianna exists in the story to facilitate cassunzel happening.

- cassandra comes across to me like she has an anxiety disorder written by someone who doesn’t quite know how to convey how that feels? she catastrophizes: what if rapunzel thinks cass attacked her? will she get in trouble? but then she stops to make snide comments about rapunzel’s security detail ‘[falling] down on the job’ and concludes with an impressive amount of certainty that rapunzel isn’t going to make a big deal of it, after all. that… isn’t how anxiety works?

then, immediately, she finds a note from her father scolding her for slacking off—making it clear that she is indeed in trouble, like she feared—and her response is to scoff and throw it away. zero concern about being in trouble. zero worry about the consequences she might face for refusing the pointed “offer” of being rapunzel’s lady-in-waiting. like… this isn’t anxiety. i’m positive it’s meant to convey anxiety, but it comes across as cassandra just being… melodramatic and rude and grumpy. like a teenager. it’s unpleasant. and it bears very little resemblance to tts cass, who expresses a clear and consistent anxiety regarding the security of her job and the looming threat of a convent.

- secondly: “Friedborg reported that you missed your afternoon duties AGAIN. Please be advised that this is unacceptable. The queen is looking for a lady-in-waiting to serve Princess Rapunzel. It would be a great opportunity for you, and you must show the queen how prepared you are to train her in the ways of the court.” i am 100% convinced that howland thought cass was rapunzel’s age or younger. if friedborg is effectively cassandra’s direct supervisor, and she is reporting absences to cassandra’s father instead of addressing this with cassandra directly, the only explanation that makes sense is that cassandra is not of legal age.

- “Ladies don’t wield weapons, lead military strategy meetings, or race on horseback. Ladies do needlework, flower arranging, and hairstyling.”

sighs.

i am not going to argue that corona, in any incarnation, isn’t culturally sexist. it is. there are no women in the guard, no women in trades, no female business owners in the vein of monty or xavier or feldspar. besides rapunzel and arianna - who as the monarch’s spouse has very little in the way of actual political power - there are no women in the upper echelons of the government. besides cassandra, the only gnc women around are criminals. cass is denied even a chance to join the guard for no evident reason, even though her father allows eugene - a man he openly despises - to take the tests and then begrudgingly hires him when he passes. no one sees an issue with this, even though cassandra is demonstrably overqualified.

however.

howland makes this cultural sexism explicit text, and she does so in such a way that it implies something pretty horrifying about the already pretty horrifying corona-saporia unification backstory.

i am talking, of course, about general shampanier. you know, the female saporian general whom herz der sonne married when the two kingdoms were unified. the female saporian general who personally dueled der sonne for hours, according to under raps. the female saporian general who, forget military strategy meetings, led an entire goddamn army. i will accept the possibility that shampanier did not ride horses, because rapunzel’s return suggests that saporians have some sort of cultural objection to that. but this book predates rapunzel’s return by a large margin, and it isn’t canon anyway, so odds are the general shampanier of this story rode a warhorse at some point or another in her illustrious career of being the general of an army!!!

this woman - general shampanier - became the queen, the wife of arguably corona’s most historically important king, at a defining moment in coronan political and cultural history. tts and lost lagoon would both have us believe that this was a romantic, peaceful union between two people and two nations, but a few hundred years later - this. ladies don’t fight. ladies don’t belong in the war tent. ladies don’t ride horses. cass takes these things for granted as facts of life. but general shampanier did all of those things, and she did them extremely well, and she became corona’s queen.

WHAT HAPPENED?! WHAT HAPPENED TO SHAMPANIER’S LEGACY?

how did corona go from a warrior-queen to this, in just a few hundred years? the most plausible answer is that the background radiation of sexism and, perhaps, anti-saporian bias was powerful enough to unravel any cultural impact she may have otherwise had, deep enough to render her an outlier, an aberration, an exception to the rule that women do not act like that.

even arguing here that ‘lady’ specifically means ‘noblewoman’ doesn’t add up - because, again, general shampanier became THE QUEEN. you don’t get more noblewoman than that!

it feels unfair to judge this book with details added in season 3—such as the fact that shampanier is evidently not buried with herz der sonne—but this total lack of a cultural impact from general shampanier, queen of corona, feels very telling even without taking those tidbits of extra-textual information into consideration.

and good god, saporia hasn’t even properly entered the narrative yet! this is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg!

*deep breath*

moving. on.

- continuing the theme of cass being a child larping as a guard recruit: she has a closetful of weapons which she maintains to the exacting standards of the handbook, but skips out on her job to “train” in secret because evidently she’ll do ANYTHING to get on the guard except, you know, demonstrate a modicum of responsibility with the job she has now.

- moreover while i think cartography is a neat hobby for cassandra to have, it… doesn’t make a lot of sense if it’s part of some nebulous plan to ~prove herself worthy~ of being on the guard. like, cartography straight up isn’t a relevant skill, and while knowing the countryside could certainly be helpful for guard work in the event a criminal goes to ground in the wilderness, it’s like… it’s like if i applied for my current job, which is in software/tech support, by focusing an intensive amount of energy on teaching myself spanish. fluency in spanish is a useful skill and one that i could turn into an asset within the bounds of my current job, and it might be the deciding factor in me getting hired over someone else with equivalent experience and skill in computing and tech support (which is what the job involves) because, yes, some of our clients are ESL spanish-speakers. but it’s—there’s a disconnect. if i were in a tight competition to get this job i would be pouring my time into sharpening my programming skill and polishing up a portfolio of relevant work. i wouldn’t be devoting hours upon hours to learning spanish. right?

on the other hand—if cartography is a hobby cassandra is passionate about, and she’s 16 or 17 or 18 and she really likes the idea of being on the guard and really feels like she can do it and is bored with her dumb teenager job and desperate to get her dad to make her a guard without actually grasping what being a guard entails or the kind of work it involves or what she actually, realistically needs to do to have a shot, then… yeah, skipping work to play pretend with her weapons and convincing herself that her favorite hobby is totally going to prove to her dad that she’s ready to be a guard!!! makes perfect sense. it’s no different from tts varian tunnel visioning so hard on this fantasy of ‘i’ll surprise my whole village with hot running water and then my dad will be proud of me!!!’ that he neglects basic safety measures and accidentally blows the whole system up. it’s not realistic. it’s a fantasy. it’s play.

- the only time cassandra brings up eugene’s criminal past in tts is to mock him for being a loser. like. literally. the plot of fitzherbert pi kicks off when she calls him a “two-bit hood” and then when he fires back that flynn rider was a LEGEND!!! she fires back “key word being was. and… what is it you do now?” and that’s the only time she brings it up. granted this is 6-7 months into their relationship but… still, frankly i never got the impression that “former thief” was anywhere close to the top of cassandra’s list of reasons for hating eugene. he’s just a dick. she doesn’t like him because he’s a huge selfish jerk and she warms up to him after her starts behaving better.

- rapunzel goes to the ty lee school of flirting. just… laugh really hard at everything your crush says even if it’s not funny.

- despite my… intense and rapidly growing dislike for how cassandra is characterized in this book, her experiencing an actual physical reaction when rapunzel enters her space without permission is good. it’s about the boundaries. it has always been about the boundaries, and rapunzel crossing them, and the intractable messiness that arises from that.

- in fact: how many times does rapunzel cross boundaries in just this one little scene? oh, let me count the ways!

1 - when cassandra goes to shut the door, rapunzel ducks under her arm to enter the room. (eugene attempts to enter as well, but cass succeeds in blocking him.)

2 - missing or ignoring cassandra’s first “go away” hint about only playing individual sports.

3 - missing or ignoring cassandra’s second “go away” hint (“I let the silence get awkward.”)

4 - arranging cassandra’s invitation to the feast of elodie the great with the captain beforehand, so cass can’t use him as an excuse to decline.

5 - missing or ignoring cassandra’s obvious discomfort with this news, taking cassandra’s attendance at the feast as a done deal, and skipping straight to asking cassandra to sit next to her.

6 - in response to cassandra’s very diplomatic signal of not wanting to do that (“I sit wherever I’m assigned”), she declares that she’ll make sure cassandra is assigned to sit next to her.

7 - touching without permission, which makes cassandra flinch.

all of which results in cassandra making what she considers to be a “tactical surrender.” and then shutting and locking her door, because she feels so rattled. as i recall, lagoon is actually a lot mellower on the boundary violations front - and rapunzel actually learns better over the course of the story, which is probably the biggest reason that lost lagoon is not canon and cannot be canon to tts - but it feels worth writing this sort of thing out because, well. it is one of the dead horses i keep clobbering.

[spyder-m]

Zerith Week, Day 1: "Sanctuary"

My contribution for @zerith-week, Day 1: Church.

Summary: On her way back from down to the Sector 5 Slums, Aerith happens by two injured Soldiers passed out at the station. With seemingly no one interested in helping them, she took it upon herself to step in. Zack lives AU.

Chapter I: "Angels With Dirty Faces"

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.

“Phew, finally. We made it!”

“Urgh.”

Cloud garbled unintelligibly in response, his head lulling slack against Zack’s shoulder, before his body stilled once more. The shift was minimal, but enough to assure Zack that Cloud was still with him.

“Come on, Cloud,” Zack joked, readjusting his grip. “You could stand to be a little more enthusiastic.

Though the light-hearted quip went unanswered, it brought as much comfort to Zack as he hoped it did his friend.

It was a remnant of their old lives, the same banter they had shared back in Midgar. After seemingly everything they trusted in had been ripped away, he liked having that familiar certainty. Even now as those moments seemed at a completely distant, unreachable place in time, Zack would do all that he could to keep even a piece of them intact.

While Cloud didn't seem entirely cognisant, his company had been integral to Zack, imbuing him with the invaluable mental and emotional strength to carry through.

Internally, he was a wreck. He had no idea what was wrong with Cloud, who’d been unresponsive for months; their entire trip to Midgar. Frankly, it scared him.

Yet, he couldn’t let that fear show in his expression. He didn’t want Cloud, likely already scared himself, to worry. If Zack seemed uneasy, it may only serve to further rupture Cloud’s will, his psyche, at a point where it needed to be at its strongest.

Zack had wondered briefly what state Shinra HQ would be in now; with most of their top-ranked Soldiers either deceased or missing. He didn’t care to find out, firsthand though. Not when it would be far safer, he felt, to stick to Midgar’s Slums, knowing Shinra’s presence wasn’t as prominent underneath the plate.

Much of the slums were plagued by sickness and destitution. Monsters lingered on the outskirts of sectors and the roads and tunnels linking them, with many citizens open-carrying weapons to defend themselves. For that reason, Zack had been confident that the presence of two injured Soldiers wouldn’t appear too out of place or draw unwanted attention.

Still, he couldn’t be careless. The trains were overflowing with passengers; slum-dwellers who worked above the plate returning home. Knowing the likelihood of Shinra employees being among them, Zack had opted to sneak aboard one of the train’s rear compartments, intended for carrying cargo rather than passengers.

They still weren’t alone, but the train ride into Sector 5 passed without incident. Anyone unnerved by their presence simply chose to move to a different carriage.

Unfortunately, though, as he stepped out onto the station platform, Zack was beginning to sense a different, perhaps even more sinister, threat looming over him. His vision was beginning to fade, darkness seeping steadily into his periphery. The exhaustion and pain from the, fortunately, non-fatal wounds he had succumbed to was starting to weigh heavily upon him.

It was as though the urge to reach Midgar had been all that had fuelled him before, that determination helping him to channel strength beyond even his own supernatural limits. Yet now that he had succeeded, his body felt it could give out.

Zack grit his teeth, harnessing what little strength he had left within him to stay conscious. He had already crossed entire continents and stowed away on ships, all the while fending off platoons of men tracking them. Surely, he could make these last few miles into the Slums.

As Zack’s head lifted groggily, he scanned the near distance, squinting to make out the scrap yard stretching in front of him. His stomach sank.

Even if the monsters lurking there weren't the strongest, it would still be dangerous. They usually travelled in packs and, in his current state, Zack wasn’t sure he’d be able to effectively divide his attention between multiple enemies, as well as keep an eye on Cloud.

He had a bad feeling that they would end up as Gorger food.

Zack couldn't fall to such feeble prey, not after everything he'd pulled through.

So, spotting the nearby bench and vending machines, Zack cut a deal with himself.

Against his better judgement, he decided to take a brief rest. Just enough that he could regain his strength and fight safely through the scrapyards, but nothing more.

At least, that had been his hope.

.

Aerith sighed as she stepped off the train, lowering her still full basket of flowers.

Yet another day had passed and she hadn't been able to sell anything topside.

Despite being able to afford the luxury, the people above the plate showed little interest; rarely even acknowledging her presence.

She couldn't understand. Everyone in the Slums seemed to value the plant life much more, enjoying the way it brightened the drab mesh of concrete and steel shanties, giving it a more homely feel.

Still, as futile as her efforts seemed, Aerith would always make the trip; treasuring what few gil she could pull in to help out her mother.

As her eyes lifted, Aerith caught the last rays of what little daylight broke through the gaps in the steel sky. Conscious it wouldn’t be long before twilight began to set in, Aerith's gait picked up.

She had been volunteering at a soup kitchen being run by the Sector’s Church recently and didn't want to be late.

It only seemed fair to assist the priest who let her grow and sell flowers there. Besides, she found the work very fulfilling.

Whether she was brightening people's spirits by spreading her flowers throughout the Slums or providing warm meals and shelter to those who were struggling to find their own. It helped harbour an atmosphere far friendlier than compared to the one above the plate, creating a sense of community, of people who, despite struggling, were always willing to help one another out.

As Aerith crossed the station, her focus was broken by a vibrant shock of yellow entering her periphery, tugging her in the opposite direction.

Suddenly, any thought of needing to rush towards the Church was abandoned as she was drawn to the sight of two young men; not much older than her; slumped against the bench, their eyes closed.

At a cursory glance, it might not have seemed out of the ordinary; as though they were simply resting. Yet, from the state of their clothes and the dirt marring their skin, Aerith could tell they must have fallen on hard times.

Still, despite being in clear view, many commuters passed them by without so much as a second thought.

Aerith exhaled calmly, allowing those passersby the benefit of the doubt. For all she knew, they too were struggling and didn’t have much to their name that could help. Still, the matter was sensitive to her. Her own birth mother had passed away in a similar fashion, Elmyra being the only one to approach and try to help.

Kneeling down, Aerith glanced over the two more closely, in particular, noticing their clothes. Her eyes widened as she placed the dark, sleeveless sweaters and trousers, shoulder pauldrons, standard dress for members of Soldier.

It wasn’t uncommon for men and women leaving the military to end up like this, out on the streets. After the war ended, Shinra had suddenly found itself no longer needing so many large platoons of men, and there were only so many troops needed to patrol the streets. Because of this, many ended up being discharged and struggled to find work; the skills they’d honed under Shinra not translating well to other professions.

Though, what puzzled Aerith was that these two were not mere low-level guards. They bore the Uniform of ranked Soldiers, the company’s elite warriors. Which made her wonder how and why they could have ended up in this position? Surely, the company wouldn't want to let them go? Especially when she’d been hearing rumours that some of their most-decorated, highest ranked members had been declared MIA. Even if they did, wouldn't their skills be highly sought after? They shouldn't have had a problem finding work.

Still, regardless of the details, Aerith knew better than to judge. She didn't know their situation and didn't need to. For now, all that mattered was that they needed help.

She looked over the brunette nearest to her, a gasp breaking from her lips. She could make out patches of blood soaking through the dark material of his turtleneck, dried flecks crusting over his bare arms. Her hands hovered over him, calling on the power of healing magic. Yet the energy that surrounded him seemed to have little effect, as though there were no wounds that needed tending to.

Studying him, curious, Aerith found she couldn't see any obvious cuts or bruises. She could even hear him breathing softly, a sound that seemed to carry over the cacophony of the station, instilling the hope that perhaps he might be alright.

The blond at his side, however, seemed to be in a bad way. From the short distance she’d clocked them at, she hadn’t realised that his eyes were actually open. Though, they were glazed and unfocused.  Even if she were to meet his gaze, Aerith could tell she wouldn’t be able to get through to him.

The wounds he bore must have cut deeper, perhaps a trauma he still carried after being exposed to the atrocity and horror of war.

It was fortunate for her that one of the doctors in Sector 5 owed her a favour. She had been supplying him with rare herbs for his medicines and might be willing to treat these two. Though, getting them to the clinic wouldn’t be so simple.

Aerith supposed she could always find the doctor herself and bring him here, but she worried what may happen if she left them alone.

She might be able to help the blond, who was closer to her height and had a leaner build, but there was no way she could manage both. Especially not the dark-haired one, who, though malnourished, seemed much taller and bulkier.

Even if she could, she would still have to navigate through the backstreets and scrapyards where monsters lurked. Though she was certainly capable with a staff and her Cetra bloodline leant itself to a natural aptitude for magic, she would be hindered if she had to support someone.

It was obvious that she was going to need help.

As her eyes flickered across the crowd, hoping to find someone she knew, the brunette stirred, an exhale breaking from his lips. Aerith was pulled toward the sound, immediately catching the flutter of his eyelids.

He was regaining consciousness.

The sight gave her a flash of hope, as she wondered if he might have the strength to stand on his own. That could certainly make the trip the rest of the way into Sector 5 easier.

Tentatively, her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, a feather-light caress.

“A- Are you alright?”

His body sprung swiftly into motion at the contact, lashing out with the instinct of a wounded animal. Aerith lurched back, feeling her heart flutter unsteadily with the sudden movement. That pattern carried on as she took in the strong contours of his face and the few, errant strands of hair that hung over it. Her breath hitched in her throat as she was taken by the pure, shining blue of his eyes.

As the haze clouding Zack’s senses began to dissipate, he was overwhelmed by light shimmering through soft, chestnut hair, framing a brilliant emerald. He squinted, unsure if the presence was solid, or some ethereal vision.

While crossing the barren outskirts of Midgar, Zack had fallen prey to the odd mirage, finding images of Angeal or his parents burnt across the horizon. Whether it was a result of the climate or perhaps his declining condition, he wasn’t sure. But he wouldn’t overlook the possibility that he was still disoriented, imagining the presence of others.

He had certainly been starved for the company.

Surely, this seemed too bright and otherworldly, to be something, someone, underneath the plate. Perhaps, he wondered, he was returning to the planet.

“Heaven?” He muttered.

Blinking, it took Aerith a moment before her mind could piece together a coherent response. Conscious of the dire situation, she let out a forced, breathy laugh.

“Not quite. But I can see why you might think that.”

Aerith cringed, quickly realising her words hadn’t been the most sensitive. She had hoped some humour might be enough to ease the tension.

“I was just wondering if you were okay," she continued. "There’s a clinic not far from here, they’ll be able to help you and your friend out. I can show you the way if you like?”

Zack eyed her, at first, sceptical. His gaze scanned the perimeter, wondering if perhaps this was a ploy, expecting to spot a squadron of Shinra waiting to ambush him the moment he followed her.

Yet, the distinct, foreboding rush of dread that anticipated such an attack was something he’d become familiar with; particularly these last few months. For the moment, he couldn’t sense it.

Much of Zack’s journey had been bolstered by placing his trust in others, even when it didn't seem a hundred percent certain. There was Cissnei, who agreed to turn a blind eye and not inform Shinra of his whereabouts, the old guy who had given him and Cloud a lift.

Zack supposed he could tempt fortune once more.

“Alright,” he answered. "Lead the way."

He moved to stand; Cloud’s arm still draped around his neck; but staggered, almost losing his balance. Aerith's hands hung hesitantly by his shoulder, ready to offer to support some of the weight.

“Do you... need any help?”

"N- no, I've got this.” He grimaced, glance flickering briefly toward the sword still fixed at his back. “Though, I don't know that I'd be much good in a fight right now."

“No worry,” Aerith reassured, retrieving her staff. “You can leave that to me.”

.

Despite the obvious weariness bearing down upon him, Zack had been quite adamant that he, and only he, carry his friend; Cloud.

They had made their introductions briefly, before setting off. Aerith wasn’t sure what had compelled her to share her name. Perhaps she thought that if he knew it, he may be more open to trusting her. For now, he seemed somewhat apprehensive, as he trailed behind her, keeping a slight distance.

It would fall to her to fend off any monsters that crossed their paths.

Luckily, the packs of wererats they encountered were small and easy to keep track of. The fact that they tended to target the bigger, more immediate threats also proved advantageous, as; despite the giant sword at his back; Zack did not appear particularly imposing right now.

Before they could even think of calling upon their friends, Aerith was quick to rain ice spells down.

She led them safely the rest of the way to the clinic, just down from the Leafhouse.

Their late-afternoon arrival was opportune, as it meant she wouldn’t run into any of the kids, who were likely either inside or at their secret hideout. She suspected that the sight of her guiding two bloody, injured Soldiers might be cause for concern. It also meant there were no other patients being attended to, as they turned up just before the clinic was set to close for the evening.

The doctor’s head was bowed, looking over some paperwork when the door creaked open, his eyes lifting. Aerith’s hand rose in a sheepish wave as Zack stumbled in through behind her.

Gaze flickering toward the prone, motionless body balanced at Zack’s side, he swiftly rose from his desk, moving into action. Such a scene was not uncommon among the slums, it seemed.

“Move him to one of the beds in the back. I’ll examine him there.”

Suddenly, Zack grew apprehensive, his grip tightening instinctively, protectively, around Cloud. There was something about the room, the entire situation that unnerved him. The stranger’s white lab coat, their glasses, the stench of chemicals permeating the space. The cold, drab walls and equipment littered about the bench; needles, vials of unfamiliar substances.

It felt all too familiar.

He couldn’t trust it.

But, perhaps more crucially, Cloud was one of the few people left who Zack felt he could trust. After the lengths he had gone through to keep him from harm, Zack was not willing to hand him over so easily. His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint shining through, enough for the man to recoil.

Catching the tension etched across his features, Aerith’s fingers treaded lightly against his back, immediately drawing his intense glare away.

“It’s okay,” she reassured. “He’s just trying to help.”

As Aerith held his gaze, her eyes shining with sincerity and conviction, Zack could sense his more jaded, survival instincts ebbing away, as he wondered if he had a reason to doubt her.

She had found he and Cloud in trouble and, unlike most, went out of her way to offer help. She had led them all the way to his clinic, even fighting off monsters to ensure that they would make it safely. Those acts did not reflect someone with ulterior motives. Surely, if she had wanted to take advantage of them, it would have been easier to do so while they were passed out?

Besides, while he had managed to get this far on his own, Zack knew there were things he wouldn’t be able to do by himself. As much as it pained him to admit, he couldn’t help Cloud.

Begrudgingly, Zack guided Cloud over to the bed. Setting him down carefully with the doctor’s assistance.

Producing a small torch, he shone the light directly into Cloud’s eyes, noting how his pupils constricted. He was responding; that much was a relief.

Lifting his finger, the doctor dragged it in a straight line across Cloud’s eyeline. Cloud, however, was slow and languid in following the motion.

“Mako poisoning. Looks like a pretty serious case too. I can’t imagine how he’d have experienced such direct exposure.”

Zack grit his teeth. Having already received Mako injections as part of his induction into Soldier, he had a much better tolerance. Cloud, however, had not seen any direct exposure before. It was no wonder his body reacted poorly.

Not to mention, prospective Soldiers were typically given much smaller, controlled doses over time, allowing them to gradually adjust. They weren’t soaked in tiny tubes filled to the brim with the stuff!

As Zack stewed over bitter, disjointed memories of Hojo’s experiments, for the first time during the examination, the doctor’s curiosity won out.

“What exactly happened to him?”

Zack hesitated, unsure of how much detail he should go into. He knew it was counterproductive to lie, especially to someone only trying to help. After all, even the most innocuous information may have helped in assisting Cloud’s recovery.

But, could he really tell him that they’d both been sealed in vats of Mako and experimented on? That he wasn’t even entirely sure how long that process had lasted? That they’d escaped and spent the better part of a year evading Shinra? Sure, Zack was vaguely aware of doctor-patient confidentiality, but wasn’t sure it extended to dishonoured Soldiers on the run.

He couldn’t risk it.

“There was an open pool of Mako. He, uh- Fell in.” Zack lied.

The look the doctor gave was scrutinising, all furrowed lines and narrowed eyes. It was obvious that he didn’t believe him. Zack’s hand rubbed at the back of his head, a nervous tick. For the time being, he did not acknowledge Zack’s dishonesty, instead continuing with the treatment.

“We have a means to treat this, fortunately.” The doctor continued, producing an elixir from one of the cabinets behind him. “Though, given his current condition, it would normally need to be administered intravenously.”

Zack nodded, unable to contain the flash of disappointment. Of course. This was a small clinic in the slums. There was no way they’d have access to that kind of technology. In yet another cruel twist, just as he thought he’d found a way for Cloud to get better, it was ripped away from him.

Surprisingly, though, the doctor did not seem discouraged, a prospect that gave Zack the smallest flicker of hope.

Positioning Cloud onto his side, the doctor began to pry his mouth open before slowly trickling the liquid inside. The sight woke panic in Zack, who feared that he may choke. That is until he saw the bobbing of Cloud’s throat, swallowing the mixture down. Zack’s bewilderment must have been shown in his expression, as the doctor offered an explanation.

“Keeping the airways clear is something deeply tied to our physiology. Even in the most vegetative state the body still retains its ability to swallow.”

His words brought Zack relief, as he watched Cloud drank down the last of the medicine.

“He should be fine. It’ll take some time to flush the Mako out of his system, though. It would be best if he spent the night here, just to be safe.”

“Then I’ll stay here too.”

As he spoke, Zack could feel the doctor’s eyes shifting now to examine him. The thorough and concise way he analysed him made Zack uneasy, still.

“You are fortunate to not be in the same position,” he said. “Though I am concerned by the amount of blood you appear to have lost.”

“Don’t worry,” Zack dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Most of it’s not even mine.”

“You may feel fine, but you’re still running on adrenaline. You’re going to feel the effects once it wears off. It would be best if you were to rest.

“I’m fine,” Zack pushed, stubborn. As if to further emphasise the point he pulled up a nearby chair, perching himself by the head of Cloud’s bed.

“Have it your way,” the doctor sighed, moving back out into the reception area; perhaps to speak with Aerith. “Though there are more beds available should you change your mind.”

It may have been reckless on Zack’s part, but he had his reasons. It had been unsettling when he first entered the Clinic. He could only imagine the panic Cloud would wake in if he found himself in a strange room. He may fear for the worst, thinking they had been captured by Shinra. If Zack was there, his presence might calm him down.

Besides, even if he wanted to, Zack didn’t think he’d be able to sleep right now. Not until he was sure that Cloud was better.

It wasn’t long, though, before he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. Suddenly feeling much less resistance to the sleep trying to take him.

Cloud was still recovering, but ultimately, in a better place; out of Hojo’s clutches. The realisation left Zack content, knowing that he could, seemingly, finally relax.

That they were safe, for the time being.

.

“You’re still here? I guess you were serious about staying.”

Zack blinked, looking around the room. He hadn’t realised how long it had been, finding darkness now blanketing the streets outside.

From the doorway, Aerith hovered in his periphery, her voice reaching out to him from a distance. She offered a soft smile as he eventually turned in her direction.

“If you really don’t want to sleep, why don’t you stop by the Community Centre next door? You’ll at least be able to clean yourself up and get something to eat.”

Zack could feel his stomach churn at the mere mention of food. The offer was tempting. He hadn’t been able to change his clothes or bathe for several months and had eaten only when the opportunity presented itself.

But, he still had doubts. For the time being, he’d feel safe lying low somewhere. Right now, this clinic seemed to fit the bill.

Though, Zack sighed, finding it cruel to refuse her. Particularly when she was being so kind, going to such lengths to help him, to no benefit of her own. But this was just the situation they were facing. He needed to be practical.

“I’d like to, but...”

Zack trailed off, eyes flickering back toward the bed where Cloud rested, the lone gesture more than conveying the reason for his hesitance. Aerith’s eyes softened, cradling a hand over her chest. She admired his steadfast dedication to his friend. The fact that he would value his well being over his own to such an extent. He was so selfless, albeit to a fault.

It was time that someone looked out for him.

“I understand. But if you aren’t careful, there’s going to be two people who end up bed-ridden and I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

She set her hands at her hips and scowled in mock admonishment, doing her best to mimic the same pose her mother would adopt if ever she was misbehaving. Zack couldn’t help the chuckle that broke his lips with the sudden shift.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“How about this? You can stay here and I’ll bring something back for you, sound good? There was actually somewhere I was supposed to be helping out tonight, but… something else came up...”

Her voice dragged into silence and Zack smirked.

“You sure are connected, huh?” He teased.

.

The soup Aerith brought back was light and warm as it trickled down his throat. Zack shivered, feeling it heat up his chest, in stark contrast to the rain-soaked sweater that was still clinging to his body.

He was surprised by the broth’s vibrant flavour. He would have thought good quality vegetables would be difficult to come by. Though, that may have also been due in part to this being the first proper meal he had been able to enjoy in months.

Still, it tasted divine.

Though his stomach grumbled, aching for more, Zack pushed down the urge to greedily suckle up every last drop before him. He knew he needed to pace himself, that he could get ill if he suddenly gorged his malnourished body too quickly. It was a problem Soldiers faced, when on long missions and short on rations.

Soup was a safe option to start with, though. The fresh vegetables would help settle his stomach and allow him to eventually move onto something heavier.

As he continued to savour the dish, he could feel Aerith’s gaze covering him. He glanced up, greeted by her warm smile.

“Like it? I have some more if you want. Or we could keep it for Cloud.”

Setting down his bowl, Zack did not answer for the moment. Instead, he mirrored her expression, sincere and unyielding.

“I really appreciate this, Aerith.”

“O- oh, it’s nothing, really.”

“Are you kidding? Things were touch and go for us for a while there. But thanks to you, I’ll think we’ll be okay. I have to repay you somehow.”

Zack pondered for a moment, unsure of how he could even begin to repay the lengths she had gone to for him.

He didn’t have any gil, or really... anything of monetary value to his name. Perhaps once he had settled into town and found some work he’d be able to repay her. But, money didn’t seem adequate to cover just how indebted he was to Aerith.

If it weren’t for her, Cloud might have never had a chance to recover.

One thing he knew for certain, he was actually enjoying her company and would like to keep spending time with her.

“I know,” he decided eventually. “How about one date?”

“Hmm?” Aerith considered, fingers pressing at her chin. “Spending time with you is a reward, is it?”

“Well, you got us food this time around. It’s only fair that I return the favour.”

“I keep telling you, it’s fine. Besides, I wouldn’t want to trouble you. I get the impression you aren’t exactly rolling in gil right now”

“Maybe not at the moment, but a man of my skills? I could be a mercenary, and take on any job. It won’t be long before I’ve found work.”

“Is that so?” She teased. “I don’t seem to recall you doing much monster-fighting today.”

“It’s true there’s no way I could compare to you, but I’ll have you know I’m quite handy with a sword.”

“Really? I guess I’ll have to hire you and find out for myself.”

“I’ll be there. Just say the word.”

Zack was surprised. He’d always thought himself friendly, amiable. But not since he had first met Cloud, could Zack recall jelling so effortlessly with another person; enjoying that same easy banter. That he was opening up so readily after what he and Cloud had just been through.

The conversation dipped as they continued to eat, silently.

That is, until he caught the basket of flowers resting in the corner of the room. That’s right, Zack recalled. Aerith had had those with her when she had found them at the station.

It was a hard detail to miss. You didn’t often see flowers around Midgar. It piqued his curiosity. They must have been important if she had made the effort to bring them all the way here with her.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask earlier, but… what’s with the flowers?”

“Oh! I sell them. I actually forgot I had left them here. But, I suppose it doesn’t matter. They do make for a nice gift for someone who isn’t feeling well, after all. I’m sure Cloud will appreciate them.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You’re not jealous, are you?” She goaded.

Before Zack could offer any retort, a strained groan broke from the opposite side of the room. His voice caught, a tightness constricting his throat. Before him, Aerith froze, her hand in the midst of raising a spoonful of soup to her lips. Zack’s head whipped back toward the bed as the sheets ruffled under the distinct movement of Cloud’s body.

“Cloud?!”

“Z- Zack?”

Immediately, Zack sprung forward, stopping abruptly by the head of Cloud’s bed. His voice had been weak, his features scrunching up as he struggled to keep his bleary, eyes open.  Yet, it was more life than he could recall seeing from his friend in months. Zack laughed, tears of relief beading in the corners of his eyes.

“I guess you were right. The flowers did make a difference.”

[worldofsufis]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐞

The painful events that are occurring in Palestine right now will eventually come to an end just as previous iterations of these events have also come to an end. But as we pay attention to the details of the issues taking place, we must not forget the root cause, because it was the cause for all the problems of the past and it will remain so into the future.

The root of everything that is happening in Palestine now is that radical groups professing the ideology of Zionism aggressed upon a land in which Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Samaritans were living in peace. They perpetrated massacres and evicted much of those populations, after which they announced the creation of a new state in 1948, the leaders of which were from those groups. The world community recognised this new state at the time, and in 1967 it expanded its territorial occupation to encroach further into Palestinian land. Today, the world community is a mere spectator to this occupation despite officially recognising it as illegitimate. The fact that we are now in the third millennium and there still exists a state in the world that is incessant in committing the crime of occupation without a care for the Declaration of Human Rights and UN Conventions, and without receiving a real reaction from the UN and the so-called civilised world that may deter the occupier from its occupation, is evidence enough of the spectator status of the world community.

The occupiers are persecuting the people of Palestine and hampering their capacity to have a livelihood. Over 80% of the people of East Jerusalem live in a state of poverty and destitution that has been imposed on them. They are denied the basic rights of freedom to worship and living a dignified life. Their homes and farms are usurped from them. Their general rights are denied to them. Those Palestinians who hold the occupier’s nationality are treated with discrimination. The Gaza Strip is sealed off. Gaza is the most densely populated place on earth with a population density of approximately 5000 people per square kilometre. It has been under a blockade for 15 years and has a 60% unemployment rate. Settlements have and continue to be built in the West Bank for the benefit of usurpers with no connection to the land and who have been imported in from around the world on the basis of their religion and ethnicity. Women and children are killed and houses are razed to the ground. Extremist rabbis justify the killing of Palestinian women and children yet there is no criminalisation of their terrorist rhetoric. Palestinian refugees are denied the possibility of ever returning.

The occupier has been complicit in desecrating the sacred symbols of two billion Muslims. In 1969, Al-Aqsa was burnt. Affronts to its sanctity continue until today and are too numerous to list.

All of this occurs under the sight and support of the self-proclaimed “civilised” world and “advanced” countries; the same countries who peddle the slogan of “human” rights and use it to look down upon us every so often by delivering lectures to our countries about respecting “human” rights!

There are many other issues that result from the simple fact of the occupation’s existence:

• The impulsive and aggressive actions of the heads of the occupying state towards the Palestinians, as and when their political life requires it;

• the bias of many of the world’s most powerful states towards the occupation and the submissiveness of others to powerful lobbies that are supportive of the occupation;

• the exploitation by some of these states of the events that occur as a result of the occupation for their own power play;

• the attempts by some of the states in the Arab region to use the resistance as a tool for their own political and expansionist ambitions;

• the deviation of some of the Palestinian factions from a correct path of resistance and them dragging internal political conflicts, regional struggles, and international politics into the issue and thereby clouding the real essence of the Palestinian cause.

All of these issues are merely outcomes of the fact of occupation and the acceptability of its continued existence. Without occupation, these issues would not exist.

We may also add that the existence of disorganised Palestinian factions, some classified as “terrorist”, are merely a symptom among the many symptoms of the occupation. In the event of there being a real, independent, capable, and stable state, non-state actors could have no recourse to leadership. The experience of countries such as Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan (among others) testify to this, for in the face of many destabilising attempts of organisations and movements, aided by monetary, media, and even weapons’ support, as well as the attempts of regional and global states to apply pressure to them politically, economically, and under the pretext of human rights, these states have managed to maintain their stability.

If we continue to deal only with the outcomes of the occupation while neglecting the root and essence of the issue then we simply return back to the same problems that repeat themselves. In the end, it is Palestinian lives that pay the price.

Some people and groups exploit the plight of the Palestinian people and use it to support their own agenda of bringing down governments in the Arab region through inciting and provoking the masses against the state in the name of supporting Al-Aqsa. This not only betrays the Palestinian cause but deals a fatal blow to the dwindling attachment and empathy our people feel towards the issue, weakens the capacity that regional states have in standing in solidarity with Jerusalem and Al-Aqsa, and confounds the role these states play in dealing with the greater crises that have been occurring in recent years. At the end of this all, it is the Palestinian who will pay the price with his blood, shelter, and ability.

In closing: Allah’s promise is true, whether much time passes or little. A day will come in which Al-Aqsa and the blessed land of Palestine will be liberated. The question, however, is how each one of us fulfils our present duty: first, by maintaining steadfastness on obedience to Allah, repenting from sin, standing at His door, increasing in our realisation of certainty, and then by taking the means. These include:

• Developing our countries, healing their fractures, lifting them from being in a state of want and helplessness, and fulfilling the communal obligation of making them self-sufficient in terms of their farming, industry, education, economics, defence, and innovation. We all must work towards these ends from the place that Allah has placed us in.

• Strengthening our children’s connection to their identity, language, faith, nationality, and culture, and acquainting them with the issue of Al-Aqsa and planting the seeds of love, connection, and support for its cause in their hearts.

• Working earnestly to disseminate the truth about the root cause of the Palestinian issue, in all languages and all media platforms, and to document this truth as much as we can, for this is something that is within the realm of our capacity and it is the duty of our time.

• Donating financially to help our brothers and sisters in Palestine for those who are able to do so, making sure they use non-partisan and reputable charities and organisations such as the UNWRA.

• Travelling to Al-Aqsa and increasing the awareness of people to do so. Such visitations should be “guided” - that is, visitors should arrange their tours with Palestinian groups and companies, enter Palestine through Jordan, use Palestinian owned transport, stay in Palestinian owned hotels, eat in Palestinian owned restaurants, and shop in Palestinian owned shops. If masses did this regularly, a year would not pass except the grounds of Al-Aqsa would be bustling with visitors from all over the world just as the two holy sanctuaries of Makka and Madina are. The occupier will have little room to intrude on Al-Aqsa and all factions of the occupation will see for themselves that aggression against the sanctity of Al-Aqsa is an affront to two billion Muslims and not just the Palestinians.

And before all of this and after it: we plead to Allah in prayer, having certainty in our hearts that prayer has an effect, and knowing that prayer is what we depend on to change our state of affairs.

“Those whose faith only increased when people said, ‘Fear your enemy: they have amassed a great army against you,’ and who replied, ‘Allah is enough for us: He is the best protector (HasbunAllah wa ni’ma-l Wakil).” (Al-Imran: 173)

Allah is enough for us: He is the best protector.

Allah is enough for us: He is the best protector.

Allah is enough for us: He is the best protector,

May Allah protect Masjid Al-Aqsa, extend support to the guardians who are stationed on its blessed grounds, relieve the Palestinian people of their plight, and awaken the umma from being heedless of the duty it bears to give it assistance and aid, Ya Hayyu Ya Qayyum.

— Habib Ali Al-Jifri

#savesheikhjarrah

#Gaza_Under_Attack

#PalestineUnderAttack

#humanity

#AlAqsa

#SaveGaza

#savepalestine

#FreePalestine

#Alquds

#الاقصى

#GazaUnderAttack

#Palestine

#Gaza

#PalestinianLivesMatter

[mytwilightimagines13]

Amnesia (Book Two)(Part Twelve)

The witnesses

Two things happened at once. Caius's eyes focused on Aro, and the tiny cruel smile came back. And Edward hissed, his hands balling up in fists so tight it looked like the bones in his knuckles would split through his diamond-hard skin. Carlisle glanced anxiously at Edward's face, and then his own face hardened. While Caius had blundered through useless accusations and injudicious attempts to trigger the fight, Aro must have been coming up with a more effective strategy. Aro ghosted across the snow to the far western end of the foe’s line, stopping about ten yards from Amun and Kebi. The nearby wolves bristled angrily but held their positions. “Ah, Amun, my southern neighbor!" Aro said warmly. "It has been so long since you've visited me." Amun was motionless with anxiety, Kebi a statue at his side. "Time means little; I never notice its passing," Amun said through unmoving lips. "So true," Aro agreed. "But maybe you had another reason to stay away?" Amun said nothing. "It can be terribly time-consuming to organize newcomers into a coven. I know that well! I'm grateful I have others to deal with the tedium.” Aro said and many took a quick glance at Maeryn before returning their attention back to Aro. Alec grabbed Maeryn’s hand and squeezed it lightly. Maeryn returned his gesture by stroking his hand with her thumb once. “I'm glad your new additions have fit in so well. I would have loved to have been introduced. I'm sure you were meaning to come to see me soon." Aro continued. "Of course," Amun said, his tone so emotionless that it was impossible to tell if there was any fear or sarcasm in his assent. "Oh well, we're all together now! Isn't it lovely?" Amun nodded, his face blank. "But the reason for your presence here is not as pleasant, unfortunately. Carlisle called on you to witness?" "Yes." "And what did you witness for him?" Amun spoke with the same cold lack of emotion. "I've observed the child in question. It was evident almost immediately that she was not an immortal child - " "Perhaps we should define our terminology," Aro interrupted, "now that there seem to be new classifications. By immortal child, you mean of course a human child who had been bitten and thus transformed into a vampire." "Yes, that's what I meant." "What else did you observe about the child?" "The same things that you surely saw in Edward's mind. That the child is his biologically. That she grows. That she learns." Maeryn still couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that Bella and Edward had intercourse when she was only human. Maeryn had to admit she was impressed by Edward’s ability to restrain himself. But she was also disgusted by it at the same time. She couldn’t ponder on the fact how he could bring his mate in so much danger. Not just by having intercourse, but also by impregnating her. Overall, she found it foolish. "Yes, yes," Aro said, a hint of impatience in his otherwise amiable tone. "But specifically in your few weeks here, what did you see?" Amun's brow furrowed. "That she grows... quickly." Aro smiled. "And do you believe that she should be allowed to live?" Hisses escaped multiple mouths on the foe’s side, once Aro’s words had been spoken out loud. Half the vampires in the foe’s line echoed in protest. The sound was a low sizzle of fury hanging in the air. Across the meadow, a few of the Volturi witnesses made the same noise, including Maeryn. Edward stepped back and wrapped a restraining hand around Bella’s wrist. Aro did not turn to the noise, but Amun glanced around uneasily. "I did not come to make judgments," he equivocated. Aro laughed lightly. "Just your opinion." Amun's chin lifted. "I see no danger in the child. She learns even more swiftly than she grows." Aro nodded, considering. After a moment, he turned away. "Aro?" Amun called. Aro whirled back. "Yes, friend?" "I gave my witness. I have no more business here. My mate and I would like to take our leave now." Aro smiled warmly. "Of course. I'm so glad we were able to chat for a bit. And I'm sure we'll see each other again soon." Amun's lips

were a tight line as he inclined his head once, acknowledging the barely concealed threat. He touched Kebi's arm, and then the two of them ran quickly to the southern edge of the meadow and disappeared into the trees. Maeryn was sure that they wouldn't stop running for a very long time. Smart move. Aro was gliding back along the length of our line to the east, his guards hovering tensely. He stopped when he was in front of Siobhan's massive form. "Hello, dear Siobhan. You are as lovely as ever." Siobhan inclined her head, waiting. "And you?" he asked. "Would you answer my questions the same way Amun has?" "I would," Siobhan said. "But I would perhaps add a little more. Renesmee understands the limitations. She's no danger to humans - she blends in better than we do. She poses no threat of exposure." "Can you think of none?" Aro asked soberly. Edward growled, a low ripping sound deep in his throat. Caius's cloudy crimson eyes brightened. Renata reached out protectively toward her master. And Garrett freed Kate to take a step forward, ignoring Kate's hand as she tried to caution him this time. Maeryn watched the scene closely, holding her hands out, ready to weaken Bella’s shield at any moment. Siobhan answered slowly, "I don't think I follow you." Aro drifted lightly back, casually, but toward the rest of his guard. Renata, Felix, and Demetri were closer than his shadow. "There is no broken law," Aro said in a placating voice, but everyone on both sides of the meadow could hear that a qualification was coming. Bella was becoming furious, and hurled the fury into her shield, thickening it, making sure everyone was protected. Maeryn smiled and used her gift slightly, giving Bella some resistance. Not enough to break the shield, but enough for her to lighten up Bella’s fury even further, and use more energy than originally asked for. "No broken law," Aro repeated. "However, does it follow then that there is no danger? No." He shook his head gently. "That is a separate issue." The only response was the tightening of already stretched nerves, and Maggie, at the fringes of their band of fighters, shaking her head with slow anger. Aro paced thoughtfully, looking as if he floated rather than touched the ground with his feet. Maeryn noticed every pass took him closer to the protection of his guard, and felt more relieved with every pass he took. "She is unique... utterly, impossibly unique. Such a waste it would be, to destroy something so lovely. Especially when we could learn so much .. ." He sighed, as if unwilling to go on. "But there is danger, danger that cannot simply be ignored." No one answered his assertion. It was dead silent as he continued in a monologue that sounded as if he spoke it for himself only. "How ironic it is that as the humans advance, as their faith in science grows and controls their world, the more free we are from discovery. Yet, as we become ever more uninhibited by their disbelief in the supernatural, they become strong enough in their technologies that, if they wished, they could actually pose a threat to us, even destroy some of us.” Aro said, his face looking troubled. "For thousands and thousands of years, our secrecy has been more a matter of convenience, of ease, than of actual safety. This last raw, angry century has given birth to weapons of such power that they endanger even immortals. Now our status as mere myth in truth protects us from these weak creatures we hunt. This amazing child" - he lifted his hand palm down as if to rest it on Renesmee, though he was forty yards from her now, almost within the Volturi formation again. "if we could but know her potential - know with absolute certainty that she could always remain shrouded within the obscurity that protects us. But we know nothing of what she will become! Her own parents are plagued by fears of her future. We cannot know what she will grow to be." He paused, looking first at the foe’s witnesses, and then, meaningfully, at his own. His voice gave a good imitation of sounding torn by his words. Still looking at his own

witnesses, he spoke again. "Only the known is safe. Only the known is tolerable. The unknown is... a vulnerability." Caius's smile widened viciously. "You're reaching, Aro," Carlisle said in a bleak voice. "Peace, friend." Aro smiled, his face as kind, his voice as gentle, as ever. "Let us not be hasty. Let us look at this from every side." "May I offer a side to be considered?" Garrett petitioned in a level tone, taking another step forward. "Nomad," Aro said, nodding in permission. Garrett's chin lifted. His eyes focused on the huddled mass at the end of the meadow, and he spoke directly to the Volturi witnesses. Maeryn raised an eyebrow, wondering what this nomad could possibly say to still put an end to this tension. A tension of a starting battle, waiting around the corner to blossom like a deadly flower. "I came here at Carlisle's request, as the others, to witness," he said. "That is certainly no longer necessary, with regard to the child. We all see what she is. I stayed to witness something else. You." He jabbed his finger toward the wary vampires. "Two of you I know - Makenna, Charles - and I can see that many of you others are also wanderers, roamers like myself. Answering to none. Think carefully on what I tell you now. 'These ancient ones did not come here for justice as they told you. We suspected as much, and now it has been proved. They came, misled, but with a valid excuse for their action. Witness now as they seek flimsy excuses to continue their true mission. Witness them struggle to find a justification for their true purpose - to destroy this family here." He gestured toward Carlisle and Tanya. "The Volturi come to erase what they perceive as the competition. Perhaps, like me, you look at this clan's golden eyes and marvel. They are difficult to understand, it's true. But the ancient ones look and see something besides their strange choice. They see power. I have witnessed the bonds within this family - I say family and not coven. These strange golden-eyed ones deny their very natures. But in return have they found something worth even more, perhaps, than mere gratification of desire? I've made a little study of them in my time here, and it seems to me that intrinsic to this intense family binding - that which makes them possible at all - is the peaceful character of this life of sacrifice. There is no aggression here like we all saw in the large southern clans that grew and diminished so quickly in their wild feuds. There is no thought for domination. And Aro knows this better than I do." Maeryn watched Aro's face as Garrett's words condemned him, waiting tensely for some response, a sign to end this nomad. Who does he think he is? Questioning her Master like that?! But Aro's face was only politely amused, as if waiting for a tantrum-throwing child to realize that no one was paying attention to his histrionics. "Carlisle assured us all, when he told us what was coming, that he did not call us here to fight. These witnesses" - Garrett pointed to Siobhan and Liam - "agreed to give evidence, to slow the Volturi advance with their presence so that Carlisle would get the chance to present his case. But some of us wondered" - his eyes flashed to Eleazars face - "if Carlisle having truth on his side would be enough to stop the so-called justice. Are the Volturi here to protect the safety of our secrecy, or to protect their own power? Did they come to destroy an illegal creation, or a way of life? Could they be satisfied when the danger turned out to be no more than a misunderstanding? Or would they push the issue without the excuse of justice? We have the answer to all these questions. We heard it in Aro's lying words - we have one with a gift of knowing such things for certain - and we see it now in Caius's eager smile. Their guard is just a mindless weapon, a tool in their masters' quest for domination.” Maeryn frowned at his words, but quickly shook them off. This Garrett is a liar, nothing more, nothing less. "So now there are more questions, questions that you must answer. Who rules you,

nomads? Do you answer to someone's will besides your own? Are you free to choose your path, or will the Volturi decide how you will live? I came to witness. I stay to fight. The Volturi care nothing for the death of the child. They seek the death of our free will." He turned, then, to face the ancients. "So come, I say! Let's hear no more lying rationalizations. Be honest in your intents as we will be honest in ours. We will defend our freedom. You will or will not attack it. Choose now, and let these witnesses see the true issue debated here." Once more he looked to the Volturi witnesses, his eyes probing each face. The power of his words was evident in their expressions. "You might consider joining us. If you think the Volturi will let you live to tell this tale, you are mistaken. We may all be destroyed" - he shrugged - "but then again, maybe not. Perhaps we are on more equal footing than they know. Perhaps the Volturi have finally met their match. I promise you this, though - if we fall, so do you." He ended his heated speech by stepping back to Kate's side and then sliding forward in a half-crouch, prepared for the onslaught.

[gilmores-glorious-blog]

That Certain Night (Ineffable Husbands)

-

Look we all know something went down after Crowley’s invitation for Aziraphale to “stay at my place, if you’d like”. This is my interpretation of what that something was.

-

Crowley had always had a flair for the dramatic, which perhaps explains why he chose the worst possible time ever to confess his millenniums-long love for Aziraphale. 

In his defense, it had been a very long and crazy day, and he was shocked enough to be alive at the end of it that he wasn’t quite thinking properly. 

The bus, as Crowley had predicted, drove to London- in fact, it drove all the way to Crowley’s flat, screeching to a halt as a very confused bus driver looked around as if wondering how he had found himself there. 

Crowley stood, not letting go of Aziraphale’s hand. Why the angel had taken his hand in the first place, Crowley didn’t know, but it had taken six thousand years for him to do so, and Crowley was not letting him go this easily. 

“So… my place?” Crowley asked, letting the question hang in the air. If Aziraphale still didn’t dare to spend the night with Crowley, now is when he should say so. Though he really had nowhere else to go, and Crowley would find it quite foolish of the angel to decline his offer. 

To Crowley’s pleasant surprise, Aziraphale only hesitated for a second before standing up next to Crowley. 

“Yes dear, I suppose your place will have to do.” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley. It was a soft smile that Crowley had been finding himself on the receiving end of more and more recently, and he loved it. 

It had been a decade or so since Aziraphale had been to Crowley’s flat, and as per usual, he spent a good few minutes tutting around and sighing dramatically at Crowley’s choice of decor, or lack thereof. 

“Are you quite finished?” Crowley asked, swatting Aziraphale’s hand away from one of his beloved plants and glaring at the angel. “You can sleep in the guest room, if you’d like to sleep at all. I know you don’t usually sleep, but I’d say we both deserve a good night’s rest after the week we’ve had.” 

“Yes, I do believe you’re right about that.” Aziraphale replied. “I am quite tired, now that you mention it!” 

“‘Kay. Well, the bed’s that way.” Crowley said, jerking a finger towards the hallway. His room was in the opposite direction, and he expected this to be where he and Aziraphale parted for the evening, however disappointing that fact may be. 

Aziraphale turned and looked in the direction of Crowley’s finger before turning back to look at the demon. 

“Right. Um, Crowley dear, don’t you think we ought to discuss our plans first?” 

“Plans?” Crowley asked, hoping the fear wasn’t evident in his voice and the blush wasn’t evident in his face. 

“For what we will do when Heaven and Hell come after us. I don’t believe that we have much time to prepare. My lot is usually pretty punctual, especially when it comes to punishment.”

“Yeah, I learned that the hard way.” Crowley responded, reaching over his shoulder and rubbing his back like he did on instinct any time he remembered his Fall. Aziraphale pretended not to notice. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, we should have some sort of plan. Would be a real shame if we survived this whole near-apocalypse debacle just to get smote down immediately. Well, you’d get smote down, at least. I’d get smote… I dunno, even further down than Hell, whatever that would mean.” Crowley was rambling, which was nothing new, especially considering how nervous he was at the current moment. 

Aziraphale was talking again, leading Crowley into the office. Crowley supposed he should be paying attention, considering this was his life on the line as well as Aziraphale’s, but he only picked up a few keywords- “Plan”, “Heaven”, “The Almighty”, “Your lot”, “Crowley are you even listening to me?!”, and the such. 

Crowley stared at the angel as he paced around the room frantically. Aziraphale looked a mess, as Crowley must have also, all covered in dust and dirt from the airbase, his hair somewhat matted to one side, and his normally perfect clothes looking somewhat askew. He looked beautiful. Crowley always thought that, to be fair, but he could say with absolute certainty that here, in Crowley’s flat, muttering and flapping his hands frantically, looking stressed out of his mind, and exhausted from the weight of the almost-apocalypse, Aziraphale was the most beautiful that Crowley had ever seen him in 6000 years of being in love with him.

Crowley felt a sudden weight form on his chest and a knot form in his throat. This was very possibly the last night he’d spend with Aziraphale. Even if by some miracle they survived, both Heaven and Hell were sure to keep the two separated. Crowley blinked furiously (something he rarely did), trying hard not to cry. He couldn’t lose his angel. Not again. 

He blinked again and saw flames engulfing the room, swallowing Aziraphale up in them. Crowley shook his head and the vision disappeared, but he still felt the heat of the fire around him. Still heard the crackle of books burning, and even though the angel was standing right in front of him, Crowley still felt the pain of his heart shattering when he’d thought he had lost Aziraphale. 

“My dear, are you alright?” Crowley was suddenly aware that Aziraphale was closer to him than before, and was staring at him with concern. 

Crowley made some sort of sound in his throat, but it wasn’t anything close to a valid response, and Aziraphale looked even more worried. 

“Crowley-” 

“I love you.” 

Well fuck. Crowley had not intended to say that. It effectively shut the angel up, though, and Crowley watched as his blue eyes widened in surprise. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“‘M in love with you.” Crowley laughed dryly. He might as well go all in if he was going to be dead tomorrow. “Have been for quite some time, for a matter of fact.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, trying to act cool and nonchalant while every voice inside of him was screaming at him frantically to run far away and never return. 

Aziraphale continued to stare wide-eyed. Crowley was pretty sure he hadn’t blinked for a solid minute or two. 

“Angel?” Crowley was certain that whatever punishment Hell could come up with for him would be better than this. “Aziraphale, please say something.” 

What happened next was something that surprised both the angel and the demon, as Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley and kissed him fiercely. 

Crowley kissed him back, of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to pass up such an opportunity. He was, however, quite confused. 

Crowley pushed away from Aziraphale, holding him an arm’s length away. “Angel?” 

Aziraphale looked at him shyly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“No, no, don’t apologize. I’m just a bit lost. That wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting, considering all your ‘we aren’t friends’ mumbo-jumbo.” Crowley laughed nervously. 

 “Right. That. Well, I never said I was proud of being in love with a demon.” Aziraphale returned the nervous laughter.

“Of being what?” Crowley surely had misheard Aziraphale. Right? There was no way Mr. Holier-than-thou, Hereditary Enemies, Ineffable Plan could actually possibly love Crowley back. 

Aziraphale blushed furiously, something that Crowley enjoyed watching immensely. “I love you too, dear.” 

Crowley tried to speak, he really did, but the only sound he made was something that sounded like ‘ngk’. 

Aziraphale smiled and stood on his tiptoes to plant a small kiss on Crowley’s lips. “You alright there, dear?” 

“I… how long have you…” 

Aziraphale looked at the floor with an embarrassed look on his face. “1941. You saved my books.” 

Crowley remembered that. It had been one of his many attempts to get the angel to fall for him (not literally, of course). Guess it worked! Nice going, Anthony. 

“So I could have said something anytime in the past eighty years, but instead I waited until the night before we’ll likely get destroyed forever. Cool.” Crowley mentally chastised himself for being such an idiot. 

Aziraphale grinned at him. “Better late than never, I suppose?”  

Crowley just kissed him in response. 

And the angel was right, it was better late than never. Because as Crowley stood there, one hand in Aziraphale’s hair, and the other resting on his waist, he found that he didn’t care what happened tomorrow. He didn’t care what Hell did to him, what punishment they’d come up with for his countless crimes. He’d do it all again so long as it ended with him where he is now, in Aziraphale’s arms. Because if Crowley’s angel loved him back, then all was right with the world. 

[wickedsrest-rp-archive]

Supernatural Diseases - Humans

Note: Please message us if you plan on using these! We just want to coordinate to make sure there’s no doubling up at the same time.

General:

Humans are susceptible to most diseases, both supernatural and mundane. 

Tinneas Sidhe: A condition mentioned in Gaelic folklore where contact with the magical effects of fae or fae flora such as hungry grass or a gancanagh’s happiness drain lingers far longer than usual, and might even become a chronic condition if not treated in the early stages. This can present in a number of ways but often requires magical intervention to completely cure, with “ingredients” from the fae species that caused the issue.

Grave Chills: A disease typically contracted from undead creatures or locations heavy with necromantic energies. The sufferer feels a very literal chill of the grave that won't seem to go away even when in extremely hot environs. Some report being afflicted with hallucinations of deceased loved ones. Bathing in holy water a few times is a quick fix for this, but it will dissipate on its own after a couple of weeks.

Soul Instability: Affects mediums, exorcists, and spellcasters - if an individual spends too long in the astral plane, they put themselves at risk of not being able to get back into their body, which is left vulnerable to the regular world. They may need to seek help, all the while trying to keep their soul safe from the inherent dangers of the astral plane. Magic intervention is needed, and one can reduce the likeliness of happening again with regular anxiety-coping mechanisms.

Aura Reader:

Reader’s Spoonerism: Presenting with no obvious clinical signs, Reader’s Spoonerism causes aura readers to see the wrong auras on the wrong people and species. This means that a calm and collected person might have a red aura, or a fae might have the aura of a kitsune. This is very confusing for the aura reader and it can even take some time to identify that it’s happening. Reader’s Spoonerism tends to come and go like a common cold and will resolve on its own over time.

(Chronic illness TW) Soulsight: The aura reader’s powers gradually intensify, eventually causing everything to be covered in auras. This is visually painful and confusing, and can cause headaches, nausea, and even fainting. If not treated, the aura reader will eventually go blind and only be able to see in auras. While it’s possible to recover from this point, it is not a certainty, and will require multiple treatments of eyedrops made from fungus grown on a leshy. 

Aura’s Knot: This disturbing condition causes all auras to look like muddled messes. The reader will no longer be able to discern anything from auras, as they all look like lifeless brown puddles and knots. While there are no physical symptoms associated with this condition, it can cause psychological distress and even depression. It can be cured using a lotion made from the guts of supernatural creatures of varying colors mixed together (typically red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet).

Empath:

(Chronic illness TW) Mirroralgia: Empaths are supposed to only feel the emotions of others, but those who come down with mirroralgia -- transmitted by clingers on occasion -- also feel the physical pain of those around them. Any injuries taken around the afflicted empath will also hurt them, and any preexisting pain will be felt as if it’s their own. This can be an incredibly painful disease and can even cause death, if someone near the empath happens to die. Empaths can live with mirroralgia for years, or even their whole life, and it isn’t progressive, but in a town with as many deaths as White Crest, every day with it is a gamble. Once the sickness is identified, most empaths will choose to eliminate it by undergoing an elaborate ritual with the help of spellcasters.

Contrario Affectus: Empaths normally feel the emotions of others, but contrario affectus turns that on its head. This contagious bug causes the empath’s abilities to dull during the first couple of weeks of sickness. During the next few weeks, any person the empath has physical contact with will then begin to feel the emotions of the empath. The cure is simple: any analgesic. This can take months to resolve on its own, so typically the empath has to track down everyone they had contact with to identify who needs to be treated.

Barlow’s Funnel: This rare virus grants empaths the ability to drain the emotions of others. It tends to come on gradually, with the empath and those around them not realizing what’s happening at first. Eventually, those the empath spends the most time with will start feeling numb and emotionless, no longer enjoying things. As the virus worsens, the empath will start feeling an insatiable compulsion to intentionally drain people of their emotions, leaving innocents completely numb. The virus is able to remain inside the host indefinitely, but can be cured with mass consumption of nutritional yeast. Once the virus is gone, the emotions taken from others will be returned to them.

Medium & Exorcist:

Persephone Syndrome: Caused when a medium doesn't have enough living contact -- their life is unbalanced with dealing with the affairs of the dead, and they’ve become too invested ghosts’ (after)lifes. The medium’s abilities strengthen, but they lose the ability to see or hear living individuals, perceiving themselves to be alone with only ghosts for company. The medium will eventually become disoriented and confused, thinking themselves to be “haunted” by people they cannot see, when in reality it’s just living people. The cure involves isolating themselves from all ghosts for a couple of months and/or drinking a potion made primarily from the zombie necroplasm (goo from zombies), but can be difficult to diagnose and may require forced intervention by members of the living.

Spectris Oculis: A rare disease caused by staring at a poltergeist for too long (generally for 6+ hours). This condition causes the medium or exorcist’s eyes to glaze over, making it hard to focus on anything, and eventually blinding them over time. In the final stages of the disease, the eyes rot and fall out of the head. This can be treated with medication made out of chickcharney dung and squonk tears. While you can stop the eyes rotting and falling out at any stage in treatment, if the blindness has progressed too far, it is irreversible.

Resonance Inversion: Most ghosts fear exorcists, but exorcists who contract resonance inversion as a result of one too many exorcisms gone wrong, draw hordes of ghosts and demons toward them. The exorcist’s aura becomes a “magnet” that draws in nearby ghosts and other dangerous creatures, and nothing seems to lessen this. Exorcists with this condition will also cause more and more entities to swarm around them if they try and cast out a spirit. The best tactic for short-term survival is to use wards and other good luck charms to keep various demons away, but in the long-term, the exorcist will require psychic intervention to restore their aura back to normal. 

Soul Scrappies: More ghost than sickness, soul scrappies are small, malevolent spirits that latch onto the soul of an exorcist during an exorcism (or, rarely, a medium during a seance). The soul scrappy impacts the exorcist's psyche and can cause them to act differently than normal, though they don’t quite understand why. It can also impact the exorcist’s ability to successfully complete exorcisms. Typically, this can be caught early if the exorcist affected can sense ghosts, and the spirit can be sent packing with a mini exorcism.

Hunter:

Apoleia Dynamis: This psychosomatic condition can cause loss of supernatural hunter abilities, including a decrease in super strength, coordination, and immunity to quarry. Typically, this is brought on when a hunter completely loses faith in what they are, their cause, themselves, or anything else that tethers them to their abilities. The first sign of Apoleia Dynamis is often fading strength. Over time, this can cause hunters to become quite sickly, and it’s most easily reversed by treating the root cause -- a crisis of faith. 

Static Interference: Thought to be viral in origin and non-contagious, Static Interference causes hunters to begin emitting signals other hunters can feel, while also sensing all hunters as their target. This means that a slayer would “register” as a werewolf to beast hunters, while sensing other hunters as vampires. While confusing (and sometimes leading to lethal mistakes), this typically clears up on its own over time.

Achilles’ Bane: This disease of unknown origin causes hunters to take on the weaknesses of what they hunt. Wardens become sensitive to iron and lying, slayers to sunlight and holy objects, and beast hunters to silver and the thrall of the full moon. Though these weaknesses aren’t as extreme as they would be in their quarry, this can still cause considerable pain, discomfort, and psychological distress. While Achilles’ Bane sorts itself out over the course of a few months, it can also be cured via magic ritual with the assistance of a spellcaster and the species the hunter targets.

Spellcaster:

Uncontrolled wild magic: When the energy of a spellcaster passes through another magic-user, traits of it can be left behind, often presenting in uncontrolled outbursts of the preferred magic of the other spellcaster. This is almost always temporary, but can be cursed with a cleansing ritual that includes both parties involved and the entrails of a torple.

Hecate Inpass: A spellcaster who tries to do too much, spreading themselves too thin, can come down with a case of Hecate Impass, where their magic becomes fractured and unreliable. Rather than becoming good at all of the types of magic they were studying, they become good at nothing. This can even result in temporary or long-term loss of magic. This can be resolved by the spellcaster limiting their scope, and in more extreme cases, forfeiting some of their knowledge in a magic ritual or with the use of brain biters.

Too Familiar: The bond between a spellcaster and their familiar becomes too blurred, causing the spellcaster to take on behaviors and/or qualities of their familiar. If left untreated, it can result in the spellcaster bouncing back over the bond, and getting trapped inside their familiar (and, possibly, the familiar getting trapped inside of the caster). Often caused by linking with one’s familiar for prolonged amounts of time. Due to lack of documented information about the condition, it’s often resolved by killing the familiar. However, some records show that it can be also cured with the bite of any transformed shapeshifter (if a werewolf, the caster will not become one themselves, but details are scarce so there may be uncertainty).

[shesey]

Wintering by Katherine May

“Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. Perhaps it results from an illness; perhaps from a life event such as a bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from a humiliation or failure. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition, and have temporarily fallen between two worlds. Some winterings creep upon us more slowly, accompanying the protracted death of a relationship, the gradual ratcheting up of caring responsibilities as our parents age, the drip-drip-drip of lost confidence. Some are appallingly sudden, like discovering one day that your skills are considered obsolete, the company you worked for has gone bankrupt, or your partner is in love with someone new. However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely, and deeply painful. Yet it is also inevitable. We like to imagine that it’s possible for life to be one eternal summer, and that we have uniquely failed to achieve that for ourselves.” “Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximizing scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible. Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season when the world takes on a sparse beauty, and even the pavements sparkle. It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order.” “That’s what humans do: we make and remake our stories, abandoning the ones that no longer fit and trying on new ones for size.” “In the changing room later, I experience a different kind of warmth: the nakedness of a dozen women, all unashamed. These aren’t the posing bodies you find on the beach, dieted beyond al joy to be bikini-ready, and tanned as an act of disguise. These are northern bodies, slack-bottomed and dimpling, with unruly pubic hair and the scars of hysterectomies, chattering companionably in a language I don’t understand. They are a glimpse of life yet to come: a message of survival, passed on through the generations. It’s a message I rarely find in my buttoned-up home country, and I think about the times I’ve suffered silent furies at the treacheries of my own body, imagining them to be unique.” “Ghost stories may be a part of the terror of Halloween, but our love of ghost stories betrays a far more fragile desire: that we do not fade so easily from this life.” “Winter has decorated ordinary life. Some days, everything sparkles.” “You realize that no one is what they look like, on the surface. Everybody has their dose of suffering; it’s just more hidden in some than in others.” “I think about this a lot, she says, the needle breaks the fabric in order to repair it. You can’t have one without the other.” “In the absence of sunlight, it would be too costly to maintain the machinery of growth.” “I’m fairly certain that my decision not to have a second child rests squarely on my worship of sleep.” “I have nothing to show for my forty-odd years on this earth, except for a pile of dusty books.” “4am. The ego flares like a struck match: bright, blue, fleeting. I am thankful to be alone when this happens, to let it burn out in private. We should sometimes be grateful for the solitudes of night, of a winter. They save us from displaying our worse selves to the waking world.” “Certainty is a dead space in which there’s no more room to grow. Wavering is painful. I’m glad to be travelling between the two.” “Sometimes writing is a race against your own mind, as your hand labours to keep up with the flood tide of your thoughts, and I feel that most acutely at night, when there are no competing demands on my attention. That slightly sleepy, dazed state erods the barriers of my waking brain.” “I can confess all my sins to a piece of paper, with no one to censor it.” “Our personal winters are so often accompanies by insomnia, but perhaps we are still drawn towards that unique space of intimacy and contemplation, darkness, and silence, without really knowing what we’re seeking. Perhaps, after all, we are being urged towards our own comfort.” “Lucy is a symbol of absolute faith and utter purity, but the sins for which she suffers are not her own. Instead, she shoulders the weight of the male gaze, and is destroyed by it.” “Some winters creep up on us so slowly that they have infiltrated every part of our lives before we truly feel them.” “We felt broken into pieces, but at the same time, never so loved.” “We changed our focus away from pushing through with normal life, and towards making a new one. When everything is broken, everything is also up for grabs. That’s the gift of winter: it’s irresistible. Change will happen in its wake, whether we like it or not. We can come out of it wearing a different coat.” “I could have stood there and cried on the spot, just knowing that I wasn’t alone.” “I felt accepted in a way that I hand’t for months.” “This isn’t just an unkind attitude, it does us harm, because it stops us from learning that disaster happens, and how to adapt when it does. It stops us from reaching out to people who are suffering. And, when our own disaster comes, it forces us into a humiliated retreat, as we try to hunt down mistakes that we never made in the first place.” “I simply had no defence against the changes that were happening in my life.” “Life never does quite offer us those simply happy endings. I often that that it’s all part of my own craving: the moral clarity of cause and effect, reward and punishment for my actions. A map for living that renders everything explicable.” “All her desires were for elemental things: love, a little comfort, the society of interesting people. Everyday life is so often isolated, dreary, and lonely. A little craving is understandable. A little craving might actually be the rallying cry for survival.” “I love the inconvenience [of snow] the same way that I can sneakingly love a bad cold: the irresistible disruption to mundane life, forcing you to stop for a while and step outside of your normal habits.” “In autumn, the male drones are sacrificed because they’re no longer of any use, and would otherwise just be hungry mounts to feed.”  “Our lives take different shapes: we do not work in a linear progression through fixed roles like the honeybee. We are not consistently useful to the world at large. We talk about the complexity of the hive, but human societies are infinitely more complex, full of choices and mistakes, periods of glory and seasons of utter despair. Some of us make highly visible, elaborate contributions to the whole; some of us are just part of the ticking mechanics of the world, the incremental wealth of small gestures. All of it matters. All of it weaves the wider fabric that binds us.” “We may sometimes drift through years in which we feel like a negative presence in the world, but we come back again, not only restored, but bringing more than we brought before: more wisdom, more compassion, a greater capacity to reach deep into our roots and know that we will find water.” “Usefulness, in itself, is a useless concept when it comes to humans. I don’t think we were ever meant to think about others in terms of their use to us.” “We flourish on caring, on doling out love.” “Winter is a time for the quiet arts of making: for knitting and sewing, baking and simmering, repairing and restoring our homes.” “We sing because it fills our lungs with nourishing air, and lets our heart soar with the notes we let out. We sing because it allows us to speak of love and loss, delight and desire, all encoded in lyrics that let us pretend that those feelings are not quite ours.” “As I walk, I remind myself ot the words of Alan Watts: ‘To hold your breath is to lose your breath.’ In The Wisdom of Insecurity, Watts makes a case that always convinces me, but which I always seem to forget: that life is, by nature, uncontrollable. That we should stop trying to finalize our comfort and security somehow, and instead find a radical acceptance of the endless, unpredictable change that is the very essence of this life. Our suffering, he says, comes from the fight we put up against this fundamental truth: ‘Running away from fear is fear, fighting pain is pain, trying to be brave is being scared. If the mind is in pain, the mind is in pain. The thinker has no other form than his thought. There is no escape.” “The future, to which we devote so much of our brainpower, is an unstable element, entirely unknowable.” “When we endlessly ruminate in these distant times, we miss extraordinary things in the present moment. They are, in actual fact, all we have: the here and now; the direct perception of our senses.” “I’m beginning to think that unhappiness is one of the simple things in life: a pure, basic emotion to be respected, if not savoured. I would never dream of suggesting that we should wallow in misery, or shrink from doing everything we can to alleviate it; but I do think it’s instructive. After all, unhappiness has a function: it tells us that something is going wrong. If we don’t allow ourselves the fundamental honesty of our own sadness, then we miss an important cue to adapt. We seem to be living in an age when we’re bombarded with entreaties to be happy, but we’re suffering from an avalanche of depression; we’re urged to stop sweating the small stuff, and yet we’re chronically anxious. I often wonder if these are just normal feelings that become monstrous when they’re denied. A great deal of life will always suck. There will be moments when we’re riding high, and moments when we can’t bear to get out of bed. Both are normal. Both, in fact, require a little perspective.” “We need friends who wince along with our pain, who tolerate our gloom, and who allow us to be weak for a while when we’re finding our feet again. We need people who acknowledge that we can’t always hang on in there; that sometimes, everything breaks.” “I recognized winter. I saw it coming (a mile off, since you ask), and I looked it in the eye,. I greeted it, and let it in. I had some tricks up my sleeve, you see. I’ve learned them the hard way. When I started feeling the drag of winter, I began to treat myself like a favoured child: with kindness and love. I assumed my needs were reasonable, and that my feelings were signals of something important.” “We tend to imagine that our lives are linear, but they are in fact cyclical. I would not, or course, seek to deny that we grow gradually older, but while doing so, we pass through phases of good health and ill, of optimism and deep doubt, of freedom and constraint.”

[aenwoedbeannaa]

A Curse Meant to Be Broken || Part 6

Summary: You have made your decision--you will take the greatest of risks in the hope that it will save your life. However, to your horror, Geralt doesn’t seem so optimistic. 

Word Count: 2,698

A/N: I’m back, y’all! As part one of my WIP Week, here is the next chapter of one of my favorite WIPs. As always, thank you so much for reading, yada yada–kofi here, masterlist here, taglist here. Enjoy!

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

Freedom & Destiny

You wake slowly, feeling like you’ve got a head stuffed with cotton. At first, your eyes don’t listen when you tell them to open—or rather, they protest strongly against it. You are, it seems, only able to blink them open for a few seconds before they flutter shut again, as if weighted down by lead.

On top of that, you feel different. Changed, somehow. Though, you can’t seem to put your finger on exactly what about you feels off. Aside from an overwhelming exhaustion, you don’t feel any pain. You stretch your fingers first, then your toes, as if to test that theory, but you’d been right. You are able to stretch your whole body without any pain, aside from the dull ache in your back, which you knew would not be going away until your body was mutated—changed enough to dispel the venom.

Sensing you stirring in your sleep, Geralt brushes his fingers across your face. You blink up at him, finding him staring down at you with tired eyes.

“You look like hell,” you inform him with a little grin, wanting to put him at ease. His face is still lined with worry, and it looks as if he hasn’t slept at all.

“How kind,” he responds, though his smile does not quite reach his eyes.

You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows, “Did you sleep at all?”

“No.”

“Geralt!” You pout, even though the idea that he’d stayed awake all night watching over you was more than enough to melt your heart. Still, you didn’t need him worrying himself sick over you. You could handle it… You’d have to.

“Those potions can be deadly, Y/N,” he reminds you quite needlessly. As if you’d forgotten about that.

“Well, I’m alive,” you point out. Yes, you were alive, and you planned on keeping it that way. Everything about the mutagen you’d taken was unpleasant, from its horrid taste to the way that it burned down your throat and then out from your chest until your whole body felt like it was on fire. But, it was your only option, the only way you’d get to stay alive, and stay with Geralt. You’d drink a hundred more, a thousand more if you had to. No price was too great.

“And thank the gods for that,” Geralt says as he shifts so he can press a kiss to your lips, one hand gently cradling the side of your face. You sigh into the kiss, mouth opening for Geralt to explore, which he does eagerly.

Your body is already buzzing, somehow still pent up with need despite the effects of the mutagen you’d taken the night before. You push yourself against him, letting a hand slide down his sculpted chest, wanting to memorize every inch of him. You could get used to waking up this way.

You’ve only just begun sliding your hand up under his shirt to lift it over his head when he pulls back from the kiss and moves one hand, gripping your wrist to still your own. You sigh and blink up at him—you’re alone, no chance of anyone bothering you—why stop now? But, as if he can hear the thoughts in your head, she gives a slight shake of his own. No.

You pout, resigned. He just sighs and smiles down at you, the spark in his eyes telling you that he’d prefer not to stop either, but—

“You’ve got to eat something. We’ll go down to the kitchen.”

Your stomach turns at the idea of eating anything, especially when the last thing you’d consumed had made you feel like death itself, and you begin to protest, “I’m not hungry, Geralt.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, releasing your wrist and pushing himself up, swinging two large legs over the side of the bed. “You need to eat, or the mutagens won’t work.”

Of course, from the way that he says “won’t work,” you gather that he actually means “will be far more likely to kill you.” You groan and push yourself up, following suit and swinging your legs over the side of the bed, standing up carefully, more slowly that usual. You don’t want to risk blood rushing to your head and sending you into a heap on the floor—you don’t need him any more worried than he clearly already is.

Gingerly, you reach your arms up over your head and stretch, surprised at the lack of any discernible discomfort. If anything, you feel more flexible, stronger. Yes, the mutagen is definitely changing something, though you can’t exactly tell what. You resist the urge to pelt Geralt with questions about the strange liquid and what exactly it is doing to the cells in your body. It had certainly felt as if it were ripping them clean apart; but you know there must be more to it than that. Perhaps, as quickly as it had seemed to rip them apart and scramble them, it was putting them back together—now changed, maybe better somehow. That was the point, after all, wasn’t it?

Once you are confident in your ability to walk without making a complete fool of yourself, you walk over the the wardrobe. Inside, you find a few of your own clothes—most of which were rather dirty after all those days of traveling—and some new ones that must have been scrounged up from around Kaer Morhen. As you grab a pair of breeches and a tunic, your mind wanders.

When was the last time there were new Witchers being taught here? How many had there been? Were these close from some of them? Young men who spent their days training for a job that would most certainly kill them in the end would explain how they happened to have clothing that was relatively the right size.

Once you’ve dressed, you turn around to face Geralt, attempting a nonchalant smile despite the fact that your nerves are fraying. You know you want to do this—you just with there was some certainty in it. The only thing that seems relatively certain to happen, regardless of the choice you make, is that you may die. But you can’t bear to think about the unfairness of all that just now, so you do what you always have and push the thoughts down, down beneath every other thought you can conjure up.

“Ready?” Geralt asks.

You nod firmly and follow him to the door.

* * *

“How do I feel?” You repeat the old Witcher’s question back to him as if you hadn’t heard it the first time. “I… I mean, I guess I just feel… different.”

They’d given you a second potion after breakfast, which had seemed like a horrible idea. It took all of your self-control not to gag and empty the contents of your stomach back onto the large wooden table. However, after a few anxious minutes passed, the burning sensation down the back of your throat faded away, leaving no pain in its wake.

It did, however, leave you with your muscles tingling—aching for movement. But, despite the increased energy, you felt the strange sensation of a slowed pulse. At first, it only reminded you of the slowed pulse of the fever you’d had as a child. Some kind of bacteria or virus, you don’t remember what the healers had called it. You only remember the dazed feeling and the terrifying realization that your heartbeat was slowing down; much too slow to sustain human life. But, you’d survived that. And now, you supposed, the slowed heart rate was simply part of you—if you lived, that is.

“Explain what you mean by different,” Visimir pulls you from your thoughts.

You glance up at him, fingers drumming on the table, “I feel like I could run a mile, or… I don’t know, climb the gods-damned walls or something.” It is the only explanation you can think of that makes any sense. “And my heart,” you quickly add, “It’s beating slowly.”

“Hmm,” the gray-haired man says, cocking his head to the side and allowing a small smile to appear for the first time, “It seems you’ve brought me the perfect candidate for a Witcheress, Geralt.”

Geralt smiles, but it is strained, as if he’s got less faith than the old man. You decide that, at least in this particular instance, you’d side with the one who’d been overseeing training and mutations for longer than anyone you know has been alive.

“You know there’s no such thing as a perfect candidate,” Geralt says, somewhat bitterly.

“That’s right enough,” Visimir mused. His eyes looked distant; lost in thought. But, unlike Geralt’s gaze, which seemed to be filled more with guilt and fear than anything else, the older Witcher’s eyes were just that—thoughtful. He was thinking things though, of course, but he was not writing this all off as a hopeless situation, which was more than you could say for most of them.

Once again, you feel your temper beginning to flare, the way everyone seems to talk about you as if you aren’t right there in the room with them.

Hearing the exaggerated huff of air you let out, Visimir turns his attention back to you, “We discovered… relatively recently, that there are certain people whose genetic makeup makes them better suited to undergoing the mutations than others,” he explains. “People like Geralt and, apparently, you.”

That last sentence knocks the breath out of you and you turn to look at Geralt, questioning. He hadn’t told you about that particular detail. Though, you suppose, it wasn’t really necessary information.

“Me?” you question, turning back to Visimir after failing to obtain the answer you wanted out of Geralt.

“Humans do not usually respond to mutagens the way that you did,” he explains, “You drank it last evening, yet here you are, walking around on your own the next morning.”

“How long does it usually take?”

“Assuming they live, a few days.”

The matter of fact way in which he says it would ordinarily be off-putting, but after learning about the poisoned blood in your veins, you were quickly recovering from any shock due to imminent danger. It just… Did not seem like something that was taken overly seriously here at Kaer Morhen. Which, you assume, is better than the alternative.

“Don’t fill her head with crazy ideas just because she lived, Visimir.” The hint of venom in Geralt’s voice knocks you off-balance slightly. You felt like you were going to get whiplash listening to the two of them going back and forth. You hardly had time to digest this new information from Visimir before Geralt seemed to quash any glimmer of hope it gave you.

“You know I don’t bother with crazy ideas, Gerlt,” Visimir says in the same calm way he seems to say just about everything.

“She helped kill a Noonwraith, and she drank a mutagen and didn’t die,” Geralt says, and you feel your stomach turn over on itself in disgust at his tone of voice, “And you actually think that makes her a Witcher?”

Your hands curl into fists, nails biting at the skin of your palms. You want to scream, but you manage to keep your voice calm, almost deathly so, as you look at him, “Wasn’t that the whole point of bringing me here?”

“I brought you here to save your life, not end it.” You can see concern in his eyes, but it hardly matters now—all you can hear is the tone he’d just used, the one that made it seem as if he regretted everything. The one that made it clear that he did not think you’d be capable of becoming a Witcher.

Fuck. You are angry with yourself for believing that he was different—for believing that he actually believed that you were something more than a weak country girl who needed saving and couldn’t possibly be anything beyond that.

Perhaps you had been too trusting of him—maybe he had only taken you away from Stephen and that shit town so that he could make you his own. You had let your guard down, and you had been taken for a fool. You’d promised yourself that you’d never let that happen, but it’d been too easy to fall for it. You’d wanted to fall for it.

Of course, you also recognized that it could quite well be that he was worried—that he had no faith that you’d actually be able to survive. Though, that didn’t make it hurt any less. You had thought that if anyone believed in you, it would have been him.

You hardly register what is being said around you as you wrack your brain for memories of the last weeks, trying to pick out moments where he might have given away this clearly obvious fact. You felt far away, disconnected from the voices of Geralt and Visimir sitting with you.

Still, you manage to pull yourself out of your thoughts to speak again.

“You didn’t have to bring me here,” you finally speak. You are surprised by how calm you still sound—surprised, and almost terrified. You sound far too measured, far too calculated. It has been so long since you’ve spoken like this that you managed to forget what it even felt like. “If you were so convinced that I was dead, you could’ve just left me back there.”

“Y/N,” he cuts in, eyes wide, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“It was pretty obvious what you meant,” you say through your teeth.

“That I don’t want you to die?” He asks, frustration in his voice.

“That you think me doing anything worthwhile is impossible,” you hiss.

Visimir, who had fallen silent, clears his throat before speaking, “This isn’t the time.”

Both of you snap your heads in Visimi’s direction, but several moments of silence pass before either of you manage to say anything.

“I’m doing it,” you assert before Geralt has time to say anything. Though, you suppose, it isn’t exactly something that he can argue against anyway. Regardless of his beliefs, this is the only way that you won’t die. Still, you feel the need to make sure that you get your point across first.

This is your choice—your decision—and it has nothing to do with him.

Geralt remains silent as you reach out a hand to take the small vial that Visimir has produced from one of the many pockets of his old, faded Witcher’s armor.

He is silent as you pop the cork from the small glass tube and drink it, tossing your head back and swallowing quickly.

He is silent as you stand up, suddenly with the same feline grace you’ve noticed in him, and leave the table.

Your first thought is to head back to your room—you vaguely remember the stone hallways and corridors that he’d led you through earlier this morning—but you decide against it. You feel a strange pulsing in your veins, a strange urge to run and run until your body gives out. So, you head from the hall and through the large doors, down the steps, and then push open the heavy wooden door that leads outside into the courtyard—into a land full of grass and trees, sheltered by the nearby mountains.

You take a few deep, calming breaths, and then you run.

You run straight for the trees, your body somehow knowing where to step and where to avoid. Branches crack beneath your feet, but you manage to avoid any of the low hanging branches that ordinarily would have scraped your face and arms. There is something beautifully natural about this—a strange feeling that this was what you were meant to be all along. Perhaps destiny was real; perhaps it was kinder to some than to others. Perhaps you were one of the lucky few.

And, despite the anger and sadness and guilt surrounding the fight you’d had with Geralt, you smile as your legs propel you forward along a trail you hadn’t even known existed. For the first time in your life, you feel free.

[faewhump]

Unseelie Pet: 1. Prologue

While involuntarily attending a ball at the Unseelie Court the human Alex meets Lord Malachi. Charmed by the beautiful and alluring Fae, Alex only realises his true intentions when it’s already way too late...

Masterlist Next

Warnings for this part: mentions of torture, drugging (faerie food)

The moment the Unseelie Fae smiled at him across the room Alex knew he that was in deep, deep trouble. Of course he’d been in trouble before already, it was impossible to deny that with the lesser faerie that cornered him, but in truth it had started even before he’d come to the Unseelie Court. After how horrible his experiences with the Unseelie Lord Rían had been, he’d sworn himself to never seek out the fair folk ever again and to just stay out of the woods all together for good measure. Following his escape from the Court, he had tried his best to stay hidden, and for about ten years the faerie world seemed to have forgotten about him. But of course it hadn’t stayed this way.

About a week ago an old acquaintance of his had delivered a message from the Seelie Court which they served, offering him a favour in exchange of his services as a spy at the upcoming equinox festivities at one of the Unseelie Courts. Apparently, they had feared that any faerie spy of theirs would be detected immediately, and so they needed a human who already knew their way around and therefore wouldn’t attract attention. Of course Alex had declined, no favour they offered was big enough to make him consider ever setting a foot near such a place again, but eventually the thinly veiled threats against his family and friends had convinced him.

Despite how jarring it was to be surrounded by faeries again, at first everything seemed to be going well. He had snuck into the beautiful palace without any problems, and due to his purposeful walk all faeries simply assumed that he was nothing but a servant running an errand for his master and paid him no mind. He had successfully infiltrated the main ballroom, where he inconspicuously listened in on the conversations around, trying to find out where and when an attack on the Seelie Court was supposed to take place – in case such a plan even existed. Everything had been going so well, he had even managed not to think too much of the human pets some of the faeries held by their sides, but of course it couldn’t have been that easy.

No, the part where this awful experience had truly deteriorated was when Darerca recognised him. The lesser faerie had been one of Rían’s vassals and was quite intrigued to see her Lord’s escaped human sneaking around at this Court, promptly deciding to confront him - and so Alex had suddenly found himself cornered by one of the faces that still haunted his nightmares. He’d tried his best to bargain with her, but Darerca seemed quite set in her objective to punish him for his escape by torturing him to death. The faeries that had overheard their exchange curiously turned towards them, excited for the prospects of a promising entertainment. That was when the Unseelie Fae joined them.

“Excuse me,” he said, elegantly sliding up to Alex as the surrounding faeries moved out of his way. The man’s immaculate glamour clearly marked him as High Fae, not a single of the many faerie traits he surely possessed showed, making him look almost perfectly human.

“Lord Malachi,” Darerca said, standing up a little straighter.

“Darerca,” Malachi greeted, his cultured voice and easy smile sending shivers over Alex’s back. “What is going on here?”

“Nothing,” Darerca replied a bit to quickly. “This human belongs to Lord Rían, so I wanted to have some fun with it, give everyone a show.”

“I don’t belong to anyone!” Alex protested. He immediately regretted his outbreak when the High Fae’s dark eyes turned on him, the intensity of their gaze almost palpable on Alex’s skin.

“Hmm, it seems to disagree,” Malachi remarked, and Alex bristled at being referred to as an ‘it’. “Besides, Rían has been gone for a decade now, so any claim of ownership he might have had doesn’t hold much weight if he isn’t here to defend it.”

Darerca looked like she wanted to object but didn’t dare to disagree with Malachi. All the faeries that had waited excitedly for Alex to get tortured had dispersed again, clearly afraid to get involved in the argument. Alex swallowed, this Lord Malachi must be a very, very powerful and high-ranking Fae to evoke such strong respect.

“Come with me, human,” Malachi said in a tone that brooked no resistance and turned to leave.

“No!” Darerca called and stepped forward to block Alex’s way.

Malachi turned back slowly. “Is there a problem, Darerca?” he asked and raised a perfect eyebrow.

“Of course not, Lord Malachi,” Darerca pressed out, grinding her teeth in anger, but didn’t move again when Alex walked around her to follow the High Fae.

Throwing a nervous look back at Darerca Alex quickly followed Malachi through the ballroom, faeries moving out of the Fae Lord’s way respectfully, and on along the entwined corridors of the palace. Alex’s stomach churned with nervosity, although Malachi had saved his life he knew better than to assume that his intentions were good. For all he knew, the Fae Lord simply wanted to torture him in private instead of allowing Darerca to do it in public, but he couldn’t stop the quiet hope that he merely wanted to cause mischief and would let him go just to annoy the other faeries.

After walking in silence for a while they came to a halt in front of an ornate gate, which Malachi unlocked with a golden key.

“After you,” he said politely and held the door for Alex.  

Wary, but unwilling to antagonise the Fae, Alex entered a spacious sitting room. There were comfortable looking couches and armchairs strewn around with a low table holing all sorts of delicacies in their middle. As all rooms in the palace, this one also seemed strangely alive, the wood of the walls and furniture looked organically grown, and Alex could even see greened twigs sprouting in a corner.

“Please, take a seat,” Malachi said, settling himself in a high-backed armchair. Alex gingerly sat down on the couch across him, muscles wound tight and ready to jump up any time.

“You must be horribly hungry,” Malachi stated. “Please, eat.”

He gestured towards the richly laid meal between them, flashing the frightened human a charming smile, and Alex suddenly was overwhelmed with how breathtakingly beautiful the Fae was. He had jet-black hair and equally dark eyebrows, his unnaturally pale skin almost gleamed in contrast, and he wore some of the most elegant and noble clothes Alex had ever seen. His face was smooth and ethereally handsome, looking to be about Alex’s age, but Alex knew with certainty that in truth it was closer to 300 than to 30. Of course his insane beauty was probably only due to his strong glamour, hidden underneath it there would be inhuman Fae traits of unknown horrors.

“Come on, eat,” Malachi repeated, his pose open and suggesting hospitality.

Alex hesitated, he had experienced the bewitching effect faerie food had on humans first-hand already and knew that he shouldn’t take the risk of it dulling his senses. But he couldn’t deny that he was quite hungry, and the food just looked so good. Besides, refusing Malachi’s hospitality would be extremely impolite and a clear affront, especially after he’d saved his life.

Slowly Alex reached out and picked up a small bread roll from a basket, carefully taking a tiny bite. He closed his eyes as the explosion of flavour hit his tongue, the bread roll was perfectly crisp and fluffy, the warm grounding taste of the dough complemented perfectly by the mixture of spices. He must have forgotten how irresistible faerie food was, everything tasted so much more intense and delicious, from the bread and meats to the fruits and cheese, even the water was cooler and more refreshing than it had any right to be. At first he tried to eat only as little as possible, but soon found himself unable stop and didn’t even pay much attention to the Fae watching him with a slight smile.

“What is your name?” Malachi asked, breaking the spell of the food for a moment.

“A- Kieran,” Alex said, his mind thankfully still quick enough to remember to give his fake name. He had felt so smart and invincible when he’d come to the fair folk a decade ago, just because he’d thought of a fake name to use, but had quickly learned that even without the absolute control real names gave them, faeries were incredibly dangerous.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Kieran.” The Fae inclined his head. “You may call me Malachi, for now.”

Alex smiled back, the effect of the faerie food was finally sinking in, calming him and making everything seem even more intense and pretty. His initial fear and anxiety had all but passed, he felt warm and safe, only a small voice nagging at the back of his mind told him to resist and stay alert, but why would he listen to it? There was nothing to worry about, Malachi had saved him and was so nice to him, and he was so beautiful…

“You’re so beautiful,” Alex mumbled, looking away embarrassed when he realised what he’d said.

Malachi’s smile widened. “Why, thank you. You are an extraordinarily adorable human as well.”

Alex blushed shyly, only vaguely registering that maybe it wasn’t a good thing to have so much attention from a powerful Fae.

“Is that why you saved me?”

Malachi chuckled. “Partially, yes.”

“What will happen now?” Alex asked. “Will you just let me leave or bring me back to the human world? Or do you want to make a deal?”

“You want to leave already?” Malachi acted surprised. “Why that? Have I not been an accommodating host? Wouldn’t I deserve some more of your company?”

Alex licked his lips, nervosity starting to bubble up under the faerie food induced calmness. “Thank you for your offer, Lord Malachi, but I really should go.”

Malachi clicked his tongue and stood up. “The way outside is such a labyrinth, a little human like you could get lost easily.” He slowly walked around the table towards Alex. “And I would be quite sad if you left so soon. After all, I haven’t had a sweet human pet in such a long time.” With that he leaned over Alex and brushed a thumb over his cheek, still smiling.

Alex froze, the Fae’s touch felt almost electrifying, and he gradually began to realise the scale of the mess he was in.

“No, no, I have to – I want to go,” Alex stuttered.

Malachi gently placed his index finger upon Alex’s lips and said, “You can't always get what you want, little human.”

Alex was locked into place, unable to move, and he knew that he’d be panicking right now if it wasn’t for the faerie food he’d made the mistake to eat.

“Don’t worry, Kieran,” Malachi said. “I will take good care of you.”

The Fae’s unwavering smile was the last thing Alex saw before everything went dark.

[cynicalrainbows]

Fanfiction request here!! Anne drinking energy juice and everything’s fine until later on during the show she starts to feel ill..... Aragon just wants to make sure Anne doesn’t vomit on stage....

Sorry for this being so very late, anon.

Not sure if what you wanted was Very-Soft-Aragon but...well, what you got was Very-Soft-Aragon.

She doesn’t want to cry, not on the tube, not in front of everyone, but she does. 

She can’t believe how much she’s let everyone down. She doesn’t even have tiredness as an excise- yes, she’d been tired (they were all tired) but no one else had been stupid enough to think that three energy drinks plus caffiene tablets on a two show day was a sensible solution.

It hadn’t even worked properly, that was the really frustrating thing- she’d still felt exhausted, just jittery too, and she’d barely been able to keep still throughout the show. And she’d never even considered the other side effects- she’d felt sicker than she ever had in her life,to the point that she’d had to duck into the wings during House of Holbein, for fear she’d actually throw up on stage, and on top of everything, she’d just felt so paranoid, so anxious. 

Her voice had sounded wavery and weak even to her own ears, her cocky stage-persona unconvincing. The end of her song was deliberately a bit shrill but this time, she’d sounded terrified from the first verse.

God, what a mess.

She can only imagine what the fans thought of her disaster performance, and she’s trying not to think about how the other queens are going to react when they finish with stagedoor and come home.

It hadn’t exactly been agreed that she’d leave early or that Aragon would take her home- it’s just what ended up happening. A little part of her is afraid that Aragon just wants to scold her privately, to tell her what a disappointment she is- and the thought makes the tears come a little faster.

Aragon doesn’t comment or even look at her, keeping her eyes on an advert for Kumon lessons (extremely clean looking children bent studiously over blank workbooks) but she slips an arm around her shoulders and gently rubs up and down her upper arm.

It’s unexpected but still nice. She takes a chance and lets her head rest against Aragon’s coat, lets her eyes close and the tears slide slowly down her face to her jaw, drying stiff on her skin. When she licks her lips, eyes still shut, she can taste the salt. 

She’s so very tired.

She hates you for ruining the show. They all hate you for ruining the show. She’s not talking because she hates you-

She just about manages to shut the train of thought down, with some effort.

She knows Aragon doesn’t speak for the other queens but it’s a comfort at least to feel that at least one person is still on her side. Aragon may not be talking but she keeps up her gentle movements on her arm and it soothes away the nibbling anxiety that’s never too far from the edge of her mind- no one pets angrily.

Eventually the tube shudders to a stop and Aragon unwinds herself. There’s cold air in the place of warm queen as they walk to the ticket barrier and it makes her want to cling and refuse to be unpeeled- she knows how quickly her mind can spiral if left to its own devices- but just as she’s beginning to feel herself getting shakey again, Aragon nudges her arm.

‘Ok?’

She nods and tries to smile.

‘We’re nearly home-’ Aragon says something else, something about ‘all sorted out’ but a lorry passes, laying on it’s horn and drowns nearly everything out.

‘Oh- yeah-’

Of course they’ll need to sort this out- of course that’s the priority (she pushes down her very-strong desire to crawl under her duvet and forget everything for a few hours, she tries to stop thinking about how long it’s been since she’s eaten anything, about the headache throbbing behind her eyes).

‘Should I-’ She desperately wants to show Aragon that she’s taking this seriously, that she understands how bad it is, that she’ll do everything she needs to do to make amends. ‘Do you think I should do a tweet or a video first? Or- or see what everyone is saying first, see how bad it is-?’

It will take hours, she knows how quickly comments pile up online...but it’s the least she can do-

‘What are you talking about?’

Aragon has stopped walking and is looking at her really strangely and it makes her stomach clench up- perhaps she really is angry, perhaps she really does think that she’s an attention-seeking, self absorbed, shallow, pathetic, worthless-

‘Anne?’ Aragon touches her arm and brings her out of a spiral for a moment. It’s a gentle touch but it still makes her flinch a tiny bit.

‘Just-’ Her voice is very small. ‘You said- you said we need to get everything sorted out-’

‘I meant-’

Aragon pauses and she holds her breath, waiting: her eyes are burning again and as much as she’s trying to hold herself together, a tear escapes. Stupid, selfish, attention seeking.

She’s squeezing her eyes shut as she waits for Aragon to say the words out loud- she surely must be thinking them, she just hopes she doesn’t tell all the others about how she’s still, after everything, trying to manipulate pity.

Then gentle fingers brush her cheek. ‘I meant you, you silly thing. You look awful, you need a hot shower and some sleep. And when did you last eat actual food?’

She shrugs, not meeting Aragon’s eye.

‘I knew it! Supper, shower, bed then, in that order, and no more energy drinks. At least we’re all off tomorrow, you can have a day to rest up-’

Aragon is confusing her- why is she talking as if she’s sick and deserving of sympathy, as if this whole thing isn’t of her own making?

‘But what about- what people will be saying? I ruined the show-’

Aragon is looking at her with her familiar look of fond exasperation. ‘I don’t give two hoots about what people are saying- and that’s assuming anyone even noticed anything was different-’

‘But-’

‘For all they know, you were just playing yourself a bit differently tonight- who are they to say you weren’t?’ Aragon tucks her under her arm and starts walking again- it’s a little bit difficult to keep in step but there’s no way she’s going to move away. ‘If anything, I’m sure the fans will love it-’

‘But- how could they?’

‘Remember when Jane and Anna had that bet on?’ Aragon’s voice is very certain, very assured, and she clings to that certainty- perhaps she hasn’t completely destroyed their reputation.

‘Yes-’

‘Remember how much the fans went wild for it? Remember the hashtags? And all the people begging them to keep it up? Remember how disappointed everyone was when they went back to normal?’ Aragon’s voice has fallen into the soothing cadence of a bedtime- and she DOES remember, how Jane spent a show imitating Anna’s brash cockiness, while Anna made herself temporarily vulnerable, and how fans had blown up the whole thing into a story of almost mythical proportions.

‘Do you really think they’ll think that for me?’ 

‘Of course. And if not- well, we can always tell them that’s what you were going for.’ As they get to their familiar front door, Aragon turns and looks her straight in the eye. ‘It’ll be all be ok, alright? I promise you, it will be fine.’

She can’t quite bring herself to agree, but she doesn’t want to contradict her either, settling for a shaky nod.

Aragon smiles as she digs out her key and unlocks the front door.

‘You’ll see I’m right, and when I am, I’ll remind you of it forever. You’ll be sick of me saying it.’

She gives a weak smile, that fades as she realises just how queasy she still feels. Aragon notices and tilts her head sympathetically.

‘Still feeling bad?’

She manages a nod.

‘Let's get you upstairs- you’ll feel better after some sleep. The others won’t be back for a bit-’

Standing under the shower is an effort but it’s a relief to wash off the stickiness of the day, even if she has to steady herself with a hand against the tiled wall.

Damp-haired and pajama clad, she makes her way back to her bedroom and finds the covers of her bed turned down and her curtains drawn. As she gets under the covers, she finds a hot water bottle at the foot of the bed and the thoughtfulness of it almost makes her want to cry again. Or maybe she’s just really tired and overly emotional and coming down from the biggest caffeine high imaginable.

 It’s hard to tell really.

There’s a tap on the door and then Aragon enters, balancing a tray which she sets down on the bedside table.

Water, paracetemol, a mug of soup, some anti-nausea pills.

‘Here- I know you probably don’t feel like it but you should try and have something.’

‘Thanks.’

She expects her to leave but instead Aragon settles herself down on the edge of the bed, and she finds she’s grateful for the promise of company, even if she’s still half waiting to be told off.

‘Jane texted while you were showering-’

She pauses, the glass halfway to her lips.

‘She said to tell you that they all hope you’re ok.’

It’s a surprise, for all of Aragon’s reassurances. 

‘Really?’

‘She said they all feel bad for not coming with us- she said if you’re asleep when they get in, they’ll try not to make too much noise.’

‘Oh.’ The thought warms her heart: they’re not angry, they’re not angry.’

‘They also say-’ Aragon shifts position and she makes room for her against the headboard. ‘The fans were sad not to see you at stagedoor- they were all apparently very moved by your new spin on your character…’

Aragon puts her phone down with a smile like a cat in a vat of cream. ‘What did I tell you?’

It’s such a relief, she can’t even reply- it’s all ok. She hasn’t ruined anything. It’s ok.

She leans into Aragon, all the tension leaving her at once, and lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. Aragons hands move through her damp hair- it feels good, she lets her eyes drift shut.

‘Hey-’ Aragon taps her arm. ‘No falling asleep on me until you’re properly hydrated- you don’t need to wake up with a headache-’

She knows she’s right but still- she just wants to enjoy the feeling of being able to relax properly for the first time in hours (in days) for a little longer.

‘In a minute.’ 

Her voice is muffled against Aragon’s shirt but she must have heard- her arms actually go around her properly, pulling her closer.  

Her voice is faintly amused and so very warm, so loving. 

‘Alright.’ A chuckle vibrates Aragon’s chest as she burrows infinitesimally closer. ‘In a minute.’