#the way he was supposed to burst into tears in king’s tide but only teared up

[sophfandoms53]

Good let this poor kid finally let his tears fall for once

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Epilogue: Ja Mata, Friends

I finally finished the Main Story Quest Rewritten Series! Yaaaaay! *Kermit Flail!*

Erii settled down on her knees and opened her little red suitcase. She wrote down on the paper notepad that she was supposed to be going to Korea to start a new life, but you notice that she didn’t pack very much. 

Your body still aches terribly to the point where you wanted to puke. Your eyes rolled with fatigue. But Erii was showing you her things and writing down her words in her way to chat with you even though you could only stare blankly.

You were in the middle of a graveyard of bones. The cooling effect of the broken canister of liquid nitrogen mixed with the spring air and created a dense fog in the Red Well. But you could still see the outlines of ribs, femurs and skulls among the pile of debris. Charred skeletons embraced each other in battle and deadpool remains mixed with human remains. It reminded you of a scene in an ancient fossilized tar pit. Over hundreds or thousands of years, countless animals and people fell into the pit and died together. Archeologists discovered them but their bones were all mixed up.

Erii showed you her Roman shoes, her white strapped shoes, her hairpins, stockings and ribbons all neatly packed. Then she showed you her little toys. Then she showed you her postcards.

“On April 24th, I went to Tokyo Sky Tree with Sakura. The warmest place in the world is on the Sky Tree.”

“On April 26th, I went to Meiji Shrine with Sakura. Someone held a wedding there.”

“On April 25th, I went to the amusement park with Sakura. The haunted house was scary, but with Sakura there it wasn’t so scary.”

You blink sleepily and suppress a yawn to avoid the pain of stretching your bones. “Hmm… at Christmas, I will take you to see Siberia.”

She nods seriously as this is a solemn vow to her.

Erii quietly took out some of her clothes and pressed them against your skin. The battle had ruined the last remnants of your wedding dress. She opened a blouse and slid it on your arms, pausing when you flinched and hissed in pain, only to continue when you relaxed. Then she buttoned up the front for you. She handed you her skirt and slipped it over your body. 

A soft noise, like a stone rolling down a hill made you sit up in alarm. Erii pressed one hand to your shoulder to keep you from standing. She wrote in her notebook. “Sakura is here.”

You blink at an approaching, staggering human shaped shadow in the fog. For a second, you think it’s Z and your heart lifts. In a few more seconds, Lu Mingfei came into view. Erii with her amazing hearing had already sensed his approach. That explained why she had dressed you and covered you up.

The man looked exhausted and soaked to the bone. At the sight of Erii’s wave, he relaxed to near collapse. “You’re here!” He exclaimed.

Lu Mingfei stumbled the rest of the way into her arms. He hugged her tightly and after a long time, he quietly began to cry. You watched them embrace, feeling happy for them at first, and your eyes grow dull.

Chance was gone. Ruri Kazama was gone too. He fell asleep in the mind of Chime and you would never be so greedy as to use the clapper on him to bring him back. Chime was off somewhere with his brother. It was uncertain if you’d ever see him again. Somehow, you’d seen the world, been wooed by the most beautiful men of Tokyo and still had ended up alone with no one to hold you and cry. 

Lu Mingfei had arrived in a black Mercedes and that’s what you took to get out of this place. You fell asleep on your way there.

You woke up days later to an IV in your arm in the comfort of the luxury suite. You stare up at the princess canopy. You’re surprised. How could it be that this place remained untouched throughout the whole disaster? Ruri Kazama knew your room. Perhaps by his fierce order, all the Devil Clan members knew not to destroy the bedroom of his precious love.

“MC…” A familiar voice speaks out of the dimly lit corner. You sit up. 

Renata was sitting next to your bedside. Her long blond hair was down over her bare shoulders. She wore a frilly blue lace top and a light yellow skirt with a white obi belt at her waist. A black knee brace interrupted her silhouette. For a moment you stare silently into each other’s eyes, expressionless. 

“Is there still a bug in this room?” You ask.

“I had Fingel remove it.” She said, standing and sitting next to you on your bed.

You finally wrap your arms around her, rest your head in her chest, and the tears roll down your face. Renata doesn’t cry but the strength in her arms as they hold you, so firm and so tightly, conveys her thoughts. You slept for twenty years and traveled all the way across the world. You’d fought with monsters and devils, gangsters and gods. But you still managed to find each other in the end. In this secret hide away in the dark, you could hold each other again. You press your ear to her chest and listen to that strong heavy heartbeat and hear her breathe in and out. “Renata… I loved you back then.”

“I thought so too. I was too embarrassed to say anything about it. I was afraid of getting in trouble with the nurses. But please. Continue to call me Zero. It’s more than my new identity. It’s who I am now.” She pulled away from you slightly. “Do you know about… him?”

You know she’s talking about Z and you nod. “A little.”

“Please keep it to yourself.” Her eyes were gentle, but her voice held a command. “There are things that are still far beyond that we cannot understand. But if you stay useful to the end, he will not leave you.”

It takes three months for everything to settle and, in the meantime, you stay with the men in Takamagahara Night Club. Your bloodline test returns completely clean and you are installed as a full member of Cassell College.  You don’t tell them how it happened, that you were bitten by the Light King parasite and filled head to toe with its fetal blood. When Erii embraced you, the effect was the same. She bathed in the blood of a young dragon and her bloodline issues resolved. In Caesar’s report, he simply states that your bloodline problems were clerical errors and you were never a dangerous hybrid.

In those months, the club Takamagahara was fully restored. Though Tokyo still lies in ruins, a great final performance has been arranged. You settle in your seat next to Zero and she looks at you and smiles.

The curtain was slowly opened. Caesar’s fingers ran across the keys of a piano, Chu Zihang blew out the first note on the saxophone and the applause rolled over like a tide. The spotlights swayed over them and the banners that read “Love Sakura!” “BasaraKing forever!” and “Sacred Ukyo!”

Zero huffed to your right. “Someone should stand behind Lu Mingfei before he faints.”

Erii sat next to you on your left and held up a sign. “Go Sakura!”

Tonight is his debut show and the farewell show for the three of them. The theme is ``Goodbye, Ikemen Team.” The TV regrettably announced that BasaraKing, Ukyou, and Little Sakura would be returning to the United States due to their expiring contract. Tonight is their last performance. They would also be ending their careers as performers, so this was truly Sayounara.

All the tickets were sold out in advance. Not even VIPs could get a hold of them. Whole bar fixtures were removed to accommodate more guests. The dance floor was full of women, young and old. Everyone was dressed in costumes from shiny sexy short skirts to dignified long black sleeves. In order to ensure safety, the Metropolitan Police Department temporarily activated traffic control measures and everyone had to walk to the Takamagahara.

Apparently, Cassell had pulled some sort of mass brainwashing. All the people who witnessed the raging deadpool in the club suddenly didn’t remember it that way at all. They only remembered you and the boys protecting and helping people during the storm and that was it. Cassell was scarily efficient at hiding the truth of the world from the world.

Lu Mingfei stepped to the microphone and looked at Erii and sang a shaky little “Sayounara.” He picked up the champagne on the piano cover and drank.

You only understand the word Sayounara in the song. It’s all in Japanese. Lu Mingfei might not have the best voice, but he does have the best Japanese of the three. You quickly pick up a handkerchief. “Erii… don’t cry! Come on, you have to give your support! You can still chat over Line tonight.”

There was no more fear that Erii would rage out of control and kill everyone. So she was free to express sad emotions like this. Now her red eyes ran with tears. “I want to go to the US with Sakura.” She wrote.

“And you will! You will! Eventually… Don’t despair okay?”

The best theater speakers in Tokyo were tuned to the use of the Takamagahara. The sound from the subwoofers burst like ten thousand cannons. Caesar’s piano skills were handed down to him from the world’s top masters and flowed into the sound system. Chu Zihang’s saxophone was also very good. The musical emotional refrain climbed higher and higher. And then when the hall seemed to no longer be able to accommodate such surging music, the top of the hall suddenly opened letting in the moon and starlight.

The spring had turned to summer and the warm air of the seaside city flooded in. You look up at the star strewn sky and grin. Your hand tightens on Zero’s hand. “Make a wish.” You whisper.

Caesar got up from the piano and Chu Zihang put down the saxophone. They all walked to Lu Mingfei’s side and the three took each other’s hands and bowed deeply. 

Cries and applause swept the stage like a storm. And the enthusiasm can't be contained. Women rushed the stage to embrace the young men who were leaving but the stage was too high to climb. So they throw roses, thousands of roses until the stage is covered with bright red, pink and white.

“Ukyou! Ukyou! BasaraKing! Basaraking! I love you! Don’t leave!”

It was time for the final rankings of the performers. At this moment, the spotlight suddenly came on to Lu Mingfei. Whale who had lost an arm in the disaster strode onto the stage. “According to Takamagahara practice, whether Little Sakura stays in our warm family depends on one thing - love! That is, your love!” Whale shouted. “Only the flower tickets of your love can get him to stay. So vote for him. Waiter! Please reveal how much love did LIttle Sakura get during his internship?”

A waiter came with an envelope on the platter. Whale tore it open with his teeth and shouted “320 flower tickets!”

“Oh…” You wince. Poor Lu Mingfei. Chu Zihang and Caesar and easily gathered over 900 ticket buyers in a few days. And after months here Lu Mingfei couldn’t gather half that.

But Whale continued. “In addition to the flower tickets purchased before the show, the total is 100,320 flower tickets! Congratulations Little Sakura, you passed the internship period and you are now a member of our Takamagahara club family!”

Whale took a check from his pocket. A projector enlarged the check until it was the whole background of the stage. It was a check for 100 million yen. Lu Mingfei stood in stunned silence. The check was signed by Erii Uesugi.

Erii had stood up at the end of the show but now she held up a new sign with a sad silent face. The sign read clearly. “Sakura, please stay.”

“Oh… Oh Erii…” Your heart was moved by this. You reach out to her.

Zero takes your arm and whispers urgently. “You have to go now. Or else you’ll miss them.”

You hesitate. Erii doesn’t look at you or shift from that spot. Lu Mingfei stares at her over the crowd but the curtain goes down in front of him. Zero is pushing you now and you have to go.

Erii still stands there even though the curtain is down.

Zero drags you out a side entrance to a waiting Alfa Romero Sports car.

“You can comfort her later.” Zero says as she shuts the door of the driver’s side of the vehicle.

“Yeah…” You buckle up and then do a double take. “Since when did you learn how to drive?”

“Since forever ago.” She turned her head and backed out of the alley and sped down the street so fast you were pressed into the leather. 

The helicopter was parked in a large parking lot two blocks away and the eight executive members of the Hydra lined up to send the Cassell team off. After this incident, the Japanese branch was established again, but a new agreement was signed. Anjou gave up his personal control over the branch, though he still holds the highest decision making power.

The last surviving member of the original family was Nanami Sakurai and she was promoted as Minister of Japan and the new acting director of the Executive Bureau. Chisei and his brother were missing in action and assumed dead. But before his disappearance, Chisei had left the leadership to Mrs. Sakurai. Caesar and Anjou spoke to Mrs. Nanami and she was impressed by their words enough to let you have a special internship and training as a White King bloodline operative and you would be handling all matters when it came to the Devil Clan and unstable hybrids.

“These small gifts left by the clan chief are not quite high end,” Crow gave sunscreen in glass bottles to Casear, Anjou, Lu Mingfei, Zero, and Fingel. “They’re his whole collection. He was really serious about going and selling sunscreen.”

“I’ll smear it on the prettiest girl’s back for him.” Caesar said.

“That would make him happy. That’s what he looked forward to the most.” Crow said.

Your heart aches slightly, thinking of Sakura Yabuki. You wondered where Chisei was now. You hoped he managed to find peace somewhere with his brother.

Caesar approached you. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?”

Your lips curl upward. Then you dip your head and delicately remove your contact lenses. Your eyes are glowing golden, permanently. One didn’t just brush up against the experience of being a dragon king and not be left with some sequelae. “Caesar… Are you going to be alright by yourself?” You ask in a sly voice.

Caesar averts his eyes. “Okay, okay, point taken.”

You replace the contacts in your eyes. “I’m no Caesar Gattuso, but I think I can hold my own here.”

Caesar’s eyes soften. “We’re going to look for him.”

Your smile fades. “Don’t look too hard.” Your chest aches again. “Chime needs time. And so do I.”

Caesar pulls you into a tight hug. You inhale deeply and focus on the bright sweet scent of tobacco. “Don’t forget to text me when you get in. And tell Nono I said hello.”

“I will.”

You approach Lu Mingfei. His eyes are dim and he doesn’t look up. You shake your head. You’re living because of this guy, so you can’t punch him or threaten him too badly. You tap his nose and he looks up at you, looking irritated. 

“Better step up, pretty boy. She went through a lot for you.”

“I know… I... “ Lu Mingfei rubbed the back of his head.

“Don’t say anything! I’m having the hardest time not dragging you back to the Takamagahara right now. It’s 100 mil yen man… come on.” You suddenly hug him tight.

“Ow! Ow! Have you been working out or something? Geez you’re gonna leave a bruise!” He whined.

“Text her.” That’s the last you say to Lu Mingfei.

You approach Chu Zihang. He looked down at you with golden eyes hidden behind black eyed contact lenses. Even now, you didn’t feel particularly close to him, especially not close enough to hug. Chu Zihang was holding a long white wood box that contained Chisei’s swords anyway. He nodded once to you.

“I will be following your progress closely.” He said.

Principal Anjou was blowing out a puff on his cigar as you approached him. He handed you a small white card. “This is your official Cassell Credentials. You’ll be on remote study, but given your performance, you can study at your leisure.”

“Thank you, Principal. I would like to learn Japanese, and how to drive faster than Zero.”

Zero looked up from where she was about to board the helicopter and rolled her eyes at you, but there was a trace of a smile on her lips.

The helicopter took them up into the sky and you watched as its white light disappeared like a shooting star flying into the distance, taking your friends away across the ocean to the United States. 

You turned back to Crow who bowed deeply until he was horizontal. “Mrs. Chief. Forgive my bad English, but your car is ready to go to your new accommodations at the Hydra headquarters in Genji Heavy Industries.”

You grin flashing your white teeth at him. “Arigatou.”

[one-leaf-grimoire]

“triad”

Chapter 12: the death of a world

Summary: Lisa considers ending the world

AO3 link

Soft wind across my face eventually wakes me from my fitful sleep. I silently let my eyes flicker open, blinking a few times as the dark sky comes into focus. 

“Thank god… Marx, she’s awake!”

“She is?!”

Two faces peer down at me now: Marx and Adeline. The wind blows through their hair and the stars streak above them. We’re moving… on something. Whatever I’m laying on, it’s soft, but chilled by the night air. 

“Are you alright?”

A soft hand comes down to stroke my cheek, as tender as a mother’s touch. However, my body moves on its own, jerking my head to the side to end the blissful contact. “Y-Yeah-” My throat feels cracked and dry, the words struggling to find purchase. “Where are we?”

“On our way back to the Castle,” Marx replies, his whisper strained yet relieved. “We’re on a carpet, since you were knocked out.”

Oh. Right… The metallic taste in my mouth and the pounding headache in my right eye help me remember what happened. The dream, the Dyad… and…

My curse.

Neither of them talk to me much the rest of the way back, and for that I’m grateful. Everything is a mess inside of me, even my soul now, apparently. Each of them take one of my arms as we land, and gently guide me inside and down the hall. “You need sleep-” Adeline starts to say, but her words fall short as I shake my head. “No?”

“I can’t sleep,” I tell her, my voice still quietly hoarse. “Take me to my office.”

“Are you sure?” Marx’s brows furrow, and he almost looks heartbroken. I avoid his gaze and nod minutely, and he has no choice to obey me. Finally, I watch from my office couch as the door swings shut with a loud clack. I’m alone.

I close my eyes, breathing deeply a few times so as to not start panicking. 

First of all: is this curse actually real? Or was that just some weird hallucination in the dream? No matter how far I search, I can't find an answer other than yes. The painful episodes I've had lately, centering around the left side of my mark, feel like they could kill me at any time. If that's really my soul trying to leave this world, then I have the feeling that I would definitely die if I didn't resist it. In addition to that, one side of my mark has dulled, Julius's side. My Mark is the source of my power; it is my life force. And now, it signifies what I always feared: I am less than a whole. I am, maybe, half of a soul. My Ego is gone, shattered too many times as I greedily took more and more power. 

Without it… there's nothing to keep me here. 

So… how long do I have? Is there anything I can do to stop it before I die?

…

No answers pop into my head, no matter how long I lay there. I wish I had invited Marx or Adeline to stay, because, right now…

I… I’m alone. 

I’m alone with nothing but the dread that signifies the end of my life.

So… right as I achieved everything… right as I thought I could be a mother… right as I thought I could move on and find new love…

New love.

It’s something I never thought I wanted. Julius was all I needed… but that didn’t mean that I had to be alone until I rejoined him on the other side. I wanted to feel warmth again, to make someone else happy again. Maybe things wouldn’t be the same, but that was alright. Different was good…

But now, that dream is over. I’m going to die, just as lonely and alienated as I’ve always been.

“Do you really think… my love is that weak?”

Those words echo in my ears. Once, they were a comfort, but now…

No, Julius… your love is so strong, it’s killing me.

My own life isn’t the only thing that hangs in the balance, either. This child I carry, my child… I wished for this baby so hard, for so many years. But now, the last piece of Julius that exists will die with me.

This is hopeless. I’ve failed… spectacularly.

What am I supposed to do now? I can’t let anyone know… but at the same time, at least I have warning. A new Wizard King will have to be chosen, and then there’s the war with Spade- Am I even going to live that long?! Even now, my will to hold on is slipping, the utter hopelessness of the situation starting to drown me. 

I was doomed to fail from the beginning. And now, there’s nothing I can do but wait and scrounge up some kind of preparation. 

Julius…

I wish you were here…

Hot tears start to bubble up in the corners of my eyes.

You would know what to do… you always knew exactly what to do. 

But, if he were here, I wouldn’t be in this situation, right? Everything would be the same as it always was, I wouldn’t be dying, I would have a long, happy life ahead of me, a life with him and our child. 

If only… there was a way to see you again. 

Just one more time. Just… one look. 

My eyes close, veiling the world in darkness. The strained, tired, and thin threads of my mind stretch farther and father, to every corner of my psyche, desperate for an answer.

The answer.

It’s there…

If only…

Someone said something, once…

I had the power…

The darkness deepens, my consciousness close to giving out.

To turn back time.

Everything stops. 

But… I do?

No.

I can achieve the illusion of time reversing, by removing time from an object, person, or attack.

But… What if I were able to remove time from the entire world?

My eyes flicker open again, widening as light pours back into the world. Adeline’s worlds from our first meditation session flood my ears.

“I guess time is like a river, always flowing forward. To paddle backwards is a lot harder than to force yourself ahead.”

True… I can already manipulate time and mana in order to see seconds ahead in the future, which allows me to dodge even the fastest attacks. Julius taught me how. However, I never thought about looking back… but the more I think about it, the dots don’t connect. With what I have now, it’ll be impossible for me to fight the tides of time and travel against them.

What about True Time Magic? Will that let me go back in time?

My heart starts to pound, and I sit up. There’s something akin to adrenaline in my veins, as if I’ve found some forbidden secret. Did Julius ever think about it? If there was a way to apply our magic to the fabric of time?

I don’t know… it might still not be enough.

I still haven’t figured out how to apply the natural time magic I was just beginning to wield, so that is immediately pushed to the back of my mind. There’s one possibility left, one tool that only I have the power to possess, and what might be the key to traveling back in time.

Because… just time might not be enough.

It’s possible for me to take someone else’s magic and combine it with my own to create something new, something that could potentially execute the plan that’s slowly forming in my mind. I doubt I’ll be able to form a full-fledged Dyad in my current state, since I’m currently still in one with the shard of Julius still within me. But I can form a Triad. And as long as the Triad is intact, I can take control and do whatever I want.

But… What kind of magic would I need? What could possibly combine with my magic and make it easier for me to move back in time?

It’s becoming clear that I need to do some research. In one swift move, I rise from the couch and stride towards the door, something new fueling my movements with purpose. Because, for the first time in weeks, my mind isn’t muddled with doubts, stress, or guilt.

No… All I see is him. There was never anything other than him.

And I’m going to get him back.

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

“Hello? Anyone in here?”

Adeline pokes her head into the library, not expecting to find anyone. It’s late afternoon, a day after we returned, and she’s starting to get worried. The sudden disappearance of the Wizard King sprung everyone into a panic, especially Marx, who ordered a thorough search of the castle, top to bottom. Adeline bit her lip, her heart sinking, before starting to turn to leave.

“Wait! Adeline?!”

She froze, turning just in time for me to poke my head around the corner of a tall bookshelf. Her eyes widen at the sight of me. “Oh! Do you have any idea how many people are searching for you-”

“Adeline! Just the girl I was looking for-” She lets out a squeak as I rush forward, grabbing her hand and dragging her with me through the maze of shelves. “I was just about to leave and look for you- I think you’ll find this interesting! I’ve been doing some research, see-”

I finally skid to a stop by my favorite reading nook, nestled in the very back of the library. Books and papers are stacked everywhere, strewn across the floor and piled up in chairs. Adeline stands there, shocked, before looking back at my excited face. I know I must look terrible; This new burst of energy forced me to stay up all night and all day, and I haven’t eaten anything either. But none of that matters; only the mission matters.

“What are you doing?! You’ve been in here all day?” Adeline opens and closes her mouth a few times, aghast. “You could have at least told someone where you were… and now your work is going to get backed up, too-” 

“So? This is more important.” I grab one of the big books and hold it up. “See… I’ve gone through every book in our astronomy/cosmology section. Looking for the answer… and I think I found it! I just want to know if you agree-”

“Answer? Answer to what?” 

I ball up my fists excitedly. “Time travel… to the past! To move backwards, to force my way against the flowing river of time… I need more than just time, right?!” Adeline opens her mouth to respond, but I’m not done. “Because time isn’t actually real… It's spacetime that makes up the universe. The 3 dimensions and time combined into one, everlasting fabric… fabric that can be torn and stretched and bent- And if I want to manipulate spacetime and move to a point in the past, I need gravity!”

Adeline doesn’t say anything for a moment, but something in her eyes darkens. 

Disappointment? 

Or just sadness?

I take a few steps forward, blind to it. “Adeline, tell me… I have the power to take magic and combine it with my own. That’s how I got my time magic. So… if I can find someone with Gravity Magic, do you think it would be possible?”

…

“...why?”

“Hmm?” I blink, my expression faltering. 

Adeline’s gaze moves out of my own, avoiding it like the plague.

“Why would you want to go back in time?”

I feel ice in my veins again, the creeping feeling that something is wrong. “... Adeline-”

“Answer my question!” Her gaze snaps back up to me, determination glinting in it. The command catches me off guard, and I stand there dumbly for a moment. “I’ll answer yours first… I think so. Maybe. I don’t know what your power really is, but-”

“Why do you think I want to go back?” I cut her off, a shot of joy jolting through me, momentarily melting the ice. “To save Julius, of course…” Her reaction tells me that she already knew this. “To get us out of this mess-”

“What mess?” Adeline cuts me off again, and I notice one of her fists clench at her side. I’m starting to pick up on it now: frustration. Somehow, I’ve upset her, and it’s starting to dawn on me how. “There is no mess… you’re an amazing person, you’re an amazing King, you’ve already started to move past your grief, through meditation-”

She trails off as all remaining excitement extinguishes itself from my face.

“... Adeline… you don’t understand anything.”

She blinks, her golden eyes wavering in their sockets.

“This isn’t something I can fix through meditation. I refuse to just… sit here. The only way I can fix this is to bring him back.”

Adeline… I’m sorry.

The promise of a new life… a new love. It was never viable in the first place, was it? As tragic and frustrating as it is… I have to let it go.

“I already have a Gravity Magic user I can use.” An old friend… well, maybe an old rival is a better description. Who knew that Horatio would serve such a purpose now. “I promise… I’ll find you. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

I have the information I need. It’s best that I leave now. Adeline doesn’t move as I brush past her, grabbing my robe from where it lays on the arm of a couch as I pass it. It isn’t until I’m almost out of the room that she snaps back to her senses and turns to follow me.

“WAIT!”

Adeline grabs my shoulder before I can leave, the words spilling out all at once. They’re choked with emotion, anguish, but they fly out with that same focus and determination that she always possesses when she’s talking about something she truly cares about.

“If you go back in time, if it’s even possible, you could cause serious damage-”

“So? Damage to what?”

“LISTEN! I told you before… a single beat of a butterfly’s wings, out of place, can destroy the universe.”

I raise an eyebrow, remembering the phrase from our last conversation about this. “What does that even mean?!”

Adeline starts to look annoyed. “If you go to the past and change something critical, what happens to all of us here in the present?!”

The possibility does give me pause. But for just a moment.

Nothing matters. None of it.

“... I would assume that you would stop existing.”

Adeline gulps nervously as I turn to look her in the eye, a chill noticeably moving through her body.

“...exactly. You would effectively destroy us all.”

It doesn’t matter.

“But… also…” Her words waver as they leave her lips, and the edges of her eyes start to water.

“If you save Julius… you eliminate the reasons for the trip in the first place. You’d be a paradox… and who knows what would happen to you.” For the first time, her voice actually breaks. “Y-You could die.... Horribly…”

… I’m already going to die horribly. What’s the difference?

There’s nothing more to say. I pull my shoulder from her grasp and start to walk away.

“I don’t care.”

Adeline doesn’t cry out for me again. She knows it’s useless.

I don’t care if I die. I don’t care if I have to destroy the world. If that’s what it takes to create a perfect world, I’ll do it without a second thought.

The castle is abandoned by now, and I pause for a moment by an open window. The sun is setting, orange streaking through the sky. Funny… wasn’t it just sunset a couple minutes ago? I guess I whittled the day away in the library. Just like the good old days…

Back then, Julius and I spent hours alone together in the library, sometimes just sitting in silence, sometimes discussing something interesting he found in a book. Even before we were together… the tension and the weight between us was something obvious… something inevitable.

Just like this.

Horatio Chessman, age 27. We hail from the same town, where he used to bully me mercilessly for my low magic levels. He originally joined the Silver Eagles, but got kicked out when he suffered a devastating injury. But he didn’t give up; he tried again, and rejoined as a Crimson Lion King. And that’s where he remained.

Most importantly, Horatio has gravity magic. Exactly what I need.

Instinctively, I move towards the open window.

He’s right there… I’ll go right now.

The air is so still. People are settling in for the night. Perhaps that night will be longer than they expected.

I’ll take control of gravity…

I step out onto the ledge.

I’ll destroy this cursed world, and-

Before I can finish that thought, something within me stirs.

… Julius? His soul-

It happens again. A flutter, barely registered as my tunnel vision threatens to take over.

No… not a soul.

It’s…

The evening air wafts through my hair, and a cold tear streaks down my cheek.

… life.

I step back, and the tunnel widens. My vision clears.

How could I be so stupid…

Next thing I know, my back hits the opposite wall of the hallway, and I let my knees buckle. I slide to the ground, my eyes still fixed on the sunset outside.

I can’t do it… even if I had the means… I can’t.

I don’t want to die. Not now, not ever. Even with Julius gone, I want to live, I want to give birth to this baby. Did I really think I was prepared to throw away my future for some ridiculous mission? Time travel?! I mean- I want to, I still want to, but all the reasons why I shouldn’t are crashing down on me.

I don’t want to die… but more than that, I don’t want this child to die.

But most of all…

If I went back in time and destroyed the world… Julius would never forgive me. And Adeline, she wouldn’t forgive me.

My stomach turns as I realize that I’ve done something worse than destroy the world; I’ve upset Adeline, I’ve told her that I didn’t care about her or the world. The new love I wanted, she must have wanted it just as bad, right? And now, I might have destroyed the last piece of happiness I could have had as my life wanes away.

Just like everything else, I ruined it. How can I ever face her again?

At the first opportunity, I let the selfishness I hated so much take over everything. I wanted so badly to destroy this world, and that delusion clouded everything that was actually important: my baby, my friends, my kingdom, and the woman I wanted desperately to love. 

Is it too late?

Like some sort of empty puppet, I slowly stand up, my knees still shaking, and make my way back out onto the ledge. This time, I don’t intend to let myself fall.

“Flame magic: Sun God’s Leap.”

Wings burst to life around me, and I take flight. I fly in the opposite direction from the Crimson Lion Base, out over the city and into the wild. 

Where am I even going…

I have no idea. But maybe there’s an answer there. So I fly… I fly east. Away from the sunset that even now continues to creep up on me.

LMAO POOR LISA if she seems a little off her rocker that's completely right- She has a broken, useless ego so her impulsive ID has basically taken over afjskdl. Also- if you want a rundown on any of the astronomy/psychology stuff that shows up in this fic just shoot me an ask! Also I’d love to hear any thoughts

Next time! Chapter 13: the promise and the apology. Maybe this world can still be perfect.

[reader-fics]

Ward (Part Two)

Find Part One here!

Warnings: suicide/assassination mention

A/N: So, it has been a while--three years or so. This story has been sitting in my drafts since April 11, 2017. Tumblr has changed so much. The Purge came and went. I have no idea how this editor works anymore. I have no idea what’s going on, to be quite frank. Anyway. This is for you all, who have stayed on through these years. Enjoy -B

"It's a good thing she's getting rest." A voice somewhere above the clouds stated optimistically.

"Yes, a good thing indeed." Another echoed, floating near another cloud.

Your head ached as if you harbored a nest of mice chewing and nibbling at your brain. You cringed just thinking of it. The voices above you were so irritating; you wanted nothing more than for them to stop. You groaned and were pleased to find that they did. Silence, comforting silence, surrounded you.

Slowly the aching in your head ebbed away like the tide going out and you were able to think clearly. You knew you were in Camelot, and what your name (and title) was, so you figured you couldn't have hit your head too hard. Before even opening your eyes you came to the conclusion that you were in the physician's chambers, or perhaps your own, and the voices you heard had to belong to the physician and perhaps his assistant. You opened your eyes. Yes, these chambers were your own.

There was no point in trying to feign sleep, you decided, so you shifted slightly to let the physician know you were awake.

"How is my aunt?" You demanded to know. Deep in your gut, you simply knew that she had to be dead, but a little voice inside desperately clung to the hope that she was not, that she was being treated the same as you and would be okay. The look on the physician's wrinkled face told you far more than words.

"I'm very sorry, your highness." He told you sincerely. "How are you feeling?"

You managed a shrug. In your present state of mind you did not notice how you were addressed as "your highness," rather than "lady," as befitting a ward. A commotion seemed to burst in through the door. You only managed to twist your body slightly to see the King coming towards you. Ah, a commotion indeed.

"Your highness, I'm glad to see you awake and well. We are very lucky you were not harmed." Arthur breezed, taking your hand and giving it a comforting squeeze.

"Yes, I-I suppose so." You stuttered. How lucky could you be really? Your aunt, your only family in the world, was dead, and now she had left you in charge of a kingdom you didn't know was yours until only very recently!

"Tell me," your voice was stronger now, "what became of the perpetrator?"

You wanted to know the fate of the person who ripped your aunt away from you. Yes, it was magic that killed her, but you blamed the person, not the weapon. Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"He was immediately arrested and placed in a cell."

"Good," you nodded, "I should like to speak with him."

What you wanted to know was why. Why would he do this? Your aunt's kingdom was friendly to those with magic, so why target a friend rather than a foe. The handsome blond king in front of you was nothing but kind, but, if you were given a choice between his life and your aunt's, there would be no choice. Why her?

"The guards found him hanging there this morning." Arthur told you in a low voice. "His arms were bound and he was gagged. We don't think it was a suicide attempt; someone chose to kill him."

You didn't know how to respond. On one hand, you were glad in a twisted way that your aunt's murderer was dead. However, on the other you now had proof that the citizens of Camelot were not kind to magic. The whole ordeal made you feel sick. Arthur did not push the matter further, and you suspected it had a lot to do with the queasy look on your face.

He didn't protest when you asked both him and Gaius to leave the room.

The guard Arthur insisted stay near you nodded politely as he closed the door behind your leaving guests. You never really knew the proper decorum for dealing with a guard, so you just bowed your head in thanks and watched him take up his post on the other side as it swung shut. Once the door closed behind him, you allowed yourself to drop the semblance of tranquility and calm you were holding.

The full force of your aunt's death hit you like falling off a horse and hitting the ground. The air seemed to be pulled from your lungs and you were floating between right and wrong, day and night. Nothing seemed real, not except for the deep ache in your chest.

If she were still alive, she'd be here now at your bedside. You remembered a time, when you were younger, when you were dreadfully ill and she, even while ruling as queen, kept a constant vigil at your bedside. She soothed your fears and was a comforting presence during those dark times.

Though she never let you call her mother--"I'm not your mother, my love. She was a much better woman than I am"--some times you simply couldn't help but think it. And now she was gone. Oh gods. Your throat tightened up and you struggled to breath again.

Your eyes slammed shut and hot tears forced their way down your face. You buried your face in your hands, wishing that everything could just go back to normal. Wrenching sobs wracked your chest, but a noise outside the door alerted you to attention.

"Your highness? Are you alright?" You heard someone ask, knocking softly on the door. You assumed that it was one of Arthur's servants he'd sent to look after you; if you sent him back Arthur would only send more. You didn't want him to worry about you. As you were just now discovering, crown rulers had numerous things to think about at all times. You wiped your eyes quickly and turned your back to the door, pulling the blankets up over your shoulders. Maybe you could pretend to be sleeping and send him away quickly.

"Yes, I'm fine, but you may as well come in." You sighed. As royalty, Aunt Lysa had warned you that you'd never have privacy when you wanted it. Apparently that also extended to mourning.

The serving boy opened the door and stuck his head in halfway, almost apologetically. When you didn't protest, he stepped all the way through the door and closed it behind him. Now that you could see him entirely, you recognized him from the feast. He had been bickering with the king over whether or not it was proper for him to wear his hat--a monstrosity of feathers and velvet, really. In the end, Merlin won and the hat lay discarded for the evening. The memory made you smile slightly, a small ray of sunshine in the otherwise desolate world. As the firelight glinted in his eyes you remembered one more thing--he was also the one to pull you away from the danger.

You may have owed him your life.

"Arthur sent me to check up on you." He explained. "He knows what it's like to lose someone you love. He had a sister..."

Morgana. You knew. She had been missing for nearly a year now. Word had spread quickly throughout the kingdoms to look for her, but everyone feared the worst. Either she didn't want to be found or she was dead. You nodded understandingly. Poor Arthur.

"You may tell Arthur that I'm fine." You sighed. "If that's all..."

"Forgive me for being bold, my lady--your highness," Merlin cringed at his blunder, "but you're very clearly not fine."

You laughed hoarsely, tossing him a look over your shoulder.

"Your powers of observation are in-credible. How much does Arthur pay you?"

"Not nearly enough." He confessed, shrugging his lanky shoulders awkwardly.

You laughed at this, but immediately felt guilty. Still, it felt good to laugh. Talking with Merlin distracted you. Maybe that was Arthur's intention of sending him in the first place.

Over the next few days, Merlin was a frequent visitor at your bedside. Your head had sustained a bit of a massive injury, and Gaius didn't want to risk you hurting yourself any more, so you were restricted to bed rest. Merlin always seemed to bring the outside in with him, with stories of the Knights and whatever stupid trouble Arthur had gotten himself into recently, and those visits soon became the best part of your day.

One evening, Merlin stayed later than usual, not leaving to serve Arthur his dinner as he usually did.

"The prat actually gave me a night off, can you believe it?" He grinned, pulling up his favorite chair. You gently smiled in response.

"Merlin, if this is your only night off, by all means don't feel like you have to spend it here with me."

"Why? I like spending time with you. Besides, Gaius would like me to improve my patient management skills. How do you feel, patient?"

"Managed." You joked.

As the two of you sat and talked, the sun set and soon your room was rather dark, save for the fire in the fireplace and the few candles on the desk. You had a candle on your night table, and that seemed like the obvious solution.

It was an accident, really. You weren't thinking. That was your problem--Lysa would always tell you; you never thought before you acted. Before you could even think of the consequences, you'd used a little bit of magic to created a flame on the candle on the table for light. You heard Merlin gasp.

"Y-you have magic?"

You stared at him quizzically for a moment, thinking. If he betrayed you to the guards, what were the odds of you surviving? You really weren't sure, but, considering that Lysa was already dead there wasn't a terrible amount left for you to live for. Even if it would get you killed, why not tell the servant about magic? A fine idea, really.

"I know a little magic. Well, it's not much at all. Every bit I've got I had to fight for. Lysa believed that a good ruler had to know about all of her subjects. The magic users were simply the more marginalized ones."

"Oh." Was all that Merlin could say.

"I supposed you'll want to run off to Arthur and have me arrested." You sighed, wishing you'd heeded Lysa's advice and been more careful. You blew out the candle, watching the smoke rise and dissipate as if it were erasing all evidence.

"No! Well, actually, it'd be very silly for me to run off to Arthur. I'd be the biggest hypocrite."

"Oh?" You pursed your lips, parroting his word back at him.

Merlin merely raised his hand and the flame grew back where it had been. He used magic, just as you had done.

"That's vexing." You commented. "How could one of Arthur's closest friends keep such a big secret?"

Merlin reddened.

"I do it so he won't have to make that choice, to let me live or break the law. I wouldn't want to put him in that situation."

"I see." Such a thing would never happen in Lysa's kingdom. Perhaps Arthur had as much to learn from you as you did from him.

"Do you really protect magic users in your kingdom?" Merlin burst out asking, as if the question had been bothering him all day.

"Of course. They're people too, and have every right to be." You told him firmly. Aunt Lysa told you the same thing when you were young, frightened of the unknown.

"I've been told magic has no place in Camelot. D'you think that's true?"

"Well, you're here and I'm here and we both have magic, so I'd say that there is a place here."

The next few days quickly turned into weeks and then months while you were amidst a whirl of funerary preparations and beyond. There was no way you could successfully take Lysa's body back to be burned in her home kingdom, so Arthur graciously built her a pyre worthy of a queen. You were the one to light the torch, making a big show of doing it with flint and stone when you really just used your magic. It felt better that way, more elemental and natural.

As you watched the flames lick at the sky, you couldn't help but feel more alone than you ever had, even with Arthur on one side and Merlin at the other. Lysa, your last living family member, was gone and she left you enough responsibility for a lifetime. Too much, even.

How on earth could you rule without her?

Arthur had graciously advocated for your coronation ceremony to be held in Camelot, rather than returning all the way home to be legally allowed to rule and then coming back to finally get on with the peace treaties. You didn't want any more delays.

You requested that the ceremony be brief and austere. Out of respect for Lysa, it was done. No banquet was arranged, no orchestra merrily playing. Arthur, being the highest power in the kingdom, was the one to formally crown you. There was no one from Lysa's kingdom of a reputable stature to do it, so it had to be him. As you knelt before him, listening to the bland words of politics and formal sanctions, he lowered the crown onto your head.

The weight of it startled you.

It was cold, and heavy, and so unlike anything you'd expected. You remained kneeling, staring at the floor and simply allowing yourself to feel. Gods, you felt this gnawing emptiness inside. The floor hurt your knees, the crown hurt your head, the circumstances hurt... everything.

"Y/N?" Arthur gently prompted. There were no spectators, no one but Merlin, there to gasp at the breach of decorum. It was just the three of you.

"Are you alright?" Camelot's king asked the new queen.

"I don't know." You replied in a halting voice, straightening up. Arthur's hand was immediately there offering assistance and you gladly took it.

"Is your crown this uncomfortable too?" You asked. Arthur laughed heartily, nodding.

"It's unbearable." He agreed.

Following dinner that evening, you cornered Merlin in your chambers when he visited, more by habit now than anything else. You were seated staring out the window and Merlin was puttering around with the fireplace, adjusting the decorative objects on the mantle out of boredom.

"Merlin, I need your help." You lowered your voice, looking out into the courtyard below.

"Yeah?" He replied casually. Even to a Queen his manners were still the same. You wouldn't have it any other way. Turning to face him, you twisted your fingers together in your lap.

"I need a distraction." You said.

"Oh?" He replied, brushing his hands on his trousers and crossing the room to the window in a few long strides. "How can I help?"

"Make me stop thinking." You looked up at him helplessly.

As if the words were a gods-given command, Merlin snapped into action and his lips were on yours in an instant, a hand wound possessively in your hair. For a moment, it was everything. It was the press of his body against yours, it was the smell of his skin, it was the taste of his lips. After that moment it all cleared away and it was a blissful nothingness that took its place.

The steadfast, proper queen you had become was able to rest, to walk away, leaving behind the person with desires and needs. You grabbed and you took what you needed, decorum be damned.

Skin sweaty and bare, you tangled in each other's arms and let the candles burn themselves out. In the quietest hours of the night was your mind the most active. Fears and anxieties about the future crept in.

"Merlin," you whispered into the darkness, "I don't know how to rule a kingdom."

"If it's any consolation," came his response, "I don't either."

You grinned sheepishly, staring up in the general direction of the cieling. Merlin rolled over so that he could kiss the bare skin on your shoulder, lips warm on cool flesh. You absentmindedly combed your fingers through his hair, and he rested his head next to yours on the pillow.

"But you're not a queen. You don't have to rule." You continued, pursuing your lips. Surely by now news had already traveled home that Lysa was dead. How on earth will they react when you return? Alone?

"True," he considered, feeling the weight of the word on his tongue. What did it mean to rule? Arthur certainly wouldn't be sitting on the throne if it weren't for Merlin, so did that make him a ruler, too? Merlin wrinkled his nose. God, he hoped not.

"The success of a king--or queen--is as much dependent on their subjects as their prowess in ruling." He said thoughtfully.

"How philosophical of you." You rolled your eyes.

"I suppose you'll just have to take it one day at a time. Start with these peace treaties. No. Start with just one. One treaty. One doctrine. Then the next." Merlin kissed your forehead.

"I suppose so." You replied, feeling at peace for the first time since before you left Lysa's kingdom.

[razieltwelve]

The Desert Rose (RWBY AU Snippet)

Note: This goes with Dragon and The Queen of Winter.

X     X     X

In the Old Days before the sky broke and the Grimm came and all the gods fled, Vacuo was the jewel of the world. It was a kingdom of verdant forests and clear rivers, a place where each harvest was more bountiful than the last. Lumbering tree-folk tended to ancient groves, and fields of flowers in full bloom filled the world with scent and colour.

And then the Grimm came.

For a time, the magic of the dragon kings of old kept them at bay, but the dragons were all gone, and their magic was fading. Like a blighted tide washing against a gilded shore, the Grimm turned Vacuo from a place of wonder into a place of desolation and despair.

The thriving forests withered and died, and the tree-folk and their ancient groves rotted and fell. The rich soil was turned to desert sand, and where clear, swift rivers had once flowed, only parched, bare earth remained. The people were scattered to the winds, left to wander the ruins of their fallen kingdom until there were none living who could remember the sight or smell of flowers in full bloom.

X     X     X

Ruby dreamed of the scent of flowers and the feel of thick grass beneath her claws. She dreamed of thriving orchards and towering trees as old as the heavens. She dreamed of wings wide enough to shelter a kingdom and fire that brought life as well as death.

But she also dreamed of a desert with no end and of footprints in the sand vanishing into the distance, walking toward a horizon they could never reach.

X     X     X

When Ruby was five, she dreamed of the desert and of how two sets of footprints in the sand became one. She asked her mother about the dream, and her mother smiled and held her hand very tightly as they fought to walk along the top of a sand dune against the tearing wind.

“It’s because when you are weak, dear Ruby, I will carry you.”

“Because you’re my mother?” Ruby asked.

And Summer’s smile was bright enough to hide how thin she was and how the shadow of old pain so often haunted her eyes. “Yes, because I am your mother, and you are my Ruby.”

The sand swirled around them, and Ruby looked off into the distance. There was nothing but more sand and the dead, rotting ruins of titan trees that had once dared to reach for the sky.

X     X     X

When Ruby was six, her mother had to carry her on her back. Food had been even harder to come by than usual, and the oases they’d come to rely on had all run dry. At night, the baying of the Grimm grew closer than ever, and Ruby clung to her mother and dreamed of cool streams of pure water and seeds buried deep beneath the blighted sands.

The next day, they joined a growing group of wanderers.

X     X     X

When Ruby was nine, she dreamed that two sets of footsteps in the sand were joined by many others, and she asked her mother what it meant.

“Look around you,” Summer said as she gestured at the makeshift camp they were in. “Vacuo was mighty once, a place of life and light and joy. Only the desert remains, but Vacuo’s people have not forgotten. That is why we stay here. One day, yes, one day, the dragons will come back, and Vacuo will bloom once more. We are the ones who have never stopped believing.” She held Ruby close. “They say the dragons of old could see the future in their dreams. My father told me once that the blood of dragons flows through our veins, thin though it may be.” She smiled, and her smile was lovely yet bitter. “Perhaps that is why your father and I were drawn together.”

“My father?” Ruby whispered. Her mother did not like to speak of him.

“Yes. He too was supposed to carry the blood of dragons within him, but I could not stay with him. No matter how far I went, I could feel this place calling me back.” Summer closed her eyes, and Ruby could almost hear the whisper of words on the desert wind. “I am meant to be here and so are you, Ruby.”

There were many wanderers in their group, and they moved from place to place, following the ever-dwindling water and tending to their flocks of hardy sheep and tough cattle. And though the desert was bitterly cold at night and searingly hot during the day, those were happy times for Ruby. She and her mother were no longer alone, and there were even other children to play with.

During the day, Ruby would learn from anyone who could teach her. Whether it was how to use a sword or a spear or how to weave and tend livestock, she learned it all. And at night, when the wind howled and sand tore at anything it could reach, she would huddle with the wise old men and women and learn of the Old Days and the magic that still lingered in their blood.

“The dragons are all dead,” the old men and women would say. “But they gave us one last gift. Our magic, such as it is, may only be a shadow of theirs, but it has kept us alive this long.”

With that precious magic, they could find water and grow rare herbs in carefully tended pots. The greatest amongst them could even heal wounds and bring life to withered plants, but there were none who could face the blight that spread the desert ever further.

X     X     X

When Ruby was twelve, she dreamed of that endless desert and the footprints vanishing into the distance. Instead of many sets of footprints, there were only two again. She did not ask her mother about the dream. She had no time. When she woke, it was to panicked screams and the bestial roars of the Grimm.

“Ruby!” her mother cried. “We have to run!”

All around them, the people Ruby had come to know were dying. The wise old men and women were cut down, and the children alongside them. The warriors fought, but they were so badly outnumbered and outmatched. For a moment, Ruby thought of joining them. She could fight, and would it be so bad to die here in defence of those she’d come to love?

But before she could take a step forward, one of the old women stumbled toward her. She was bleeding from a dozen wounds, and her eyes were wild with fear and panic. She grabbed Ruby’s arm and shoved her back.

“Go with your mother, Ruby!” the old woman yelled. “There is nothing more you can do here. Live! Live and remember us! Live and remember all that we have taught you!”

And so Ruby and her mother ran, and though Ruby looked back often, she never saw anyone behind them. For years, she had grown used to seeing other footprints in the sand. Now, like before, she could only see hers and her mother’s.

She would have wept, but she remembered the words of one of the old wise women. 

“Save your tears,” the woman had told her. “The dead have no use for them and the living need more than some weeping girl.”

X     X     X

When Ruby was fourteen, just shy of fifteen, she dreamed of a desert that stretched from horizon to horizon. She saw footprints in the sand, but only one set.

She did not ask her mother about the dream. She already knew what it meant. They had wandered alone since the group had been destroyed. Water and food grew ever harder to find, and her mother always made sure she ate and drank first. Little by little, day by day, Ruby watched her mother wither as Vacuo had withered.

“It is a mother’s joy to look after her child,” Summer murmured, late one night, so thin that Ruby could have lifted her with ease. “As my father did for me, I now do for you. Everything has a price, but I pay it willingly.”

The next morning, Summer could no longer stand. She was too weak.

So Ruby tied her mother onto her back and carried as her mother had once carried her. 

Ruby refused to believe in destiny.

Perhaps her dreams showed her the future, but prophecy, the old wise men and women had taught her, was fraught with peril. Ruby had only seen one set of footprints, so she had put her mother on her back. Others, she knew, would have seen one set of footprints and left her mother behind.

X     X     X

When Ruby was fifteen, she dreamed of a desert without end, but no matter how hard she looked, she could find no footprints in the sand.

For a month, Ruby tended to her mother. She tried to make it work. Oh, how she tried, but there was so little water and so little food. Her stomach ached and her head spun, and there was a part of her that thought of simply leaving her mother behind. One might be able to survive where two could not.

But she did not.

How many times had her mother eaten or drunk less, so she could have more? How many times had her mother carried Ruby on her back, so she could live? The Grimm had taken Vacuo. The Grimm had taken their group. But Ruby would not let them take her mother too.

The end came when they were caught in a sandstorm. As the howling wind and the tearing sand enveloped them, Ruby held her mother and closed her eyes. She thought of flowers in full bloom and a paradise she’d never seen. She whispered the prayer her mother had taught her and waited for the end to come.

X     X     X

My scales are blood And my eyes are the moon My teeth are swords And my claws are spears My blood waters the earth And my breath brings life I was a dragon once And I will be a dragon again

X     X     X

Ruby Rose died, and the desert bloomed.

X     X     X

The whispers spread through the desert as quickly as the wind. The Old City, the fallen capital of Vacuo, had been cleansed of Grimm. The great evil that had lingered there for centuries had been put to flight and then destroyed. But even more astounding was what had happened to the desert.

Around the Old City, there was no desert. The fallen buildings and battered walls were covered in vines. Thick grass carpeted the ground, and towering trees soared toward the sky. The long-dried riverbeds burst their banks with clear, cool water, and the flooded plains were covered in thick, rich soil.

Hoping against all hope, the scattered people of Vacuo made their way to the Old City, and there atop the ruins of the palace, they saw a dragon with scales as red as blood and eyes like the moon.

“Be welcome,” a woman said from beside the dragon, a woman with eyes of the same silver. “For a dragon has come again, and Vacuo blooms once more.”

And from the forest that had sprung up around the Old City came the thunder of titan footsteps. The tree-folk had all fallen to the Grimm, but they had hidden seeds deep within the earth, far below the blighted sands. The dragon’s awakening had called them from the soil, and the tree shepherds walked the world once more.

The people rejoiced and moved into the city. And with each day that passed, the greenery spread. The Grimm came, but they were driven back with great loss. Each breath of the dragon burned the Grimm to ash, yet its silver flame did not burn the people or the harm the plants. Instead, its breath birthed trees and shrubs, and where the dragon walked, the shifting sands gave way to groves and orchards.

One day, people came clad in the symbols of Vacuo’s nobility from the Old Days. They came before the dragon and knelt.

“We are the descents of the Old Guard,” the old man at their head said. “We served the last of the kings of Vacuo, and before he bade us to flee rather than die needlessly against Grimm we could not defeat, he gave us something. We were told to hide it and keep it safe until one worthy of it appeared.”

The old man brought forth a crown of withered branches and dead flowers and held it to up to the dragon.

“They called this the Crown of Roses, for always did flowers bloom in the Old Days before Vacuo fell and the Grimm came. But it withered as Vacuo withered. Even so, we would offer it to you now, for it was the crown of the kings and queens of old.”

The dragon changed and became a girl with dark hair and silver eyes. She was garbed in a red mantle, and each time her bare feet touched the earth, flowers bloomed and the trees swayed and reached toward her. She took the withered crown, and the old, dead branches turned green once more, and the dead flowers became roses as red as her mantle.

“It has been an age since the people of Vacuo have had a king or a queen,” the old man said. “But we are yours to rule if you wish it.”

And Ruby, with eyes older than they should be, thought back to the dream she’d had before she became a dragon, to the desert without footprints in the sand. “I dreamed once of a desert without end, and no matter how hard I looked, I could find no footprints in the sand. I thought it meant the end of all things, but I was wrong.” She settled the crown upon her head, and though she wore the shape of a girl, the soul of a dragon blazed forth from within her. “There were no footprints in the sand because why should a dragon’s people walk when she can carry them through the skies on her back?” She smiled. “I will be your queen if that is your wish.”

It was, and her people called her the Desert Rose. Of all the flowers that bloomed when she walked, it was the roses that were the most beautiful, and the scent of them reminded people of a dream long lost but found at last.

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

Ruby is a very different sort of dragon from Yang. If Yang is the fury of the dawn made manifest, then Ruby is the breath of spring, the promise of a better tomorrow, made real. Thematically, she is also the opposite of Weiss. Where Weiss goes, winter follows. Frost and ice are her weapons. Where Ruby goes, life follows. Her silver fire can heal and bring life as easily as it can kill. The footprints motif in this chapter is based on the famous poem.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

You can find my original fiction on Amazon here. In fact, I’ve just released a new story, Attempted Adventuring. If you like humour, action, and adventure, be sure to check it out.

[klunkcat]

tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway

King Falls AM pairing: sammy stevens/jack wright word count: 5317

find it on ao3

There were five stages of grief, so someone said. All set up nicely in a row, like you were doing something productive if you moved from crying your eyes out every day to bleak numb stillness, like throwing things and tearing things apart was a step up or a step down from refusing to live in reality. Nobody had ever really explained to Sammy what they felt like, in practicality. The way they swung up and down, the way some stages past him in a blink, not even fully growing roots, while others took months for their thorns to die out.

Nobody really explained that they didn’t end, either. Some days you could find yourself mad as all hell all over again, feel like throwing things or just drinking until your thoughts unspooled from your head and the film reel of memories would finally be easier to manage. Some you'd wake up the next morning half thinking everything, all the horrible interwoven hells, that it was all a dream only to get sucker punched by the loss right there in your bed, because a part of you expected to roll over and see him again.

Sometimes you could feel more than one stage, all at once, or reach acceptance for the twentieth time in a month only to hate yourself viscerally the next for daring to be okay a moment later.

Nobody really explained to him, what the guilt was like. That part right after he let himself be angry, let himself be furious that Jack hadn’t listened, that he’d stuck his stupid nose in that stupid journal and let it spin him a yarn and pull him with it. When he’d stopped trying to convince himself he was furious at all in the first place, that it wasn't just a way of controlling all of it. That it wasn't just the part of him that kicked and clawed and refused to admit that it wouldn't have changed anything even if Jack told him.

After he'd finished tiring himself out pretending to be mad at anyone other than himself was when that little voice kicked in. The one that said things about seeing the signs, about betraying trust, the voice that told Sammy that Jack would never leave on his own. That was when it got the worst.

With Ben around all hours of the evening and a microphone sat somewhat questionably germ infested in front of each of him, it was easier to put that voice on hold. Put it under ‘lucky’ line 1 and file it with a ‘fuck this entire thought’, and just joke and let himself breathe for a second. Ben looked at him sometimes like he’d personally had a hand in fitting the constellations above the treeline, like he was worth something and maybe, if Sammy was feeling extra hopeful, no amount of bullshit from Sammy’s past would change anything. It got easier to push everything else aside then, live in a space in between stages without Shotgun, or any rings, or any locked up storage rooms with keys he never touched, just Sammy and Ben. Just the stars in the sky and their two microphones, and ‘hey caller six, what’s on your mind this beautiful night’.

The problem was always that it didn’t last.

The show would end, Ben would head home to his adorable little apartment in this adorable and double sided town, and Sammy would…

Sammy would just stop, really.

He’d shuffle into his cold empty room, with boxes he never intended to unpack, dishes he never used because that felt too much like staying, still living out of his suitcase like it hadn’t been a year, two years, two and a half whole years, and just.

Stop.

At first he’d tried looking around town, digging into the library archives after swearing Emily to secrecy, poking around the woods, following up on rumors of missing hikers. They’d all been dead ends of course, too much about things that went bump in the night, and not enough about where it put them back down. Maybe it hadn’t even been a dead end, really. Just another thing on a long list of roadblocks Sammy had taken as cement walls because he hadn’t wanted to see what was there. Couldn’t even give up his damn pride when Jack was- when Jack…

Sammy had known he wasn’t dead, somehow. Despite everything, he never believed Jack was gone entirely. His own mind wouldn't let him think about anything else, most days. Just Jack, trapped and alone, and Sammy would wake up screaming about him, big rounded out eyes, calling for help somewhere just beyond Sammy’s reach. The worst nights were the ones he woke up with Jack’s voice still ringing in his ears, repeating the awful things he’d snarked at him over his shoulder.

He'd known Jack- knew, Jack- for more than half his life. He'd been in love with him for almost all of that time. From the very first second Jack had walked in to their shared 8 AM class, coffee stains all over his shirt and wordlessly passed Sammy an extra cup. Jack had never once tried to hurt him the way he had those last few weeks. Not the Jack that fretted, that talked so softly at him in the dead of night about how proud he was to know Sammy, about how happy he was. Not the Jack that cooed at baby birds and spoke on air about love like it was nothing to ever possibly be ashamed of. It was hard, without Jack there to beat back the swirling mess of his brain, to remember what Jack could have possibly ever seen in him.

It was easy to feel guilty, then. Even easier to wrap himself up in it, like it was productive at all. He could pretend it was like having control, maybe, a way of keeping himself responsible for an entirely impossible series of events. Like somehow, if it was his fault enough that Jack hadn’t stopped for him, Sammy would be able to see the pieces that made up the whole fucked up picture. He could just blame himself for being happy for half a second, blame himself for not looking hard enough, blame himself for not having the god damned bravery to tell his best fucking friend that his fiancé was missing.

‘Hey Ben, Sammy Stevens is a radio host from the big city’ good, fine, easy enough. ‘Sammy Stevens used to be an asshole, on air.’ Little harder, but manageable. Anything laced with an insult tasted fine enough. ‘Hey, Ben, Sammy Stevens is a coward. He’s going to let you down. He already let his fiancé down and he’s not even brave enough to finish the job’. Yeah, well. Who’d want to hear that anyway.

The thing about the whole stages of grief thing, was that they didn’t really give you a manual for dealing with the fact that sometimes people were never actually dead. And sometimes, if you were beyond lucky and knew people with as much fire and tenacity as Ben Arnold, Lily Wright, and Emily Potter, they came back.

What was the reverse of the five stages of grief? Well, he could check the little box for denial off, probably. If pure shock counted. And the way he’d woken up leaning against Jack’s palm in the hospital room, woken up with the same typical split second of peace before crushing reality pinned him beneath the usual tide of emptiness, only to have another wave of overwhelming reality leave him completely shattered moments later when he processed who’s heartbeat had been lulling him to rest for the past three hours.

The panic attack after was a little disorienting, a lot more guilt inducing for confusing reasons, but at least Jack had been mostly unconscious still and missed the whole spectacle.

Bargaining was sort of sidestepped. A little less begging a lot more resolutely refusing to leave anywhere without taking Jack with them. Shadowmaker-Debbie-Whoever was a problem for another day.

Sadness? Nothing to be sad about, the love of his life was breathing, had woken up for a split second in the hospital to grin dopily at him before passing out again, had told him he’d loved him with a rasping voice and watering eyes and Sammy had struggled to say it back around his heart cracking in his throat but he was alive. Jack was home. Ben curled just there against his own frantic heartbeat, Emily squeezing the hand that wasn’t locked into Jack’s. Lily pacing two feet to the left, with Katie talking softly at her through her phone speaker. He had everything, more than he’d ever thought he’d get. A family. Jack was healing, too. Walking around after a few short weeks, remembering more and more, relearning how to be okay. And just the way he'd looked at Sammy, when Ben had practically launched out of his seat to volunteer their place as somewhere for Jack to recuperate. All wobbly legged and awed, like the kindness so inherent in Ben Arnold was the most amazing gift in the world, like he was so impossibly bursting with pride that Sammy had found him all on his own.

He loved Ben for everything he did, those first few weeks. For everything he'd been doing over the years. He just hated the way it made him feel so shitty. The way it made him realize, if he hadn't been so focused on making it to the big Air stations, about fitting in, how Jack could have had this all along. That Sammy and his cowardice had taken even more than five fucking years from the love of his life.

Anger. Check, check, and check.

He supposed he was at that stage sort of constantly. That’d been the hardest one to let go of the first time around, made sense it would be the last to leave.

Not that he was angry at Jack. Maybe he had been, once. A drunken night spent too long in an unfamiliar town with empty walls and quiet rooms singing back at him; maybe he’d been mad at Jack for not listening then. For daring to leave Sammy alone without him. For not walking back in and taking Sammy with him. Now, though. Now it was more of a miasma, a curled and wretched thing around his chest that he didn’t know how to breathe without anymore. The sting kept him focused, kept him here. Had almost swallowed him alive, but he’d pulled through somehow. Not by his own choice, to be fair, but the end result was the same.

Being unhappy with himself was sort of textbook Stevens at this point, enough wear and tear to nearly be a household joke. To be the sort of thing Lily could rib him with again. Or it would have, anyways. He’d tried to make it a thing for a bit, but Ben seemed to just, shut off whenever Sammy brought it up as breezy as you please. He’d get all round eyed and worried at Sammy, like it was personally his fault for not loving Sammy hard enough to make that part of his brain give it up and go home. Sort of took the fun out of it when Ben got like that, really.

It was easier to be unhappy with himself when Jack was missing, though, to be fair. And when he didn’t have a towns worth of people forcibly dragging him out to things like celebratory bonfires, or cook outs, or inviting themselves along to Jack and Sammy’s wedding plans, because of course Mary would be coordinating the reception, and of course Ben was the best man so that meant he’d be planning their ‘radio boys night’, and obviously Loretta made the best potatoes this side of Big Pine so she’d be supplying food and-

He just hated the fact he couldn’t seem to just, let himself believe he deserved it in the end.

Maybe if Jack didn’t have a limp now, or if there weren’t all these mottled scars lining his neck. If Jack didn’t have to lie down every few hours because his energy just wasn’t the same anymore, or if he could wrap his arms around Jack when he was cooking like he used to without it sending his fiancé into a strange catatonic panic attack state he’d have to lull him back out of. Almost six years was a long time to be stuck in the void, and it didn’t seem fully ready to let Jack Wright go. And that, ultimately, was Sammy’s fault.

If he’d only worked up the courage to tell Ben sooner, or been smarter, or believed in all of this faster. If only, if only Sammy was just…. Better.

“Hey,” Jack nudged him, dragging Sammy forcibly back into the moment. They were curled up on the couch, their selection (really, Ben’s selection) for movie night still playing quietly in the background. Emily whispered quietly to Sammy’s left, evidently trying to untangle Ben’s octopus arms from around Sammy’s waist and drag him back to bed. Emily caught Sammy’s dazed stare and smiled at him, reaching up to push his bangs from Sammy’s brow, "Get some rest you two. Don't stay up too late."

Ben grumbled incoherently, but finally got up to follow Emily out of the room with a sleepy ‘night, love you’ thrown Sammy’s and Jack’s way.

Wasn’t that in itself fantastic? Ben was always so open and easy with loving everyone around him and he’d loved Jack from the moment he’d known Jack existed, but now he knew him, too. Now Jack and Ben had their own text chat full of cryptid memes and exclamation marks, and they both ganged up on Sammy on occasion when he got to ‘dad friend-y’ or didn’t understand internet things, and Ben knew him. Wasn’t that amazing, Sammy? Wasn’t that enough?

Why the hell wasn't it enough.

“I can hear you thinking bad thoughts, you know,” Jack said softly, nudging his nose against Sammy’s temple and squeezing where his arm was looped easily around Sammy’s shoulder. His voice was light and teasing enough, but Sammy heard the implication, the underlying concern to it all. Sammy sighed.

“No new bad thoughts, I promise,” he leaned over, resting his chin on Jack’s shoulder instead and pecking him where he could reach the sharp line of Jack’s jaw. “Sorry for spacing out, seems like I missed a classic. With how much Ben drool is currently soaking into my shirt, must have been a real tear jerker.”

Jack snorted quietly. “He’ll be adamant that he saw the whole thing in the morning of course.”

“Mhmmm.” Sammy smiled back. Jack’s hand lifted, carding sweetly through Sammy’s hair. He’d mentioned he couldn’t get over how long it was now, before. Said he liked it with a sort of punched out awe struck look, like he was seeing a sunset for the first time again. Just for that alone, Sammy would weather an infinity of manbun jokes for the rest of his life. Jack called him a lumberjack looking Orlando Bloom impersonator, a high badge of honour.

“Not really like you to space out during a romcom, though,” Jack added, after a long moment. His hand moved to the side of Sammy’s cheek, rubbing his thumb in slow circles. Sammy sighed, and leaned more into Jack’s side. The downside to someone knowing him so well, arguably even better than Ben did, was the lack of deflection. Deflecting had been his only super power besides untold levels of snark in the past five years. The impenetrable Stevens Shield, shattered by one Jack Wright’s immense empathy and knowing smirk.

Damn.

“You know,” Jack’s hand stilled. “Ben told me something interesting the other day. Wondered if it might be bugging you.”

“Oh yeah? You know, they have a totally different name for Bigfoot here too. I bet he’s talked you up and down about their incomparable shoe sizes already, but the entirely different name thing they have going on here still gets me.”

“Mm,” Jack hummed, and Sammy knew Jack was an unmoving mountain in the face of Sammy’s infinite array of topic changing tactics, but damn again. “He did mention something about custom hiking boots, yeah. But uh, no. He…. Thanked me, actually. For something I’m not sure I remember doing.”

“Oh?” That wasn’t entirely uncommon either, Jack had memory issues on top of everything else these days. Yet another scar to carry back from the void, Sammy guessed. Chunks of days sometimes just sort of…. Fell out of place. Some got lost and some found their ways back but in the wrong places. They adapted.

Jack went quiet again. Sammy listened to the gentle thrum of Jack’s heartbeat beneath his ear, and played with the fingers of Jack’s free hand aimlessly. He’d never tire of being able to have this, never ever again. He’d never get enough of Jack Wright (soon to be Jack Stevens-Wright), as long as he li—

“Ben thanked me for keeping you out of the Devil’s Doorstep, actually. Said, um. Said he thought it might have been me. That I stopped it from taking you. Knew you were doing something stupid and just,” his voice cracked slightly, and Sammy’s heart lurched. “Kept you safe.”

Oh.

“Thing is,” Jack continued, voice warbling now. “I don’t…. I don’t know that it was me. I know that… I would have done everything. Everything I could to keep you from being in that place with me, but I- I didn’t. I couldn’t even see you, near the end. I couldn’t tell you were right in front of me! And- it’s too much if you- I don’t think I did anything. And you could have—” His voice broke off entirely, and Sammy twisted and lurched upwards, cradling Jack’s face in his hands.

Oh god, Sammy thought, he knows. He knows.

“Jack, I- no, you can’t blame yourself, I… I’m so sorry, okay? It was stupid, I—”

Jack was crying, silent tears creeping down his dark cheeks, and his hands had fallen to Sammy’s waist like he couldn’t make himself let go, like the world would have to fall apart entirely around them and the sun swallow them whole before Jack thought to so much as move. Like he was terrified.

Sammy felt horrible.

“It was stupid,” Jack sniffled, “Stupid of me to-to not listen to you. I know I wasn’t, at least I’m pretty sure I wasn’t in control near the end. And I would never have- I was so awful to you, sweetheart and I can’t even begin to know how much that hurt you, but then I left you. I didn’t want to, I never would have- I left you behind, Sammy, and I promised I’d never—”

“You didn’t mean to! It wasn’t you, Jack, I know it wasn’t. I’m, I’d never blame you for going when I know you never meant to, please-please don’t cry, Jack-”

Jack’s mouth pressed into a flat line, eyes desperately sad in a way that hurt to look at, hurt to have directed on him. “You did blame me, though. For a minute? You…. I went somewhere you couldn’t follow, and- and Ben thinks I stopped you from following me anyway.”

The image of Ben, with how quiet and shaken he’d been the weeks following Sammy’s… well, the ‘Sammiversary’, murmuring a far too sincere thanks with that classic wobbling smile of his. The idea that he’d thought Jack would have fought the darkness, fought the impossible for Sammy just as much as they were fighting for Jack, just to keep Sammy safe. It was a lot. A fondness he’d never have the words to name rose in him, made his eyes burn with how intensely Ben just. Believed in Sammy. Believed in Jack despite never having met him.

And yet Sammy hadn’t believed in either of them enough to want to stay, had he?

“I’m a coward,” Sammy felt the steel in him caving, the foundations he’d made into a shield folding inwards like the dying star in his center had finally gone supernova. The black hole that was Sammy Steven’s pulling everything down around with it. Nothing more to hide, right?

“I wasn’t strong enough Jack, I let… I let you rot there for five fucking years, and I couldn’t even ask my best friend for help for most of that. I let you just, freeze there, alone in that hell, because I couldn’t fucking tell anyone how much I loved you. How can you…” His eyes widened, and he cut himself off. Jack looked…. Devastated.

He remembered something similar, once, to this moment. When Sammy had spent a little too long ruminating in all his failures, in all his badly outlined ideas of love and how he’d never earned it despite everything he cut off from himself, despite the fact he’d made himself fit into a mould that was never his, until Jack. Always until Jack. Jack had come home from hanging out with Lily and found Sammy nearly catatonic, all bowed inwards and sliding somewhere in between planes of being here and being anywhere else. He didn’t remember Jack panicking, didn’t remember the frantic phone calls or the calm soothing tones that eventually walked him back out from himself. For as long as he lived though, he’d remember that quiet devastation in Jack’s eyes when Sammy blearily asked why Jack was home so early. (Because he hadn’t asked that, really. Because he’d been mumbling about the uncertainty of what he’d always deserved, about that space within himself he could never seem to shorn down the right way, the part with all the splinters still sticking out).

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, hands coming up and fluttering somewhere around Jack’s cheeks. Wanting to push away the worry lines carving unfamiliar age across Jack’s face (or maybe it was Sammy, maybe it was Sammy forgetting. Five years was a long time, maybe he hadn’t thought about Jack enough). “Jack, please don’t, I-“

“Is that…. Is that what you really think? How can you- I… Sammy, you saved me,” Jack’s voice went funny, a sort of sideways trip into steel and uncertainty that couldn’t possibly exist together. Jack had always been good at that, making things he wanted real.

Sammy shook his head, there were so many ways he could untangle that. So many holes to poke. “I almost didn’t, though,” he said instead.

Jack winced and Sammy felt like slinking into the mud outside, just piling it on top of himself and taking a nap until he could spontaneously figure out how to fix this. Fix… all of this, his head, who he fundamentally seemed to be as a person with all the various anxieties and meltdowns. He didn’t used to be like this, he’d had problems they’d worked through and so had Jack, but now… It was like he was mourning a Jack that wasn’t here when Jack was right in front of him. Like he was mad at the Jack who’d left but not the one that came back and they couldn’t be made into the same person. It was like he was fighting not to lose someone who wasn’t leaving. Jack deserved better, he was back and everything should be perfect right? Except it was Sammy and those stupid stages of not-grief he wasn’t experiencing, just tossing everything around and making a mess of him.

“Oh, sweetheart, shh,” Jack moved in even closer, until their foreheads were almost touching, until Sammy’s whole world was those wide dark, kind, eyes. “I need you to breathe with me, Sammy.” Oh, Sammy blinked, not realizing he’d begun half trembling outside himself in the encroaching storm of his thoughts. Yeah, he could do that. He moved a hand to Jack’s chest, over his heart, and closed his eyes.

One of Jack’s hands slid around to the back of Sammy’s neck, slowly playing with the hair at his nape. Sammy breathed, shakily, then more grounded. “I don’t care about what you almost didn’t do, Sammy. Because, and I know you won’t let it stick in that beautiful head of yours, but I’ll say it anyways… You’ve always been stronger than you give yourself credit for. You’ve always been exactly what I need. I care about the fact you're hurting.”

Ben had said something similar to him once, too. Maybe he'd just been hurting the people around him all along, really. He focused on breathing out through his nose, on Jack’s heart thrumming under his palm, on Jack’s large, warm hand wrapped around his neck. Points of gravitational pull, enough to pull all his parts back together.

“You would have gotten me out,” Sammy managed, after a long moment. Jack’s hand paused, then resumed it’s gentle threading. “If it was reversed, you wouldn’t have given up.”

Jack’s laugh was a sad quiet thing. “The faith you have in me… wish you could have half of that for yourself sometimes.”

His eyes opened, something hot and fierce burning through his heart. “You wouldn’t have. You’re the most stubborn person I know outside of Ben. And he fuckin’ blew up a spaceship.”

The lopsided sad smile on Jack’s face faded, something three parts contemplative and one part tragic cresting in its place. Jack dropped his hands with a sigh, and bundled Sammy’s between both of his hands, just there against his chest. Like they were both finally on the same tempo, a ship finding the lighthouse. Something less god damned melodramatic, maybe.

“Sammy Stevens, without you I’d... I'd be lost, really.” Jack whispered. His fingers found the ring on Sammy’s hand, just resting there. “I wouldn’t know how to believe in anything if you weren’t around. You know you make me brave, right? If it had taken you instead- If I’d brought it into our home and you’d been the one to-“ Jack cut himself off, voice creaking into half remembered horrors. He closed his eyes for a minute. “It doesn’t matter what I would have done.” Jack said decisively. “Because you would have been too smart to leave in the first place.”  

“Well,” it was… hard to argue with that. Sammy wouldn’t have let Jack leave either if he’d known- no, if he’d been listening. Would have stayed up until the twilight hours and then beyond if he’d known Jack was planning to sneak out before the dawn hit. But if he'd been getting the phone calls? If he'd been the one planning in journals and late night notes? He wouldn't have been able to go to King Falls and leave Jack in their home alone. Wouldn't have even thought about it. Not because of smarts or anything noteworthy, just because the only parts of Sammy he liked were all Jack and he was never brave enough to do anything on his own.

“You would have got me out,” Sammy said instead.

“You did, Sammy. You found friends to help you and you got me back. You know me, I probably would have thought I could do it all on my own and ended up making it all worse.”

His chest felt too small somehow, like there was a key rattling just out of reach and something clawing to escape. “Five years,” he whispered. Jack’s hands squeezed.

“Think of it this way, babe. All the time left in the world to make up for it, hm?”

That… that was all Sammy wanted. That was everything, wasn’t it? Maybe that could be real, maybe he could stop mourning all the lost treasures they still had locked up in some dingy storage unit outside of town. Maybe it didn’t have to hurt to see the photos anymore, because Jack would be here to make more of them.

He bowed his head. “I can’t… I can’t stop feeling guilty. I was going to leave you there. I was gunna join you, but. There were all these times before that, when it was just so damn quiet in my shitty apartment, and there was nothing there worth giving a shit about. But then, Ben would call. Or he’d text some wild thing going on at town hall, or I’d just, think about how lost he’d be before he had Emily. How he needed me.” Sammy shrugged, eyes stinging finally. “I should have been able to do it for you, too. I just kept thinking about- there’s the storage locker where I put our bed and-and your favorite chair, and how if you’d never sit in them again they weren’t worth keeping. But I still couldn’t throw them out. I should have known you weren’t gone, shouldn’t I?”

Jack inhaled sharply, and let go of Sammy’s hands to pull him in closer, pressing his lips to Sammy’s temple. His lips felt dry, his hands on Sammy’s waist dug in a little too much. He was shaking just slightly, just enough to be out of focus.

Sammy had done that to him, too. He’d taken their quiet movie night and broken it apart into halves and quarters and left Jack scared, clinging on with everything in him like Sammy would just get up and walk into the Void now, with nothing to meet him there. Like Sammy was planning on leaving his bed in the storage locker, like Jack would have to toss Sammy’s things in with it.

Wasn’t he, though? Anger wasn’t acceptance yet, and the stages kept overlapping and cresting in strange strung out pale waves. Maybe it was reasonable to worry that Sammy wasn’t quite all there yet. Sammy, but a little to the left, and Jack with a little more scars than skin. What a pair.  

The thought was the closing line of poetry, in a way. That nice little footnote to tuck the whole climactic ending together.

There was still the Shadow Maker, somewhere out there. Still Debbie, still prophecies upon prophecies, but there was also Jack. And Ben, and Emily, and four walls around them with years upon years left to get to that last stage. Get to where it felt like he deserved any of it.

Jack leaned his head on Sammy’s shoulder, and pushed his nose just against the crook of Sammy’s neck. He sighed, it felt a little less panicked, maybe a little worried and a little hollowed out, but Jack had never been one to let pessimism drag him down too long. “I think,” He started, and Sammy lifted his hand to circle Jack’s head, holding him carefully against himself. They used to sit like this in their old place, back with those awful yellow curtains and the yard they’d dreamed about maybe having a dog to play around in, maybe some barbeque nights. The house they’d dreamed about a future in patches that never felt quite safe enough to make stick. And now…

“I think maybe it’s enough that I’m here, and you’re here. And neither of us is going anywhere, and Ben’s just down the hall. Maybe it’s enough we have this, just for right now.”

Now, there was a town full of people that knew Jack Wright and Sammy Stevens, and knew Jack and Sammy. There was a radio station with his best friend, and a forest where you couldn’t trust the signs, and absolute nonsense happening at least every other week. There was a house, with blue curtains and two bedrooms for four people, a yard, and a whole mountainside beyond that where things like futures could be made of concrete and big ideas.

Maybe there was room for this, too.

Jack’s heartbeat felt like it echoed his own, from how close they were. A fixed point on a horizon, blinking back into view. A lighthouse telling him where it was safe to land.

[alternatewarning]

Darkness, Bathed in Blood - Whumptober 2020 Fic

Entry Number 27 (alternate prompt) and 30 for Whumptober 2020: Presumed Dead and Ignoring an Injury

Title: Darkness, Bathed in Blood Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Pairing: None Rating: T Triggers: Gore, torture Summary: Darkness has fallen on the whole of Eos -- fear always brings out the worst in people. A group of terrified citizens capture Ignis to try and find out where the crystal is and lift the darkness but no matter what he will not falter.

Cross posed to Ao3

It was impossible to determine how many days had passed like this, trapped. Outside the entire world was bathed in constant darkness, there was no reset signaling the start of a new day. Ignis thought that he had been here for about five days, but that was an estimate at best. There was no cycle, nothing to indicate when one day started and the next began. The group of people holding him seemed to arrive at random times and in random groups. So far he could pick out six distinct voices, two women, three men, and one more that he suspected was also male but they were quite young and their voice was quite high.

They would arrive in groups from two to six and then take turns. Sometimes they beat him, sometimes they cut at his skin with what he could only assume were knives. They often asked pointed questions in between the pain but they were asking less and less. They were probably figuring out that he wasn’t going to give them any answers. He had no idea who they were or what they wanted.

Clearly, the small group was ill-informed. They had bound his hands up in a chain, leaving just enough slack for him to stand, legs bound, with his arms held over his head. They had also tied a blindfold over his eyes which told him that they had no idea what they were doing. It was well known among the hunters that he was, for all intents and purposes, completely blind. So why bother with the blindfold? It meant they weren’t angry hunters.

“You wanna end this never-ending agony this time?” It was one of the women. Her voice was harsh, like someone had rubbed sandpaper over her vocal cords. Probably a smoker, when indulgences like that were commonplace. Just like every other time they prodded him, Ignis stayed silent, just listening. His only hope of escape was catching them off guard, somehow. While he could still summon his weapons, at this angle there was little he could do against the steel chains. He had already tried. Magic was also an option but without knowing where he was that just invitation disaster.

“Tell us where we can find the crystal!” The same woman bellowed at him. Only a moment later Ignis felt a small gasp forced from his lungs. A blade, a knife, was shoved into his stomach so deep that the hilt cut into his body. Before they had been careful, no wounds that would cause him to lose too much blood or possibly be lethal. Now they were either angry or stupid. She pulled out the blade and quickly forced it back in, tearing the flesh with the sharp blade

The hilt made a sickening squishing noise as it pushed up against the new wound and forced blood down his side. He focused on the details, on her voice, on the height of the wound, on the weapon, that way he could ignore the pain. She pulled out the knife and stabbed his gut a third time, this time with enough force that a hiss of pain skipped past his lips. She was no longer interested in his answers, she was angry.

The advisor could feel blood seeping into his clothes with alarming speed. These wounds were deep enough that if she kept going he could very likely die of blood loss.

“If you kill me, you will never get your answer.” Silence and then a burst of pain in his temple as his head snapped to the side. She’d hit him with the butt of her knife hard enough that he felt dizzy. While he’d angered her, he had pretty much proven that it was only the two of them. For a short moment, he absolutely lamented the loss of his vision. If he could see maybe he would know if she had a key to release him or not. Or even how his restraints locked. But he was not going to let himself be stopped by something he had no control over.

“Shut up! You’ve been playing us for fools for days and I’ve had enough!” Another slice of the knife into flesh. “You probably don’t even know where the crystal is! Which means you’re worthless to us. No one’s coming to get you, Scientia. So how about I just slice your gut open and let you bleed out on the floor?”

The venom in her voice spoke volumes. She was far past angry, instead fueled by malice and hatred. Each word was as sharp as her knife although he wasn’t sure why it was aimed at him.

“It’s all your fault! You and your idiot friends. If you’d protected the king like you’re supposed to we wouldn’t have to live in this endless night! I’m going to make your death slow and very, very painful.” She leaned in close, her breath tricking across his neck like a miasma.

Ignis forced himself to breathe even though taking in air felt like needles through his chest. He wanted to rebut her, tell her all they went through to try to protect him. To protect their king. But he knew it would be pointless. She wouldn’t understand, no one could. No one could ever understand the exact moment, watching his vision burn away and seeing nothing but his best friend limp, unmoving. To feel the only semblance of a family any of them had ripped itself apart in pain and grief. So he stayed silent. He let her bring her hatred against him wound by wound, absorbing her pain as his own.

Eventually, she slowed, the room punctuated by her heavy breathing and the constant drip drip drip of blood on the floor. He was feeling lightheaded and weak as if he would fall over if he’d been able to stand. It hurt to move, it hurt to stay still. He let himself hang from the chain holding his arms, even though he could feel his left shoulder slowly slipping out of its socket. It would be nothing like the pain of his body being torn to ribbons.

“You wanna know why no one’s looking for you?” She sounded smug but also winded. The fury keeping her going had ebbed into his body, tearing it apart with each slash. “We knew they’d come for you so we gave them your glasses. Broken, of course, and a little bit of blood. So now they all think you’re dead. And you will be. Any last words?”

She was right, he was going to die here. Here alone in some sort of shed or building, hidden away in the darkness. But none of that mattered. Not the pain, not the sensation of his body rending with every gasp of breath. What mattered was that he wasn’t going to be there when Noct woke up. That he wasn’t going to be by his side when he returned to claim what was rightfully his. And that hurt more than any torture or any blade ever could.

“My last words are you better get the hell out of here before I do you ten times worse!” Ignis startled at the voice, his head snapping up to see, as if he’d forgotten his world was nothing but an empty nothing. The voice rang in his ears, a welcome familiar comfort. It was deep and carried far, the voice of a man who knew how to both communicate and intimidate.

“Gladio…?” The advisor was surprised at the raspiness of his own voice which almost sounded like he had forgotten how to speak. There was a sudden, loud, thump and the clattering of something across the ground. He knew those sounds. A shield used for offense, Gladio’s full might behind a deadly bodyslam into the ground. And then the knife that had been soaked in his own blood hitting the ground and being kicked away by a trained soldier.

“Ignis, what the hell! I was told you were dead! I came here to collect your body.”

“You came?” He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised. Maybe because the last time they had seen each other it had been a rather unpleasant exchange. He had a feeling that another was coming, a tirade on why he should be back at base and not out here, trying to fight. Certainly, this situation was going to turn the tide even stronger in Gladio’s direction.

Ignis heard the snap of steel and the chains holding him upright gave way. His knees folded but Gladio’s arm caught him, carefully lowering him to the ground. The other man’s arm felt like hot led against his skin or was he so cold that it made Gladio feel warm. Ignis felt faint as if he would lose consciousness at any moment.

“Please allow me a moment to recover, then we can return to base.” The Shield didn’t answer but he could feel movement and then there was a quiet mechanical click. The metal bindings on his legs were pulled free and the chain slowly unwrapped from his hands. As circulation rushed back it brought with it a familiar pain but the sensation seemed rather distant now. As if he was observing it in someone else.

“Iggy we have to get you back, and now.” There was no room for argument between his words. The man stood and pulled Ignis to his feet in turn. The sudden movement wrenched away his sense of up and down but he did manage to stay on his feet. He felt Gladio’s hand on his back, trying to lead him by pushing him in the correct direction. Their bodies were so close together that he felt the other’s body tense as Ignis wobbled, unsteady on his feet.

“Ignis-”

“Gladio, I will be fine. I asked for a moment, did I not? I just...need...a moment.” It was getting hard for Ignis to string words together. He didn’t even notice his own knees give in and Gladio caught him again, this time just shifting the other man into his arms. It was obvious by the paleness of his skin and the red soaking the floor that Ignis was bleeding out.

Without giving the blind man a chance to complain he started to carry him. He couldn't run without making the injuries worse so he just walked with steady, long strides.

“Gladio? If I die, please, tell Noctis that-”

“Shush. You’re not going to die. Just hold on, I’ll carry you. And I’ll keep carrying you until you can stand on your own two feet in front of him, you idiot. I wish you wouldn’t...no, this isn’t the time to fight. Just know I’m going to keep holding on.”

Ignis didn’t respond, instead, he just let himself relax into the strong arms that cradled him with a surprising gentleness. It was a long way to base and he knew he couldn’t hold onto his conscientiousness that long. So he was going to enjoy the sensation while he could.

[aliveanddrunkonsunlight]

i will weather your storms

Written for JB week.

Prompt: freaky weather/new beginnings

Note: I’m imagining the ending of 8x04 never happened.

He has survived his first winter. Spring struggles to return to the North. Cold winds still cut through his cloak in the morning, but by the afternoon the sun is shining and he is dragging Brienne outside to spar with him while the sun is briefly at its height. Then the mist sweeps in again, sometimes bringing rain, other times the sky spitting snow. 

Jaime cannot handle being teased by the sun, only to have it go away again. Brienne does not seem bothered by it. She rises in the night to put more wood on the fire and when she slips back under the furs with him, her hands are ice, and he wishes--not for the first time--he had both hands to warm hers. 

They have spoken about leaving, whispered plans in the dark, as he marks her body with his mouth, claiming ownership over something he never thought would be his. 

Now that the North is independent, Brienne feels her oath to Catelyn Stark is fulfilled, but Jaime can see the warmth in her eyes when she looks at the Lady of Winterfell, and he knows it will be difficult for her to abandon her duties. 

Sometimes she talks of returning to Tarth. Sometimes they speak of leaving Westeros altogether and starting a life somewhere new. 

When he complains about the inconsistencies of the weather, she only laughs and says he’s never spent time in the Stormlands. “The sky shifts as quickly as the tides,” she tells him, her voice full of affection and warmth. There is an ache in his chest when she speaks of her island, and he wonders if it might be his home one day too.

His brother remains in King’s Landing, staying to help rebuild the city, advising and managing the purse strings best he can. He writes often, updates from the wreckage of the capitol, but mostly teasing missives about when his brother is going to wed the tall, handsome lady knight. 

Soon.

They are sparring one morning, newly fallen snow shifting under their feet, Brienne’s brute force alternately making Jaime admire her prowess and causing a tightness in his breeches. She has nearly trapped Jaime up against a tree, when she drops her sword, her body sagging in defeat. “What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, stepping into her with worry creasing his forehead. 

She shakes her head, biting her lip. He sees the sweat on her brow and unties her jerkin, thinking maybe she has overheated, despite the snow. Her breathing is labored and she crouches, trying to catch her breath. “Did that help?” he asks, wanting to touch her, but wanting to give her space. “Brienne, you have to talk to me.” 

“I think...I think I’m going to be sick.” She releases her breakfast under an oak tree. He strokes her shoulder and runs his fingers through her hair, trying to soothe her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. The knees of her breeches are soaked from where she knelt in the snow and she shivers as he helps her up after, wobbly on her feet. As they make their way back towards Winterfell, Brienne’s arm slung around his shoulders, he spots a crocus poking its head out of the snow. “Look,” he tells her. “There is hope ahead.” 

She smiles at him weakly. He makes her rest for the afternoon. Jaime tends to her, bringing broth and bread, and tells her stories. That night, he holds her as she falls asleep, stroking circles across her skin, her back pressed into his stomach. 

But Brienne is stubborn and the next morning, she dresses and returns to her duties. By lunchtime, Pod is dragging her back to their chamber, telling Jaime she got sick in the small council meeting. 

“You have to let yourself rest, my lady.” He tells her, pressing up on his toes to kiss her forehead. 

“Why do you call me that?” She asks grumpily. “You are the one who knighted me or did you forget?” 

Jaime raises his eyebrows at her. “So you would have me call you ser?” 

“That is my title, is it not?” 

“Even in our bed?” He asks, his voice a whisper. Brienne blushes and allows Jaime to undress her, tucking her into her favorite chair, furs in her lap, as he brings her tea and broth, anything she desires. 

A week passes with things much the same. When Jaime tells Lady Sansa of Brienne’s continued illness at dinner, she simply looks at him with her pretty blue eyes and simpering smile and says, “It sounds like Ser Brienne should see a maester.” 

A knot forms in his gut and when he looks up from his plate, his gaze connects with Pod, whose hand is frozen in mid-air, about to take a bite. The young man’s eyes are wide and Jaime hears his chair scrape across the floor before he even realizes what he’s doing. He’s nearly running back to his chambers. 

When he bursts through the door, Brienne startles, holding a hand over her chest. She is sitting up in bed, a large book in her lap. “Jaime, seven hells! What is it?”

“You may be-” he gasps, trying to catch his breath. “What if...your illness. Do you think-”

“I may be with child?” she says calmly. 

“You knew?”

“I suspected. But it just as well could have been some other ailment.” 

“And you did not tell me?” 

She sighs. “I was not certain. Am still not. And I did not know whether you would want-” 

He cuts her off with a kiss. “You did not know what? Whether I love you? Whether I want to be a father? Whether I want to have you as my wife?” She nods, her eyes worried, searching his face for an answer. “How could you doubt any of it? I love you. I have known it since I rode North. I was only waiting to ask you to wed because I was afraid you would say it was too soon.” 

There are tears in the corners of her eyes as she slides the book off her lap. Her hand skims along his jawline, and he hums contentedly under her touch. Her gaze lingers on his lips, until finally those blue eyes meet his, then she is pulling him into a fierce kiss. He nearly ends up in her lap. “You’re certain?” 

“I have never been as sure about anything in my life.” He does slip into her lap then, a laugh escaping her lips, as he wraps his arms around her. “Gods, I love you. I want to fight beside you, wake beside you, and stand beside you through whatever happens.” He takes her right hand in his left and raises it to his lips, kissing it. “I want to raise this child with you. As your lord husband. Will you have me, Ser Brienne?”

She is crying, but she nods, managing to choke out, “Yes, I will, Ser Jaime.” He can feel his own tears on his cheeks as he leans into her, capturing her lips in his, his good hand threading through her hair. “I love you,” she murmurs as they break apart, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, her breath warm against his cheek.   

They decide to return to Tarth. They will wed there, in front of family. It is important to Brienne to include her father, to have him meet Jaime, to be there for the birth of his first grandchild. Tyrion is happily making plans to escape his duties for his brother’s wedding. 

But Brienne considers the North her home, too. Sansa is nearly a sister to her and Pod practically a son to them both. 

Six of them stand in the godswood as the sun sets. Pod and Sansa are there, and Gilly, as Sam takes Brienne and Jaime through their vows. When Brienne had appeared at the edge of the wood, standing proudly between Sansa and Pod, Jaime felt his chin wobble, but he took a deep breath, trying to keep the tears at bay. He wanted to see her, wanted to remember her like this, this moment which is for them. The sunlight filtering in behind her brightens her hair, nearly creating a halo around her head. As they draw nearer, he can see the half moons and sunbursts of her sigil sewn into the trim of the blue cloak she wears. In a moment, he will wrap her in Lannister crimson, but he thinks it is fitting that she will wear both their houses’ colors. He knows he is supposed to wait to kiss her, but he cannot help it, when she arrives in front of him, nearly beaming, tears glistening in her eyes, he presses a sweet kiss to her cheek. “My lady,” he murmurs, taking her hand in his. 

“My lords, my ladies,” Sam starts, nodding at Pod and Sansa in turn. “We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Brienne of Tarth.” Jaime looks over at his beloved, remembering the smile on her face as he gave her what she had been waiting her whole life for. 

He has been waiting his whole life for her. 

[the-quiet-winds]

So Much More than Royal (part three)

i am back kiddos. have you missed me? i’ve missed all of you. hope my writing was enough to tide you all over in my absence, but i am here now! don’t you worry.  @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts did ya miss me?

trigger warnings for the whole story: death, ransom, violence

[part one] - [part two] 

[Part 3: A Wolf Among the Sheep, Gnawing at the Wool Over My Eyes]

when they return to the palace, jane is waiting, drastically different from when they had left. her face is red and blotchy, tear stains marking delicate cheeks. she is still sniffling, clutching to a handkerchief as if it’s the only thing grounding her.

edward’s face drops when he sees her. he glances back at katherine to see her grave expression, and his eyes widen.

“mum?” he asks. “what’s going on?”

jane can’t say anything, voice overcome with emotion, and she just opens her arms. edward rushes into his mother’s arms, still not understanding but wanting to comfort her.

katherine stays a few steps away. unlike edward, she knows exactly what’s going on, and it makes her heart break. not for henry, no; katherine couldn’t say she was sad at the king’s passing. she was distraught, however, for edward and jane. and so she waits, at the edge, to be there to comfort them.

jane catches her eyes and nods slightly. katherine comes forward and joins the embrace, holding edward with one arm and jane with the other.

“eddie...” jane croaks. “your father-“ she cuts herself off with a sob.

“he’s gone, eddie,” katherine finishes the though softly.

“gone?” eddie asks.

“he’s passed away, eddie,” katherine continues. “you’re the king now.”

“he... i...” edward stammers, and then it hits him. “no...”

he bursts into tears, clinging to his mother and sister. whatever he tries to say next gets lost amongst the sobs and he eventually gives up trying to speak. katherine rubs a soothing hand against his back, her heart aching for him. not only was his father dead, but being king was far too much responsibility for the young boy to hold. and while katherine was sure henry had named some kind of regent until edward was old enough, it didn’t change the fact that by law, edward was king, and everyone would be trying to use him for their own political gain.

she can’t help but look around; all the guards, servants, and ladies were kneeling regally to the royal family.

“the king is dead,” sir percival yells clearly, his voice strong. katherine feels both jane and edward shake against her.

“long live king edward,” he calls out next.

a horn blows a mournful tune from the upstairs, one of death and regret.

jane presses her forehead into katherine’s neck weakly. “you need to help him,” she mumbles out. “please.”

katherine nods, keeping her arms around her mother and brother. she had to be strong for both of them, help them both through this. one thing she knew for certain; she had to move back to court. edward needed her here. jane needed her here. and she was going to be there for them.

edward is still sobbing against her, and jane is barely keeping herself together. katherine would have to be the one, she realises, that gets them through the next few minutes until they can finally be alone and mourn properly.

it was a bit odd, katherine reflects, being the one doing the comforting after so long of it being the opposite.

she runs her fingers through her mum’s hair lightly, and she swears she sees the faintest hint of a smile at the gesture.

she lets the other hand continue rubbing slowly up and down edward’s back, even as sobs rack his slight frame.

katherine isn’t quite sure why she does it, but she begins to sing, so quietly that only the two people in her arms can hear, that same french lullaby she would sing to edward when he was a baby.

jane recognises it right away, katherine can tell, and after a few moments edward’s sobs seem to lessen just slightly, enough for him to be able to look up at his sister. he doesn’t seem too dissimilar to how he was as a baby, the tiny little boy who would be soothed as she rocked him, and katherine’s heart breaks just a little bit more at the devastated look in his eyes. she keeps singing, the soft movements of her hands in time to the melody, and edward’s eyes close as he leans against her. jane doesn’t want to put the pressure on her daughter to take care of both of them, but at some point in the song she can’t keep everything together any more. the tears start to slide down her face as she lets katherine comfort her.

because of the way she was holding her mother, katherine could feel the exact moment jane began to lose it, warm tears trickling down onto her neck. she doesn’t pause in the singing, instead simply increasing the rate of her fingers through jane’s hair just slightly. she lets her head fall to the side, her cheek pressing against her mother’s temple as she shook with tears.

they stay that way for an agonizingly long time, until katherine’s dress is soaked at the shoulder and edward is practically dead weight against her.

that’s when percival intervenes. he speaks directly to katherine, his voice gentle and sympathetic. “perhaps the queen and king,” katherine feels edward cling tighter to her at that, “should retire for a bit, so you and i can discuss some things, lady katherine.”

katherine nods. “I will escort my mother and brother to their chambers and then return to talk, sir percival.” percival gives a low bow and the three of them make their way to the door, katherine practically keeping the other two upright. it takes a while to get to their chambers, and when they do it takes a further few minutes for jane and edward to be curled up together on the couch. edward has almost passed out from grief and exhaustion and katherine looks at jane hesitantly.

“are you going to be okay?” she means until katherine returns; she knows she could hardly describe the situation as ‘okay’. jane gives her a watery smile.

“we’ll be alright for the moment. thank you, love.” katherine is reluctant to leave, but she leans down and kisses jane’s cheek, then the top of edward’s head.

“i’ll be back soon,” she says, before heading back down the corridor. she finds percival relatively quickly, and he looks at her with sympathetic eyes.

“i hope it is not improper to ask how the king and queen dowager are doing?”

“it’s difficult,” katherine sighs. “it hit them both hard. they will be okay, i hope, but it’ll take some time.”

percival gives a few slow, understanding nods. “in the meantime, lady katherine, we all look to you.”

katherine blinks. “excuse me?”

“as much as i hate to admit it,” percival says, voice laden with heaviness and regret, “the queen dowager and king are not in a fit state to lead at this moment.”

katherine can’t argue with that, the image of her mother and brother on the couch down the hall flashing in front of her eyes.

“hopefully, by the time the traditional mourning period is over, king edward will be ready to rise to his God-given position.”

katherine isn’t sure she herself is ready to lead in edward’s place, but she nods. “if the council wishes to give me the role of regent until edward accepts his role, then i will accept this responsibility.” a thought suddenly hits her. “i imagine lady mary won’t be thrilled.”

katherine couldn’t say that edward’s oldest sister had ever been a huge fan of hers; katherine definitely got on better with Elizabeth, now a teenager, than Mary, who hadn’t taken kindly to having a new half sister. she supposed it was understandable, but she did one day hope to bridge the gap between them and potentially be able to call each other friends. katherine was not in the line of succession, which she hopes might help mary warm to her, but acting as regent certainly wouldn’t help their relationship.

percival gives a quiet chuckle. “i would have to agree with you, lady katherine.” he clears his throat. “but for now,” he continues, tone back to the business-like manner it was in before, “your main duty is to plan the royal services. we already have the burial site, he will be celebrated and mourned in the chapel...” percival thinks for a moment. “most of what you’d need to do would be to organize the celebration. pick the hymns, prepare the eulogy-“

“i am eulogizing the former king?” katherine asks incredulously.

“yes?” percival asks. surely it had been obvious? he shakes his head quickly. “we will need to begin immediately.” something dawns on him. “as regent queen,” a chill runs down katherine’s spine, “you need to make the formal announcement to the people.”

the next twelve hours are incredibly long for katherine. after the announcement, she’s immediately dragged into meeting after conversation, all directed at either the ceremony or edward’s soon-to-be-king status.

it’s well after six in the morning when she is released. she wanders into jane’s chambers, unsure of how long she’d be able to sleep, if she even could at all.

edward and jane are curled up in jane’s bed. edward is fast asleep but jane stirs when katherine approaches.

“love?” she says quietly. “what time is it?” katherine shrugs. “morning?” she guesses. jane shifts over in the bed and pats the spot on the other side of her.

“come here, love,” she murmurs. katherine climbs into the bed and curls up against jane, feeling her mum press a soft kiss to her forehead.

“what did percival want to speak about?” jane asks, voice quiet.

katherine gives a tiny shrug. “lots of things,” she answers unsurely. she doesn’t really want to tell jane that she is technically queen now, has been for hours.

“what is it, kitty-kat?”

katherine’s heart aches at that tone of voice - so soft, judgement free, ready to fight away all the nightmares.

“i was helping to plan the royal services,” she admits. “he’ll be buried in two days, celebrated at the chapel.” she shifts a bit, uncomfortable with talking about it. “they want your and eddie’s approval on a few things first, though.”

she’s silent for a long time. when she speaks again, her voice is caught and raw in her throat.

“i’m queen now, mum.”

there’s a brief moment of silence, before jane speaks.

“oh, love.” her tone is difficult to decipher, even when she continues. “how do you feel about that, kitty-kat?”

katherine doesn’t answer. she honestly doesn’t know how. her brain hasn’t caught up with all the emotions swirling around her head yet. she rests her head on jane’s shoulder and jane’s hand finds her hair.

“you need your rest, love,” jane murmurs softly. katherine gives a choked laugh.

“i don’t think i have time.”

as if they had heard her, two clergymen knock on the door.

“queen katherine?”

katherine stiffens slightly at the title and jane runs a gentle hand through her hair.

“there’s been a problem with the processional, would you please come and address it with us?”

katherine gives a disgruntled sigh, only loud enough for jane to hear. she presses another kiss to her daughter’s head.

katherine hesitates for only a moment after before shuffling out of the bed.

“duty calls, i guess,” she mumbles, before going out to join the clergymen.

it takes a further hour to sort out the processional, and before katherine has a chance to sit down she’s being whisked off a meeting with the archbishop about the funeral. she’s then met with the news that lady mary and lady elizabeth would soon arrive to take part in mourning, which leads her into a discussion as to where the young lady elizabeth should live; whether she should be educated at court or sent to live with a noble family.

katherine, quite honestly, feels that she should have no say in the young girl’s fate. she was not really related to either mary or elizabeth, and even though she and bess got along, they were far from sisters. she didn’t think it fair that she decide where elizabeth was to be sent.

she would ask jane, if she was given the chance.

she was not.

katherine is pulled in every different direction, questions and mishaps a plenty. the day was long, as was the following night. since being named regent, katherine had gotten maybe one hour of sleep, and that was with jane barricading the door so no one could disturb her.

elizabeth and mary arrive around two in the afternoon on the day before the funeral, both dressed in traditional black mourning outfits.

“your majesty,” elizabeth greets formally, curtseying.

mary does the same, just much , much stiffer.

katherine curtseys in response. “it’s wonderful to see you,” she says with a smile. “the king and queen dowager are awaiting your presence; we have prepared a feast for your arrival.”

katherine had very little input into the feast, in fact. her day had barely given her a chance to eat herself, let alone plan the feast, and luckily jane had taken it upon herself to organise it.

elizabeth returns the smile, wisps of her long red hair escaping from the hairpins securing her hair back. “thank you, your majesty,” she says. mary nods politely but does not speak.

with a slight nod, katherine turns to lead them down the corridor to the dining hall.

jane and edward are both already seated, picking at the food on their plates. the look up when the door opens.

edward smiles slightly at seeing his other two sisters. he slowly gets up and makes his way over to them. he hugs elizabeth tightly, then turns to mary. katherine could have sworn that mary gave the young boy - young king - a scowl.

“it’s so good to see you both,” jane cuts in, trying to break the ice settling amongst them.

mary gives jane a tight-lipped smile. “it’s good to see you too, your highness.” she takes a seat next to jane, leaving the seat next to edward empty. elizabeth immediately claims that chair and throws herself into conversation with edward. unlike mary, who had made it all the way to the age of 18 under the assumption that she would be queen, elizabeth had grown up knowing the likelihood of her taking the throne was rare, and she seems to hold no grudge against her brother for skipping the queue, as it were. katherine sits down on elizabeth’s other side, catching jane’s sideways glance and smile.

mary, jane and katherine eat in silence for a short while as edward and elizabeth chat, and katherine finds her mind drifting into a comfortable automatic state of shut down, managing to get some kind of rest while awake. she’s shaken out of her daze, however, when she hears her name. she looks up to see edward and elizabeth looking at her expectantly, and she blinks.

“my apologies- what did you say?”

“bess was telling me about all the languages she speaks,” edward says, “and i was telling her that you’re really good at languages too.”

katherine shakes the cobwebs in her head then nods. “i speak a couple, as well. latin, french, spanish, italian, and i’m working on russian,” katherine says.

elizabeth lights up.

“tu parli italiano?” [you speak italian?] elizabeth asks brightly.  katherine gives a shy smile and nod. “forse dovremmo viaggiare insieme!” [perhaps we should travel there together!] bess continues.

katherine laughs. “può essere,” [maybe], katherine counters.

jane can see that elizabeth would love to keep katherine for hours, speaking other languages and discussing their studies. jane can also see the tiredness behind katherine’s eyes. “bess,” she calls gently. “maybe we should let the queen get back to work, maybe rest a little.”

elizabeth nods, giving katherine an apologetic smile, and katherine returns it with a kind one of her own to let her know there was no harm done. she gets to her feet, sending jane a grateful look.

“i must excuse myself, there’s business i need to attend to.” katherine hopes that her duties can include a nap, because it was getting rapidly harder to keep her eyes open, but with the funeral the next day she knows that’s unlikely. there were still final preparations to be made with the speakers and the archbishop still hadn’t finalised his address yet.

she spends the remainder of the afternoon and evening with the archbishop, clergymen, pall-bearers...too many people for her to keep track of.

it’s nearly midnight and she’s still up, running on barely any sleep, trying to finalize the eulogy. it’s impossibly difficult, she finds, to tell great stories of a man who had her tried for treason twice, irreparably damaged her shoulder, and nearly exiled her forever.

she doesn’t even hear the door open, but jane enters, holding a candle.

“you should rest, love.”

“i can’t,” katherine sighs. “i still have to finish this. i can’t stand there and not have the eulogy prepared.” she looks back at the page, but she’s so tired it’s hard to focus on anything she’s written.

“what can i even say about him?” she doesn’t even realise she’s asked the question until jane puts the candle down on the desk and sighs softly.

“love, you need to sleep. you can’t keep going on like this.”

“i have to,” katherine says hollowly. “it’s my responsibility. if it wasn’t me, then edward would have to do it, and he wouldn’t be able to handle it. he’s only a child, he shouldn’t have to have so much on his shoulders.”

“neither should you,” jane counters quietly. she pulls a chair over and sits down next to katherine. “when was the last time you slept, love?”

katherine shrugs. “i took a nap on tuesday.”

“that was two days ago.”

katherine shrugs again. “i’ve been drinking a lot of tea.”

jane looks at her with a slight glimmer of disapproval, but mostly sympathy. “that’s not healthy, kitty-kat.”

katherine chuckles hollowly. “the curse of the crown, i suppose.”

jane looks at her for a few more moments before sighing. “let me look at what you’ve written,” she says, and katherine pushes the paper towards her. it’s a mostly impersonal affair, focusing on the king’s military work and neatly avoiding the fact that he lost most wars he took part in. then it discusses the religious reform briefly, and goes on to give a polite commemoration of his life, saying as little as possible while still sounding nice. it’s clear katherine had no personal connection with henry, but for a formal address it would certainly be passable.

katherine wishes that she could have written more positively about henry, for jane. for edward. for the people in his life who saw the best parts of him.

it was just something she had no familiarity with.

even though she was never close with henry, she couldn’t help but notice the absence of such a large presence in her life. henry was ruthless yet personable, cruel yet kind, merciless yet merciful all, infuriatingly, at the same time.

katherine sees it every time she looks in jane’s eyes or see edward’s smile fade: the two are devastated.

that’s why katherine has been foregoing sleep and food in order to make the ceremony perfect. they deserve it. they deserve the best way to send off a husband and a father.

she also, somewhere where she wouldn’t dare to talk about it, feels a shame. a deep regret that henry had died, and not her - even though she knows it’s not true, some part of her thinks it would be easier on jane and edward if they had henry still.

all of the desire for everything to be perfect and the secret shame she feels bubbles to the surface, sleep deprivation tearing down her near-perfect queenly facade, and tears slowly begin to trickle down her face.

“oh, kitty-kat,” jane breathes, pulling katherine into a tight hug. katherine sobs into Jane’s shoulder, feeling much more like a child than the composed queen she was supposed to be. it feels familiar and comforting, the way jane’s hand finds her hair as always and begins combing her fingers through it, as her other hand draws soft soothing circles on katherine’s back.

both women share one common thought: they want nothing more than to take away the pain of the other, they want to see the beautiful smiles they know and love, they want there other to see there’s light at the end of the tunnel.

for jane, all she can do is try and comfort her daughter (the queen, she reminds herself) and hopefully get her to sleep soon.

katherine’s body screams for rest, but her brain is far too awake as she clings hopelessly to jane.

“i’m sorry,” she whispers harshly. “for all of this.”

“shh,” jane hushes quietly. “it’s alright, love, it’s alright.”

katherine’s mind flashes back nine years, in a very similar position, jane somehow alive after a near assassination, as she says the next words, so quietly jane barely can hear them.

“shoulda been me.”

jane takes a sharp intake of breath. “kat, no,” she says softly. “don’t you say that.” she doesn’t know where katherine’s words came from, but it pains her to know that katherine thinks them. she holds katherine even closer. “i love henry- loved,” she corrects herself, and her voice catches in her throat. “but if anything happened to you or eddie then i don’t know what i’d do. no parent should have to outlive their child, love. so don’t you tell me that it should have been you, because that’s just not true.”

katherine hears the hitch in her mother’s voice and it makes her feel worse. jane’s grieving for her husband, the love of her life, and katherine is making it all about her.

‘how typical,’ a dark little voice in her mind snarls.

she wriggles out of jane’s arms not-so-gently and steps onto the balcony, the cold january air biting at her skin. she grips the railing of the balcony with tight fingers, looking out over the blanket of dark that covered the town.

jane leans against the doorway behind her, fixing her with a sympathetic gaze.

“you need some sleep, love.”

“i’ll be fine,” katherine says, voice distant and slightly hollow. she doesn’t look back, continuing to stare out into the night.

“you won’t be fine,” jane sighs, and she takes several steps closer. “you’ve worked yourself to the bone over the past couple of weeks and you need to rest. if you don’t then you’re going to collapse, kat.”

“i said i’ll be fine,” katherine mumbles. her grip on the railing tightens even more.

jane closes the distance between them, putting a hand on katherine's back and looking at her face. kat is nearly trembling, but from cold or exhaustion jane can't tell. "let's get you to bed now, love," jane says quietly.

katherine pulls away. "i need to finish the eulogy," she protests.

"you won't get it done now," jane argues gently, "not like this."

"i have to," katherine says. she smacks her forehead suddenly. "i needed to get flowers," she says to herself. she makes for the door, shoving her shoes on as she goes, but jane catches her hand.

"you can't keep doing this," jane says, tugging on her hand. "this isn't healthy."

"it may not be," katherine agrees, "but you can't stop me."

jane sighs again. "i am your mother, love-"

katherine explodes. "and i am the queen!" her voice comes out as a slightly venomous hiss, angry not necessarily at jane, but at circumstances and sleep deprivation and inner turmoil.

jane takes a step back out of surprise. she hasn’t seen katherine have an outburst like this for a long time, not for several years at least. katherine looks exhausted; her face is pale and there are heavy bags under her eyes, and all jane can see is the scared little girl who ran away from the castle in her first week as a lady-in-waiting. jane can’t let katherine work herself to death like this.

“queen or not,” she says evenly, “you’re still my little seymour. please, love. just half an hour’s rest, that’s all i’m asking. and then you can finish everything else you need to do. i’ve just lost my husband, and i am not going to lose my daughter too.”

katherine hears jane's words, she really, truly does, but she can't focus on them. there's too much that still needs to be done before the sun rises the next morning, before the ceremony and the burial and the celebration. she sets her shoulders, standing as regally as she can in her fatigue. katherine had long  surpassed jane's height, now standing nearly a whole head above her mother.

jane sees the change in her daughter's eyes. she's not going to give in.

katherine gives a clipped, empty laugh. "if you lose us both, that's just god's will, i suppose," she says, before continuing to the door.

“kat-” jane says, voice breaking, but katherine keeps walking. she’s vaguely aware of jane’s voice but she has too many things to think about, too much to do.

jane watches her go, heart breaking just a little bit more. the way katherine is acting isn’t sustainable, and jane knows that she’s going to collapse soon. she only hopes that katherine will let her help her before it reaches that point, but a part of her brain that knows her daughter, her wonderful, devoted, stubborn daughter, won’t let that happen. katherine was going to fall, and she was going to fall hard. and jane couldn’t do anything about it.

katherine strides down the hall hurriedly. flowers, how could she forget the flowers?

she fastens her cloak on and slips a dagger into one of the pockets.

katherine makes quick work of the walk to town. the florist, of course, is asleep, as are most is the residents, but katherine has no time for him to be sleeping. she knocks loudly.

“who’s out here waking me-“ he grumbles. then he sees katherine, face half concealed by the cloak. “your majesty!” he bows. “what can i do for you?”

“we need flowers for the funeral tomorrow,” katherine says briskly. no point wasting time. the florist pales slightly at such a prestigious task but he nods.

“right away, your majesty. i can have my assistants deliver them first thing in the morning.” the honour of creating bouquets for a royal funeral seems to outweigh any negatives of having to work through the night in his mind.

“thank you,” katherine sighs, grateful that at least the funeral wouldn’t be ruined by a lack of flowers. “you will receive your payment from the royal treasury on arrival.” she turns around, intent on leaving, when her vision starts to blur. she puts a hand on the doorway to steady herself, and when she can see well enough to start walking again she heads out of the florists.

“your majesty,” the florist calls nervously, “are you alright?”

“yes,” she replies, a string of ice in her tone, “perfectly fine, thank you.”

she pushes through the haze in her eyes and continues out into the cold night.

katherine is about halfway back when she hears footsteps behind her. she pulls the hood of her cloak tighter around her face, then tightly grips the hilt of the dagger in her pocket, readying herself for anyone who dared to mess with the queen.

she walks slightly faster, drawing herself up to her full height and refusing to turn around. for several moments it seems as if whoever it is had stopped, and katherine wonders if it was a false alarm, but then the footsteps start back up again.

indeed, they seem to get faster, picking up speed and following her, to the point where katherine is sure they must almost reach her. the engraving on the hilt of the dagger digs into her hand but she doesn’t loosen her grip; if anything she tightens it even further if that was possible.

she slowly begins to pull it out of her pocket, the blade glimmering in the moonlight. she grips it tightly in both hands and waits, even as her feet continue the walk.

she's nearly there, another couple hundred paces at best.

katherine can feel herself growing dizzy, her legs giving out with each step she takes but she presses onward.

the echoing footsteps follow, growing closer until she swears she can hear someone breathing nearby.

"i'll have you know," she calls, turning her head slightly and forcing her voice down as to not give herself away, "i am armed."

there’s no reply from behind her, just a low, rhythmic breathing. katherine’s hand starts to hurt from the dagger, her legs are aching with exhaustion and her vision blurs yet again. this time, however, it doesn’t come back into focus.

a sharp pain fills her head and she suddenly drops the blade, clutching at her forehead. she falls to her knees involuntarily and hunches over, eyes squeezed shut. in the seconds before katherine passes out, she feels herself falling sideways, the hood of her cloak slipping down to reveal her face. then everything goes black.

[mako-lies]

icarus (ffxv, ardyn & somnus, t, part of ruin verse, AO3)

A parting. Ardyn didn't expect goodbye to be like this. 

Contains attempted fratricide. 

The sun scorches skin, red blooming where he had become ashen and unsightly. To be perfectly honest, he hardly notices pain anymore, given that it’s his constant companion. The blisters on his palms burst and still, Ardyn digs.

Were he foolish enough—brave enough—to glance down, he suspects that his blood runs black with the corruption. That same Scourge he had healed of the girl yesterday.

No. It is not true healing, what he does. Did. But it’s an exchange. One he learned of too late, fool that he is. Trusting, so ever trusting. He has learned, finally.

Or perhaps not. Ardyn pauses to survey the grave. Shallow, but he has grown so thin since the Crystal rejected him. It will suffice. Exhaustion swallows him up, the exertions of today and yesterday caught up with all those that came before. He tosses aside the shovel, a surge of anger welling in him as it does so often now. That he must die for the mistake of the Gods—no. He presses his torn palms together and feels for that covenant he forged at such cost with such belief. “Pray, let him come.”

+

And then comes the pad of chocobo feet on the summer grass, and a familiar wark sounds. It is almost as though his prayers have been answered. “Hail, Gilgamesh. He could not face me himself, it seems. Tell me, dear heart,” the old name, he says with all the venom beating through his veins. “Do you ever tire of doing his dirty work?”

“I never tire of my duty, that his hands may remain clean, Your Highness.” Unmovable, Gilgamesh looks at the grave rather than Ardyn. Rather reminiscent of the last time they bedded, but Ardyn isn’t bitter.

It’s simply the poison whispering. (Except perhaps it isn’t. Gilgamesh’s disgust had been real, if nothing else, and despite fealty, Ardyn had been so easily abandoned. Duty had its limits, it seemed. If only the others had felt the same, but—no, he cannot spare more hurt for the friends who had followed him so foolishly.)

“Oh? Am I Highness still? How fascinating. But let’s get on with the excitement, shall we? Since he could not bear to shed my blood himself.”

“I’m here, little brother.” Somnus rides up, kingly, his mantle blowing regal in the breeze.

Ardyn, despite himself, sags with relief. Suffering is better shared, he’s learned and learned and learned and shared so much of the suffering of the world, and that growing gnawing darkness consuming him would eat of his brother’s grief. The last thing he will partake of on this world. Fitting, he supposes.

“I am sorry,” Ardyn surprises even himself. “It was never meant to be you.”

Ardyn was meant to be King, will all the responsibility and pain that entailed. The best laid plans of Gods and Men.

Somnus dismounts. His expression even, like their mother’s. A king’s visage, and Ardyn tells himself he doesn’t hate his brother for that. “My brother, you have given of yourself too freely. By my hand, I hope you shall rest easy.”

His Glaive materializes then in that flashy blue light. And oh, does Ardyn ache for that clean blue magick, untainted by the Scourge.

Somnus has ever been the fighter, trained to protect Ardyn since they were young.

(That dark whisper: his brother took everything without so much as a glance back, it would be so easy to strike him down, if Ardyn would but lift a blade—)

Instead, Ardyn unwraps his scarf and bares his throat. “Hurry now, before I wither of age.”

Somnus’s oceanic eyes are wet, but he looks him in the eye even as the blade slides home.

Intimate, Ardyn thinks at the last.

+

Warmth seeps into the places chill had dwelled. Where is he? Is this the Beyond? No. He is in far too much pain, like someone has tenderized his rotted flesh with a hammer. There are arms wrapped around him. Wetness on his face. Is it rain? “Brother?” he wheezes, throat burning as though seared—

Where his brother had killed him. It slams back to him then. Had his brother been so overcome by sentiment, to spare him with a curative? Surely not? (But there, there it is, hope, in that small patch the darkness hasn’t crept into like so many barbed vines, hope that his fool of a brother couldn’t kill him after all).

Ardyn jerks from his brother’s loose grip—to be met with Gilgamesh’s blade. A warning at his throat. “You were meant to kill me,” and Ardyn’s voice is low, but he turns to look at his brother, ignoring the steel against his skin.

His grave is just there. He would fill it.

“I did,” his brother says, face lined still with tears that—should make Ardyn feel something, but it doesn’t—it really doesn’t—if his brother had killed him, then why—”I should have listened to the Oracle. No matter. It pains me, Ardyn, but the corruption has spread farther than death can reach.”

“What?” The Oracle? That woman that Shiva had elevated from the streets, and taught of the covenant? “But, brother, you swore to me that—”

“A kindness. I’d hoped that in your suggesting this, there was something of my brother left in you. I was wrong it seems. The Crystal and the Gods… were of course correct.” Somnus looks at that empty grave and sighs heavily even as Ardyn reels. “Gilgamesh.”

How has he survived? What did the Oracle tell his brother? And what does his brother know, that he won’t deign tell Ardyn? Gilgamesh cuts his wild spiral of thoughts short with a muzzle. It fits neatly over his mouth, and somewhere is a jab about other ways to silence him. But he is numb, even as Gilgamesh fits him gently into chains.

To be forsaken by the Gods he gave everything for is one thing, but to lose his brother and Shield to them… is another. Gilgamesh draws him up chained before the King. Betrayal beats in his veins as he looks up at his pitiless brother. A nod, and then the world goes dark once more.

+

He wakes on the docks, bleary and burning in the cursed sunlight. Soldiers he doesn’t recognize but wear Somnus’s seal load him upon a fine ship. A ship that looks faster than any Ardyn’s ever had the misfortune of riding. He is in for an unpleasant voyage, given the sea sickness he’d developed following the Rite of the Tide Mother. On the dock, the King watches on, Gilgamesh at his side. “May we meet again in the Beyond,” says the man who was his brother. Then, to the captain, “Make haste to Angelgard.”

[astoundingbeyondbelief]

A while back, I came up with an idea for a sequel to Godzilla (2014) centering around an offbeat take on Mothra. Some of you might remember me carrying on about it in group chats. Well, I was never able to set aside the time to hammer out a complete script, but I hope this 3,000-word outline proves entertaining. I started working on it before Kong: Skull Island came out, then reworked it into something that would align with that movie in a couple of marathon writing sessions.

GODZILLA WORKS IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS

It’s a Monday morning in 2014. Specifically, the morning after San Francisco was demolished by three prehistoric monsters and nearly vaporized by an American nuclear missile. Godzilla wakes up and drags himself back into the ocean. An intern at a local TV station loses her job for the headline that accompanies his departure: “King of the Monsters, Savior of Our City?” Few care. Seven billion people are busy contemplating a world where they are no longer the dominant species, and what they can do to survive it.

It’s Tuesday. A massive anti-nuclear protest around the former Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository in Nevada turns violent. Similar gatherings around the country follow suit. Drs. Ishiro Serizawa and Vivienne Graham attend a meeting called by Monarch’s new director, U.S. lieutenant general Antonio Connor. He states that there’s only one way for the organization to quell the unrest its decades of secrecy have led to: find a way to kill Godzilla.

It’s Wednesday. WikiLeaks publishes scores of Monarch documents and videos, their source a total mystery. The papers contain information on the Castle Bravo strike, the Skull Island fiasco, the Janjira cover-up, and a series of cave paintings from around the world depicting Godzilla and creatures Monarch has named Rodan, Mothra, and Ghidorah. Translated at furious speed by amateurs and professionals alike, the documents are read all around the Earth – and beyond it. Two women onboard an alien vessel reel back in horror when they see the painting of Godzilla confronting Ghidorah.

It’s Thursday. The two women (they look like twins, actually) materialize in Oakland. Their presence goes unnoticed, coming as it does in the middle of a massive brawl between demonstrators and police. The former TV intern is among them, using her “King of the Monsters: Savior of Our City” sign as a blunt instrument. The twins dive right in, grabbing abandoned cans of spray paint and marking the nearest wall with an intricate symbol that resembles a cross inside a circle.

It’s Friday. Godzilla surfaces near the Senkaku Islands, earning him a Chinese H-bomb to the head. The weapon is remarkably similar to the high-yield device the U.S. thought would deal a killing blow against the King of the Monsters and his two opponents just a few days ago. It does nothing to Godzilla, but quite a lot to international tensions. Meanwhile, the U.S. invades Skull Island in a desperate face-saving measure, capturing a Skullcrawler for experimentation and driving Kong underground.

Five years later, Admiral Stenz’s carrier group is chasing Godzilla once again. This time, it’s on the attack, using unmanned surface vehicles to spray him with a newly developed (and newly legal) nerve gas called Hedrium. He responds by coughing a little and launching one of the boats a thousand feet into the air with a flick of his tail. The mood aboard the USS Saratoga is grim but resigned. No one expected this to work, least of all Serizawa and Graham, who are struggling to hide their vindication.

The boats abruptly return to the carrier group, not because they’re out of Hedrium but because Godzilla has entered Tokyo Bay. His destination: Haneda Airport, where the JSDF is engaging a giant reptile called Varan. Their battle is brutal but short: Godzilla breaks off one of the spines on his enemy’s back and slices his throat. After a triumphant roar, he returns to the sea.

In the post-action Monarch meeting, Director Connor spins the Hedrium operation as an unparalleled triumph – it is, after all, the first time humanity has managed to cause Godzilla any sort of harm. He’s confident that the nearly-finished Rods from God, a system which launches tungsten rods from a satellite at around Mach 10, will be even more successful. If that fails, well, even Godzilla won’t be able to resist a gravitational singularity. To the awe of most of the attendees, he unveils plans for the “Dimension Tide,” a cannon theoretically capable of firing a miniature black hole.

Serizawa and Graham are the only dissenters, and their objections quickly turn into a shouting match, the basics of which their colleagues have clearly heard many times before. After Connor threatens their jobs, the two scientists confer after the meeting and decide to leak the existence of the Dimension Tide project to the media; it’s a ludicrous waste of taxpayer money at best and a bringer of the apocalypse at worse. This will be no easy task, since they’ve never talked to the media in their lives.

From a San Francisco apartment covered in newspaper clippings and paintings of Godzilla, one of the media’s least reputable figures is putting her own spin on his latest appearance. To former TV intern Yukiko Saegusa, this is just the latest example of Godzilla doing a better job of protecting humanity than the organization formed specifically to fight monsters. The real wrongdoing, she asserts, is the U.S. deployment of a mysterious chemical weapon off the coast of Japan. As she shifts awkwardly into a rant about the second Pacific Rim sequel, her cameraman Mateo’s ringtone sounds. She rebukes him, but only for his song choice. Her apartment is supposed to be a Cosmos-free zone.

Who are the Cosmos? Why, only the world’s most popular pop duo, signed by Clark Nelson of Rolisican Records after a ballad they sang in an Oakland jail cell went viral. Their lyrics are enigmatic, written in a language that somewhat resembles Malay, but their vocal abilities and stagecraft border on the supernatural. They close their latest concert in New York the same way they always do: with a prayer for Mothra to defeat Godzilla, as she has so many other monsters in the past, and usher in a new era of peace. Their audience roars in approval. Fame, however, has brought them no joy. Only their most obsessive fans believe their devotion to the “Queen of the Monsters” is genuine; to everyone else, it’s just a charming gimmick. But they’ve come up with a way for Mothra to prove her benevolence beyond a shadow of a doubt before confronting Godzilla. (They would have sent her against Varan, but slept through the whole incident.) Ignoring Nelson’s protests – she’s a lunatic, a subversive, doesn’t even have a million subscribers – they call Yukiko to request an appearance on the next episode of her show. It takes her about two seconds to say yes.

The Cosmos smile politely at Yukiko’s apartment-wide Godzilla shrine as the interview begins. Well, it starts as an interview, then veers dramatically off course when the Cosmos start going on about how Ghidorah attacked their civilization thousands of years ago, leaving themselves and Mothra as the only survivors; their affection for Earth, which they first visited for the monsters but kept returning to for the people; their conviction that Godzilla, being powerful enough to slay Ghidorah, will inevitably threaten the world; etcetera. Yukiko is bored to tears, thinking it’s an expansion of their act. What she’s curious about is how a moth could beat a fire-breathing dinosaur who has literally eaten nukes for breakfast. Her guests propose a demonstration, one that will prove Mothra’s moral superiority to Yukiko’s hero. Every American can agree that slavery was wrong, so why is the most famous building constructed by slaves still standing?

The Cosmos’ signature metal armbands glow and they begin to sing. As they do, Mothra enters Washington, D.C. airspace, hovering above the White House. The mansion is evacuated as SAM batteries around the capitol open fire, but every missile explodes just before it reaches her. Mothra ignores them and circles the White House, forming a ring of energy. A ray shoots down from its center, obliterating 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Yukiko and Mateo watch slack-jawed as the first confused reports of Mothra’s activities pour in. The Cosmos, as serene as when they first walked into the room, ask if they find the demonstration convincing. Neither gets to answer, because Monarch agents burst into the apartment and tranquilize the four of them.

Now, Monarch is no stranger to abducting people who know too much, but never anyone as famous as the Cosmos, and it shows. Though the singers did not publicize their trip to San Francisco, and Yukiko was planning the video as a surprise, enough people figured out their whereabouts to make a secret raid impossible. Nelson whips the Cosmos’ 80 million Twitter followers into a frenzy. Protests break out in front of Monarch headquarters in Seattle. Unfortunately for Monarch, that’s where the Cosmos are headed. Director Connor wants to speak with them personally, and events are moving too quickly to bring them anywhere else.

The Cosmos refuse to answer any of Connor’s questions – he’s especially interested in what they know about Ghidorah and how they’ve managed to live for so long. In another room, Yukiko and Mateo frantically deny any collusion with their quite terrifying interviewees. Connor changes tactics, telling the Cosmos that the U.S. military killed Mothra with newly-developed atomic heat ray guns outside of Richmond. Their bracelets glow, then they spit in his face for such blasphemous lies. Realizing the significance of their jewelry, Connor orders it destroyed. The twins just scoff, speaking in unison for the first time: “She already knows where we are.”

As it happens, Godzilla knows where Mothra is too. The two monsters make a beeline for Seattle.

Meanwhile, Serizawa and Graham take advantage of the chaos to make copies of the Dimension Tide plans. A guard nearly catches them, but they are saved by the intervention of Mason Weaver, now a veteran Monarch agent. She lets slip afterwards that she was the one who went to WikiLeaks in 2014. When she found out about the plans to invade Skull Island and use Kong for target practice, there was nothing else to do.

Most of Monarch’s employees flee as Mothra casts a massive shadow on their headquarters, but Connor remains. He believes she can’t do anything but threaten them without hurting the Cosmos. He’s quite wrong. Mothra waits until the top floors of the building are empty, tears them off, and webs him to a wall. The Cosmos ascend on one of her legs as the fans outside scream themselves hoarse in celebration. They’re still partying a few hours later when a familiar roar pierces the air and everything goes to hell.

Godzilla, perhaps sensing the caliber of foe he’s facing, readies his atomic breath immediately. Mothra sets the Cosmos down and releases a golden pollen from her wings; his ray ignites it on contact and envelops him in a massive explosion. The match goes poorly for him after that. Weaving between skyscrapers and raining down slashes and laser beams, Mothra seems like she’s going to be able to do what two MUTOs could not. Thousands die as the fight rages on. Neither monster seems to notice.

At the behest of the Cosmos, their fans storm Monarch headquarters, liberating Yukiko and Mateo – as well as Graham and Serizawa, who got stuck in an elevator when Mothra’s arrival triggered a lockdown. They emerge just in time to see the conclusion of the monsters’ battle. With a seemingly erratic shot of his atomic breath, Godzilla decapitates the Space Needle, which falls directly onto Mothra. This time, he has no victory cry to offer; visible exhausted, he makes his way through Seattle, heading east.

Their faces ashen, the Cosmos announce that Mothra still lives. Until she recovers, they have a new mission: to document Godzilla’s path of destruction. For most of their fans, chasing the King of the Monsters is a bridge too far, but a few eccentrics sign on. Serizawa, Graham, Yukiko, and Mateo are among them, sensing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study their obsession up close. Serizawa and Graham let the group into the Monarch garage, where they assemble a truly impressive caravan.

The scientists soon figure out the purpose behind Godzilla’s strange behavior. Using his atomic breath is a serious drain on his energy. When he used it against the MUTOs (collapsing afterwards), he had a handy source of radiation to absorb in the form of the nuclear missile that exploded offshore. Now he’s actively seeking out radioactive materials, and since there are no nuclear power plants left in North America… well, the situation is not good. It is, in fact, about as bad as it can get.

Godzilla’s destination is the ICBM sites around Malmstrom Air Force Base in Montana. He’ll arrive in less than a day. If the missiles there don’t satisfy him, he’ll move on to the silos in North Dakota or Wyoming.

Thus begins a road trip like no other. The Cosmos, of course, oversee the livestream. It proves as popular as they hoped; never mind the viewers online, all the major networks are showing little else. Their fans are as worshipful as ever and help them sharpen their critique of Godzilla. It’s now clear that his existence is a threat to the delicate balance of nuclear power which has kept a third world war from breaking out. When this is over, he’s unlikely to stroll into Russia and devour some of their warheads to even things out.

All is not well with the twins, however. They’ve never had their connection with Mothra severed before, and the ferocity she displayed against Godzilla in Seattle disturbs them. If that’s what she’s like when left to her own devices, why should anyone on Earth trust her? And why doesn’t anyone besides their fans seem to appreciate her razing that old building in D.C.?

Serizawa and Graham are having the time of their lives, but pose as abductees, well aware that Monarch is listening and watching them through the others’ phones. It’s all they can do to keep prying eyes aware from the Dimension Tide plans, although with everything Godzilla and Mothra have just done, it remains to be seen if anyone will care when they’re published.

Yukiko and Mateo are hilariously out of their depth. Oh, they were from the moment the Cosmos called, but now that things have calmed down, it’s really setting in. Unable to offer alternative programming (their own phones are either in San Francisco or Seattle), they gravitate towards Serizawa and Graham. With paper and pens, the four make a chronicle of Godzilla’s trek across America. The taunts from the Cosmos and their fans are plentiful, but they do their best to ignore them.

There’s plenty to chronicle, even as the King of the Monsters proceeds without military opposition. While he shows little regard for any buildings unfortunate enough to stand in his path, he starts to walk around gas stations after the first one explodes underfoot. Likewise, he’s mindful of cars, people, and even deer. An attack from a militia group almost seems to make him smile. At night, he pauses to watch some shooting stars and growls at them. The members of the caravan debate endlessly over whether his periodic glances in their direction are acknowledgments or just a general scanning of his surroundings.

During this interlude, Monarch and the U.S. government make preparations on multiple fronts. Yukiko’s interview with the Cosmos is released to the public, albeit with all mentions of Ghidorah removed. The Rods from God are launched, with the stationary Mothra intended as their first target. (Connor has a nightmare where the rods bounce off her like a fistful of plastic straws.) Crews scramble to dismantle the ICBMs at Malmstrom, but it’s clear that Godzilla will have quite the selection to choose from when he arrives. Special forces and drones tail the caravan, waiting for the order to move in.

After Godzilla tears apart the first missile silo, the meal clearly giving him a shot in the arm, the President orders the remaining Malmstrom missiles to be launched into space. The Rods from God prepare to rain metal down on Mothra, but she chooses the moment before their launch to burst out of the Space Needle rubble and dart towards Godzilla. Their rematch is an ugly, face-to-face affair – no nuclear fire or eye lasers, just teeth and claws.

As the ground trembles, the folder with the Dimension Tide plans flies open, and Monarch takes notice. The special forces move in. Our heroes use their vehicles’ various anti-kaiju weapons to fight back, but their lack of combat experience makes the outcome inevitable. Surrounded, they prepare for the end. Instead they get Mothra, who picks up the remaining vehicles and blows away the soldiers with a single beat of her wings. Godzilla watches her set them back down with interest.

Then a curious thing happens. As Mothra reengages Godzilla, he hurls her away from him, seconds before getting speared by a dozen tungsten rods. It’s a devastating blow; his scream of pain shatters every window in the caravan still intact. Mothra hesitates before charging in again – to carefully help Godzilla remove each of the rods and seal his wounds with her webbing. The two start to converse, with the Cosmos helpfully translating Mothra’s end (and chiding her for her language). She persuades him to return to the Pacific, offering to bring him a docked nuclear submarine or two if he needs a boost before then. As he departs, she flies into space and returns with the Cosmos’ ship. The ramp automatically lowers and the Cosmos beckon their fellow monster-chasers inside.

Well, what would you do?

Months later, Yukiko is the face of the first pirate TV station filmed in space, with Mateo still behind the camera and the Cosmos, Serizawa, and Graham as science correspondents. After the latest episode wraps, the Cosmos present her with an invention of theirs: a kaiju communicator for humans. It’s not nearly as elegant as their bracelets, sort of resembling a psychotic dentist’s chair. (And they insist the tiara-like headpiece is essential.) Just before they turn it on, they inform Yukiko that she won’t be talking to Mothra, as she assumed, but Godzilla.

The credits roll before we hear what he says.

Dream Cast:

Yukiko Saegusa – Lyrica Okano

The Cosmos – Auli'i Cravalho (through Orphan Black-style trickery)

Dr. Ishiro Serizawa – Ken Watanabe

Dr. Vivienne Graham – Sally Hawkins

Mateo – Tyler Posey

Director Antonio Connor – Glenn Morshower

Clark Nelson – Steve Buscemi

Mason Weaver – Bette Midler

Admiral William Stenz – David Strathairn

Obligatory Post Credits-Scene: A scaled-down version of the Dimension Tide is tested at a Monarch black site. Though Serizawa and Graham’s exposé was successful in shuttering the project, Connor has cooked Monarch’s books just enough to fund this proof-of-concept device. Since no one has observed a black hole in person before, they think the trio of high-pitched cackles emanating from it are a little weird, but nothing to be worried about.

[kapanbenernya]

DiRT Rally -- DORIFUTO NO NO NO

I've never been a believer in superstitions, magics, or the occult. But if one day I happen to come across a shooting star, I would like to make a wish so that a time machine can be a real thing that's functional within my lifetime so I can go back in time, punch past me in the face, and ask myself "What the fuck were you thinking? Why did you buy this game?". Granted, it was my friend that invited me to buy DiRT Rally on the basis that it can be played together for shits and giggles to tide us over until the next MHW updates. But really, what was I thinking? The last racing game I touched within years was Need for Speed: Most Wanted, and the most recent game that fits the bill is Euro Truck Simulator 2. And comparing ETS2 to DiRT Rally is like comparing me to Mick Jagger. One's big, slow, and mundane, while the other is flashy, popular, and probably involves cocaine at some point.

Oh but whatever, you don't come to me to listen about my story, you come here for my assessments about games, so here we go. Consider this to be what happens when a rally scouting agent got so piss-drunk that he thinks signing up a truck driver as a rally driver is a good idea. Hmm, actually let's roll with that, let's do up with some role-play to keep things interesting.

So let me present you the story of how a truck driver's world went upside down after being signed up as a rally driver, starring Mr. Johnny Tanktop

Hello there, my name is Johnny Tanktop. I am a truck driver and part-time wifebeater. I was doing my usual round of stout at the local drinking hole when I noticed a guy had been eyeing me for a while. Finally after his fourth pint, he brisked his way over and sat on the empty stool beside me. My first thought was "there goes my bum's virginity". He spoke to me, and I soon find out that he's a rally team manager. Phew! I guess my bum will stay unsullied for a while. He's been going around scouting for fresh talent and I seem to fit the bill. Actually about half the fucking country would fit it too, since all he said he needed was ”a good pair of both limbs and a driving license”. Since he promised me good earnings with skills I'm already familiarized for a long time, I decided to take up his offer.

The next day, I went to the place he promised he’d meet me. It’s a run-down old garage next door to a grocery store. “This does not seem promising”, I thought to myself. I knocked on the door a few times, and he came to the door to let me in. To my surprise, he had nothing in his garage but an old computer hooked up to an even older monitor on a desk. He told me that he's about to teach me on how to be the best rally driver ever. When I pointed out to him the lack of automobile, he just laughs and pointed to the computer. Turns out it's filled with video clips of rally tutorials. You what? Are you really expecting me to be able to drive rough terrain at breakneck speeds after watching 5 videos? By that logic I should've been crowned king of the world from all the YouTube videos I've watched, along with everyone else! But whatever, no use whining now, might as well try to absorb whatever knowledge I can before I inevitably crash and burn, literally. 

The videos are helpful in the same way as showing a presentation about genetic splicing to grade-schoolers. It's advanced shit with mumbo jumbo up the ass that you can't help but think that it was meant for people with way more knowledge than you, but you're supposed to nod your head and pretend that you know about the subject matter anyway. I mean you can tell me all about weight distribution, traction, pitch, yaw, but they're very much useless unless I feel it myself while driving. Like for example, what the hell is a "Scandinavian Flick"?

Personally, that's what I call "finger-banging a nordic woman" 

These videos does not help me in any way whatsoever because these are all theories. You know what would help me? A practice track. A real one, the one with cones, the one with courses focused on certain aspects of driving, the one with an automobile instead of a 14-inch CRT monitor. I believe a practice track is super important, and not having one is going against common sense. I mean what? Are rally drivers born with a stick shift in hand and starts drifting in their baby strollers by the age of 4? But after all has been said, I noticed that the manager has already fallen asleep about halfway through my rant. I woke him up, and somehow all he took from it is that I'm ready to race. Seeing how there's nothing else to do, I begrudgingly agreed on it anyway.

It's on to professional career it is

So the boss man gave me a set amount of cash. I used the majority of it to buy the shittiest car from 1960 from a nearby dealer. I notice that there are loads of varieties of cars, just teasing me with cutting-edge technology, 6 gears, and a chassis not made out of repurposed biscuit tin. I think this is a tactic to tempt me into working hard so one day I can afford those hot rides, but I don't care. I then meet up with the manager and turns out he's already enlisted me into a rally in Greece. He told me to get ready, but all I can hear is "I've chosen this lovely countryside road as your grave spot. Don't forget to sign the insurance papers, also can you tell me your next of kin?". But you know what? I'm in too deep this time. I've gone and bought a car, I watched all the videos, might as well pretend I'm professional now. Hearts and minds, right? 

Well few days later and I'm actually in Greece. As far as I can tell, this is some real shit that's going on. They got tents, officials, I even got a faceless stranger to fill in as my co-driver. Hang on now, shouldn't my co-driver be someone I know? Shouldn't one of my friends that I've trained and bonded with be the co-driver? Also shouldn't you teach me what the fuck his signals fucking meant? What the fuck is '90 turn left actual'? What the hell is a 'joker'? Why do we have to take it? I'm not in a fucking bat-mobile, am I? Is rally driving just a part of the Batman training program?

I think I know where this is going

I mean the 2 minute tutorial is unfair enough, but withholding some information is just fucking with us. You know what? Fuck. This. I'm gonna drive anyway. Whatever happens, happens. So off I go to the starting line in my car. Helmets on, seat-belts buckled, next-of-kin notified, light turns green, and pedal to the metal. I was in control for a while until my robotic co-driver spouts more of his nonsense. All I can do is try to comprehend his speech and wing it. Three more turns and there I was; face down, ass up, and holding on to dear life. Although the officials might've been fucking Merlin and Gandalf because my flipped car got teleported back into the upright position and neither me or my co-driver suffered any damage. I got out of the car, about to see my manager and give him a piece of my mind, but soon I found out that he's nowhere to be found. All I can find is a ticket back home and word that he's took off to find newer talent. With a heavy heart, I decide to retire immediately, fly back home, and do what I do best: trucking and occasional spouse-beating

Well, that about summarizes my experience with the single player content, now let's talk about the reason I bought the game: multiplayer

So here we are, me and my 2 friends, about to have a race together. I asked them about how the game's been treating them so far, and turns out it's the first time they launched the game and that I'm the one with the most experience. Ho ho ho! I can already imagine how this night will turn out! Instead of one inexperienced driver crashing his car, there will be THREE inexperienced driver crashing their cars. But whatever, we tried it anyway... With the expected results. Turns out we are all terrible and have none the slightest knowledge on how to drive rally. It was madness! If this was a real rally event, I could already imagine the people watching this bursting into tears with laughter at this amateur hour. I'm sure we just became the three biggest idiots on the race track. There's one guy who always gets a time penalty over 30 seconds, another guy that always has one of his tires flew off no matter what cars he used, and then there's me: going as slow as chauffeuring an old lady with a heart condition through a crowded school zone. But the funniest thing is that I still win because the others fuck up more. At least that was the case until they find the brilliant strategy of ramming me off the goddamn road, those wonderful human beings.

Aside from fucking around on the track however, there is nothing else entertaining we could find. I mean there's only like 2 tracks available, and crashing ourselves silly can only carry so much gameplay. There are actually more tracks that we can unlock, but unfortunately, to unlock it, we have to progress through the campaign, which means doing that sign reading type of rally that we can't do. And that means we can't progress any further because we aren't actually interested in the gameplay to begin with. So we all said "what the hell" and promptly forget about the game and never speak of it again.

In Brief

It only takes 2 hours of gameplay for me to know what kind of game this is. This is a game for enthusiasts (and by enthusiasts, I mean maniacs). The kind of guy that owns steering wheel controllers they welded into a deck while sitting on a repurposed leather seat from a Mercedes. The kind of guy that wanks to pictures of cars, all the while praising the angle in which it opens its doors. The kind of guy that knows all about your engine problem but lacks the mechanical skill to actually fix it. The kind of guy that brags about his fastest lap times in the game but has to bribe the DMV after the 22nd failed attempt on his driving license. 

Slamming aside, that's really all I can say about the game, because this game simply isn't for me. I do not own the necessary knowledge or passion to pass judgement to this game. So take my words as mere winds passing through a valley. I really should've ended it with a race-themed metaphor, but I don't care.

27/11/2019

[ruleandruinrpg]

NEYSA RAI

TWENTY ONE ❈ HEARTRENDER ORDER OF THE LIVING & THE DEAD (CORPORALKI)

She’s been running for as long as she can remember, a girl born for leaving and a penchant for staying gone. For the better half of her young life, she was little more than a memory—wind-loved and sun-worshipped, a bramble rose that never truly took root, and she owes it to her family, to her people, for instilling within her the grace that allowed her to survive so long. They were a peaceful people, the Suli—a band of men and women who’d been spared the curse of desperately wanting to belong—and she was their blessing, their gift, the closest thing to a saint they’d ever had in their midst. Rebe, they called her: daughter—of the wind, of the earth, of their hearts. She and her brother were treasured among them where they might’ve been shunned—guarded where they might’ve been given up, and as such, they were spared from discovery and conscription into the Second Army, tucked into the back of a wagon when the hooded strangers came in search of their kind. It was there, pressed against her sibling beneath a pile of moth-eaten blankets, that she grew fearful of what she truly was—a weapon, elusive and dangerous and deadly enough for an Army to seek out. They were safe, the child of the sea and the girl who spoke the language of hearts, and for a time, she tried to let herself believe they always would be. But her days of hiding and hoping and praying to saints she wasn’t sure were listening were far from over that warm spring morning; they’d only just begun.

They were by the sea when the world came crashing down on their heads, and no amount of power—no twisting of heartstrings and no calling of tidal waves—could save them. What once sustained them had set them apart; Aarvas’s asking the tides to dance had captured the attention of a slaver moving into port, and Neysa’s moving to defend him with little more than her bare hands, outstretched and shaking, had sealed their fate. Life as they’d known it ended on a hot summer’s day, with no mourners to speak of but the whisper of the waves and the cries of a lone seagull, as is expected for two children with no home but each other; the girl she’d once been died on her knees with her head held high, her hands tied behind her back and her pinky finger entwined with her sibling’s, and the girl she became never spoke of her again—out of fear, out of respect, out of longing. Time moved not in days and minutes, but in dreams and memories—a braid of raven feathers falling down her mother’s back, the sway of prairie grasses in the warm light of dawn, the heaviness that came with leaving a place and the lightness that came with knowing there would always be another. A girl taught to interpret dreams found herself utterly lost when she could no longer distinguish between nightmares and waking, and for years, this was her life: a shadow of what it once was, a never-ending night under a sky devoid of the stars she’d known by name.

But hope has a funny way of finding its way through the cracks, and against all odds, the two Suli children found a friend in the city they’d come to loathe. The streets of Ketterdam had long been a hostile place for Grisha to roam, pockmarked as they were by the scars of gang rivalries and anti-Grisha sentiment as thick as smoke, but each year, as the leaves turned from green to gold to dust, they became a haven of anonymity, a home to every figment of lonely children’s imaginations and every poor fellow who longed to join them. But this particular autumn, they were an escape for a pair of Grisha indentures that had never been indentured at all, a sharp set of blades on which to cut their bonds. They ran in plain sight, two masked figures fleeing the crowds after the outbreak of a liquor-fueled riot, and robbed of the opportunity to do so when they’d been captured, and safely aboard a Ravkan trade ship Aarvas had volunteered to guide, they watched the one place they’d never been able to make a home of fade from view—but never, it seemed, from their memories. The nightmares they’d lived haunted her nightly even after they were once again on Ravkan soil, and they only worsened when she and her brother enlisted in the Second Army as both a penance and a price—shadowed figures strangling her in the dark, the bodies of innocents strewn about at her feet. In her dreams, she forgot how to tell the difference between a monster and a man.

In the months since she’s arrived at the Little Palace, she’s learned that sometimes, there isn’t one. Having escaped one noose only to entangle herself in another, she doubts she’ll ever outrun her ghosts, memories of the life she was forced to leave behind, but every sin has its recompense, and perhaps this is hers: to become, bit by bit, a woman she doesn’t recognize—a weapon in the hands of a king not unlike the masters she once served. She doesn’t remember what it feels like to be truly free, and as long as there are wars to win and empires to topple, perhaps she never will. All the more reason, she supposes, to soldier on. One day, she’ll reconcile the image of the war-torn girl in the mirror with the hopeful child she once was. One day, she’ll convince herself that everything she’s done has been just. But until then, she fights, half-blade and half-girl. When is a monster not a monster, you ask? Oh, when it’s given no other choice.

CONNECTIONS

AARVAS RAI: Her father once told her that when they were young, a prick of her sibling’s finger would draw tears from her own eyes, a tether few understood and none dared to sever. She was made to protect them, body and soul—in this life and the next, and she’d sooner return herself to the chains they’ve been freed from than see them suffer. They are two halves of the same whole, the push and pull of the tide against the shore, and where one goes, the other will surely follow—through hell and back, into the thick of battle, home. Let this war take her pride, her morals, her hopes, her dreams—but saints save the one who tries to take them.

STASYA BELOV: They are gentle—a breeze where they might’ve been a twister, kind where they might’ve been cruel, and she finds solace in them, in their courageous sort of sweetness. She’s found something akin to a kindred spirit in the squaller, a soldier to call friend, and no stranger to shame herself, she’s offered her own weathered shoulders to share the burden of their storms. The world has made martyrs of them both, but she knows—perhaps better than anyone—that martyrs often come in pairs. In her smile lies a promise: you’ll never have to go it alone.

VALERIAN PETROV: She sees in him everything she desperately hopes to never become—a fanatic, a killer, a fire raging out of control. He wasn’t always this way—at least, that’s what she’s been told; it was the war that made him the inferno he is, and it will be the war that burns him for all he’s got, a candle melted down to the end of the wick. Never one to be a savior for anyone but her own flesh and blood, Neysa might be content to let him burn up in his own flames, had he not reached out and tried to drag her in with him. “Left your backbone in Kerch, did you?” He sneered once, voice haughty and words blistering. “Perhaps you should’ve left your heart, too.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, this man of ash and fire; he mustn’t know what a death wish it is to tempt a woman who could burst his heart in his chest. But sometimes, as she watches him raze whole cities to the ground like a man in search of something he’ll never get back, she thinks, perhaps, he might. 

NEYSA IS PORTRAYED BY NEELAM GILL & IS TAKEN BY MEL.

[tyrionslannister]

11. Soulmates AU.

She has the Fairmount wolf marked on her wrist.

It had appeared much before, when she couldn’t have been older than sixteen; no more than a few days after uncle Adrien’s departure to England. Like every soulmark, it burned through her skin when it came to existence, letting her know it did exist, letting her know it was there. She knows what it is because her uncle taught her; he taught her about the soulmarks and he taught her about heraldry, and he taught her everything about the daunting wolves of Westhelm.

Adelaide trembles at the sight of the mark and hides it under long sleeves, dismissing her ladies-in-waiting much before they can think of helping her undress. It is the only way she knows of escaping it, the fate that would certainly come to be if her father or anyone else found out whose mark she beared. Noblewomen rarely had the chance to wed men with a matching mark – men of lower station, mostly –, but the Fairmounts are noble, too; noble and rich and catholic and powerful allies.

The idea of having an ideal match is temptating, of course; having someone to love and support her and care for her. Sometimes she catches herself wondering, what if? If she could let go of her fear – but she cannot, for there is much more to it than only her and the one with whom she is meant to fall in love with. She will be queen one day – she should be, at least; it is her birthright and hers only –, and her throne is in great risk already not having to worry about who would be the one to rule alongside her. They are a powerful family, indeed, but anyone who knows better does not trust a Fairmount. How could they ever trust a wolf king?

Because it’s what he – whoever he is – will be once they are wed, in bearing if not title. He will not play the part of a consort like her mother and grandmother had done; he will rule beside her, above her, even, because, unlike her and her mother and grandmother, he is a man. Perfect as they are for each other, her soulmate will have in his hands the power that’s meant to be hers – and if there’s one thing she has learned living in Rivergate Palace, it’s that power is seductive. Even if no one stood in their way to the throne, and someone certainly would, he would rip it from her the moment he realised he could.

So she hides it. She hides it for a long time, even when her ladies and maids come at her to excitedly tell about the burning marks on their wrists or chests or ankles. Even when her father rushes her to talk about it and her uncle raises suspicious eyebrows. I haven’t gotten mine yet, she replies, sweetly, and they eventually put it aside. Maybe she hasn’t gotten it, they conclude. Maybe she never will. Some people do not have a mark, and, when it comes to Adelaide, maybe it’s a good sign.

Her father’s is marked on his chest, a Bourbon fleur-de-lis, Anne-Claire’s family symbol. She has never seen it, but she knows – uncle Adrien had taught her that, too, and he had spoken in a low, sad voice. Maximilian’s mark had never disappeared, not even after his wife died. As many flaws as he had, this much was true: he had loved her with all his heart.

She never knew about uncle Declan’s, and when she had asked Adrien, he had changed the subject. Many said he didn’t have one; others said he was too ashamed of it. Did Elizabeth have it?, she had also asked, one day, about her uncle’s late wife. His mark? And Adrien had smiled sadly and once again didn’t reply.

Sometimes she would wonder about the man she was supposed to love, who was supposed to love her, thinking perhaps his mark hadn’t yet appeared. There was but one Redwater princess – only one woman whose mark was the threatening tiger. Had he known, he would be there already, revelling in the promise of, someday, being king. But no one had come to meet her. No one had tried to assure a position by her side.

She would look for him, sometimes, too, when she could; when she sneaked out of the palace in her maid’s clothes and into the neighbouring village. People used to value friends in high places, but it worked just as well for her being friends with the local madam, and she would ask Genevieve about the Fairmounts and get unsatisfying replies. But, after all, the duchy of Westhelm was distant enough from Queenstown, and she couldn’t imagine going through such a long path with the sole purpose of visiting a brothel. Part of her was happy about it. Maybe he was waiting for her, after all.

She’s not expecting it when it comes – news that the duke of Westhelm is on his way to Rivergate and brings a coterie with him. It’s supposedly by order of the king, she knows, but a part of her can’t help but wait endlessly for their arrival, hoping to know the man who bears her mark, wishing she never has to. But, when they do arrive, there is no noble son of the duke. No Fairmount wolf marked with the royal family’s tiger.

When they do arrive, there is only James.

She doesn’t know who he is at first, and a tide of mixed emotions takes control of her mind. Disappointment, perhaps, and anger – he’s not there merely to protect her, God well knows. He’s there as a part of a plot to cast her out, to take her throne. He was not the one she hoped to meet, and if she has to lose her crown, she would much prefer to lose it to the one with whom she’s supposed to spend her life with.

She doesn’t expect to come to know him, or to grow fond of him at all, for all that matters. And then, at night, after the feast, they take a walk in the garden – together. Alone. She learns about who he is and where he comes from, and, though she’s still mourning the man she will never meet, she realises they have so much more in common than what she thought at first. Maybe he doesn’t want to cast her out, after all. Maybe he had as much of a choice as she did. And he is still a son of house Fairmount – wasn’t that what she wanted? When he leaves her at her door, hours later, both disappointment and anger had been long vanished.

They become friends, eventually – over many things, but mostly their shared faith. She gives him gentle, discreet smiles when people aren’t looking, not because they cannot see it, but because it feels too intimate for anyone but the two of them to witness, and their relationship ceases to be one of mutual discomfort to become something that brings them joy. They talk and laugh and take long walks in the gardens when it’s late at night and there are no people around, and they ignore the rumours when they start, because the whole idea is absurd. (Isn’t it?, she asks herself, uncertain, at times.)

She doesn’t realise it until she runs into Mary one day – a desperately sad Mary, with tears running down her cheeks and unmade hair. Convincing her to stop running takes some time, and waiting for her to stop sobbing demands its efforts, but she eventually manages to calm her down. When asked what is wrong, the maid doesn’t say anything; she simply pulls up the sleeve of her simple dress and lets Adelaide see the bold black mark on her wrist – a mark the princess knows all too well, for she has beared the same one for years.

“It’s a nobleman,” Mary murmurs, dismayed. “My soulmate is a nobleman,” she repeats, and bursts out crying once again. Part of Adelaide understands her reaction; when would a maid ever be fit to marry a high-born lord? Part of her wants to stay, take Mary in her arms and comfort her like the child she is. And part of her is eager to find answers.

Later that night, when she is all alone in her chambers, she pulls the sleeve of the nightshift up. The wolf faces her back, challenging, and she nervously licks dry lips. She has forced herself not to pay attention, not to overthink it… But it’s helpless, and for the first time in years she takes a real look at it, at the mark which tells her who’s the love of her life, a mark she now shares with Mary.

But Mary’s mark, as every other soulmark she has ever seen, is black, in a clear contrast with her glowing, pale skin. Adelaide has never thought about it until then; she’s never given it enough thought. But the wolf on her own skin has never been black. It has always been bright blue.

It’s not until the morning after, when she leaves her chambers at first light and greets James with her usual smile, she realises the colour of the wolf on her wrist matches that of his eyes.

[gracelessknights]

“I just want to do the right thing and what’s best for you.” “How would you know what’s best for me?” I asked sharply. “You’re not me. You have no right to make decisions for me.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” I tell her. “There are millions of people who have had their mother die. You did, as well. I’m not so unique. We all get through it as best we can.”

And yes, his sex life is fairly shallow; he’s admitted as much. But he’s clearly intelligent and kind. Not the soppy sort of kindness that seems to be more about showing off than actual caring, but a quiet, unobtrusive thoughtfulness that’s unexpected and lovely.

“I love you too, baby,” she said. “I really do. I want you to be okay. The rest of your choices are up to you. I hope to God you make the right ones.”

“If you say you’re in love with him, then I believe you. Please understand, however, that at your age very few loves ever last. You don’t know if he’ll just decide to leave you one day. Keep that in mind, okay?”

“You have ten minutes,” he told me. “Ten minutes to think about what you did wrong and how bad you feel right now. Are you ready?”…“There. It’s over now,” he said. “Now you look forward and figure out how you’re going to get better.”

Anything is possible if you give it a chance

“They’re your family.” Hades laughed. “No. Goddess lesson number one: Fear the family.” “My mom—” “Was a wonderful mother to you, I’m sure. But she still lied and deceived you at every turn.” He waved off my protest. “Consider yourself lucky. Our father tried to eat us. We all grouped together and killed our parents. Instead of drawing us closer, we spent the next few millennia ripping each other apart. Families think they know what’s best for you. Your friends let you figure that out for yourself.”

I trust him to be true to his nature, you need to trust those around you will be true to their nature. Even when it may appear that they are betraying who they are.

Aim to be better not bitter.

Some things are out of our control,” he said. “We have to learn to accept and adapt.”

Why drown in love when you can have so much fun swimming around in lust?

Who better to parent you, than people who have had to persevered through their life.

Be a catalyst for change

My aunts said I was dreaming when I said I wanted words to be a career, but my mother kept quoting Picasso’s mother. “Picasso’s mother told him if he got into the army, he’d be a general. If he became a monk, he’d be the pope. Instead he was a painter and became Picasso. That’s exactly how I feel about you. So do, Rachel, what you love.”

Rise and rise again until lambs become lions.

Demographics are destiny.

“Devils don’t come from hell beneath us. No, they come from the sky.”

Goodnight. Travel well.

“It’s not torture. It’s not making things worse. It’s not horrible. It’s not a fucking mistake. Out of everything don’t you dare say it’s a mistake.”

Learn before you burn.

I don’t think it [love] is someone who sweeps you off your feet. I think it’s someone who stays right beside you and let’s you walk on your own.

We can only do want we know.

We can only practice what we understand and he neither understands this nor does he value it.

“…,Im fine.” “Until you’re not. Then what? What am I supposed to do,…? Do you have an answer for that?”

Intentions don’t bloody matter if the end result isn’t what you expected.

I feel like you have the best intentions but you’re just making one mistake after another.

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”

“I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified.”

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.” ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

“Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.” ― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

“Despite your best efforts, people are going to be hurt when it’s time for them to be hurt.” ― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Of course it hurt that we could never love each other in a physical way. We would have been far more happy if we had. But that was like the tides, the change of seasons–something immutable, an immovable destiny we could never alter. No matter how cleverly we might shelter it, our delicate friendship wasn’t going to last forever. We were bound to reach a dead end. That was painfully clear.” ― Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” ― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

“That’s what the world is , after all: an endless battle of contrasting memories.” ― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

No truth can cure the sorrow we feel from losing a loved one. No truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness can cure that sorrow. All we can do is see it through to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sorrow that comes to us without warning.” ― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Most people are not looking for provable truths. As you said, truth is often accompanied by intense pain, and almost no one is looking for painful truths. What people need is beautiful, comforting stories that make them feel as if their lives have some meaning. Which is where religion comes from.” ― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

“It’s easy to forget things you don’t need anymore.” ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Instruction does much, but encouragement everything. ― Letter to A.F. Oeser, Nov. 9, 1768

Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten. ― Neil Gaiman, Coraline

You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore. ― Christopher Columbus

Either you run the day, or the day runs you.                                                         ― Jim Rohn

What you plant today, you can harvest tomorrow.

The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.  ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

It is not about where you impart your views, it is about the message itself. Speeches made on on a table in the cafeteria can sometimes mean more than words said in an arena with roaring crowds.

It’s not just a word. It’s the weight of it.

It’s not a small thing to give up everything you’ve ever known. But it’s not a small thing to give up Emma, either. If there is even a slight possibility he can have them both—Emma and his heritage—then it’s certainly worth fighting for.

“If you ever get caught in the undertow,” he’d said, “just let it take you. Just let it pull you right out. Whatever you do, don’t fight it and waste your energy and oxygen. That’s how people die. The people who don’t die wait it out. The undertow lets go eventually, right when you think you can’t hold your breath any longer. You just have to be patient.”

I wonder if other mothers feel a tug at their insides, watching their children grow up into the people they themselves wanted so badly to be. ― Jodi Picoult, Keeping Faith

You’ll never know your limits until you push yourself to them.

He - and if there is a God, I am convinced he is a he, because no woman could or would ever fuck things up this badly. ― George Carlin

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art – write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself. ― Neil Gaiman

You need to spend time crawling alone through shadows to truly appreciate what it is to stand in the sun. ― Shaun Hick

Neither the sun nor death can be looked at steadily. ― François de La Rochefoucauld

Do not sit still; start moving now. In the beginning, you may not go in the direction you want, but as long as you are moving, you are creating alternatives and possibilities.’ ― Rodolfo Costa, Advice My Parents Gave Me: and Other Lessons I Learned from My Mistakes

It is never too late to be what you might have been. ― George Elliot.

Being there for someone when they need you, that’s all relationships are. ― That Awkward Moment.

Remember: It costs nothing to encourage an artist, and the potential benefits are staggering. A pat on the back to an artist now could one day result in your favorite film, or the cartoon you love to get stoned watching, or the song that saves your life. Discourage an artist, you get absolutely nothing in return, ever. ― Kevin Smith, Tough Shit: Life Advice from a Fat, Lazy Slob Who Did Good

Thankfully, persistence is a great substitute for talent. ― Steve Martin, Born Standing Up: A Comic’s Life

Our chief want is someone who will inspire us to be what we know we could be. ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

When you put effort into your self and people will put effort into you

We find comfort in those who agree with us - growth among those who don’t. ― Frank Clark

Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition. ― James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. ― Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. ― Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

What you’re supposed to do when you don’t like a thing is change it. If you can’t change it, change the way you think about it. Don’t complain. ― Maya Angelou, Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now

You wanna make a splash? Part the Red Sea.                                                       ― Harvey Spector

In a gentle way, you can shake the world.                                                            ― Mahatma Gandhi

Silence only perpertuates more silence

“Jesus, you’re so bloody…forward.” “You don’t get anywhere in life by going backward.”

I know that this woman isn’t just a prostitute, she is an heir. I know that this precious woman is a princess and was worth the King of kings to die for her. I know that she is worth more than $20 dollars for 4 hours and that she is treasured beyond belief. I know that she is valued and loved to an extent I will only know in heaven.                                                                                               (A Christian article I read a while back)

I’ve learnt that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel                                               ― Maya Angelou

Name one thing you can’t live without. Emma Stone: Love. In whatever form it takes.

It would make more sense to have birth control for men because .. There’s a better chance to shoot on an empty gun than to shoot a bullet proof vest.

Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations.

i’m still not sorry but I understand.

Don’t wait for the future. it’s all hit or miss

Do what you can for as long as you can

Visual escapes are crucial only due to the psychological factor it pertains

I love my community so i wanna help it

Education should never have a political agenda.

“She stared into the fire for some time, thinking about what she had in her life, and what she had given up; and whether it would be worse to love someone who was no longer there, or not to love someone who was.”                                  ― Neil Gaiman

As for courage and will- we cannot measure how much of each lies within us; we can only trust there will be sufficient to carry us through the trials which may lie ahead. ― Andre Norton

A lie would have no sense unless the truth were felt as dangerous. ― Alfred Adler

Is the holocaust an aberration or reflection of who we really are. 

I found myself surrounded by people who celebrated intellectualism and engagement and who thought that my ironic oh so cool disengagement wasn’t clever or funny but like it was a simple and unspectacular response to complicated and compelling problems.                                                                   ― John green

Just because you’ve done something throughout your life, it doesn’t let you off the hook for it. If it’s wrong, it’s wrong. Stop using familiarity as an excuse.

You’re doing what you can and that’s all that matters.

Treat yourself like you would treat a small child.

For what it’s worth: it’s never too late to be whoever you want to be. I hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you find you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over again.                                                                                                ― F Scott Fitzgerald

“I don’t know anything with certainty, but seeing the stars makes me dream”

The only thing you need to do anything is the time and motivation

Adjust your sails according to the wind

“Then suck it up, take responsibility for your own mess. And get your head back in the game. ”

Learn something with the intention of teaching it.

You’re the only person who has control over who you become.

Journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

‘When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow’

“Need covers itself with love … but need is never love. Always beware of the one who needs you. There is always a want behind a need, you see”   ― J Lynn Armentrout

“If you’re not scared, then you’re not taking a chance. And if you’re not taking a chance, what the hell are you doing anyway!” ― Ted Mosby

This is the problem I have with religion, people do too may things in the name of belief, or worse use it to prevent others from exploring external possibilities.

So here’s my advice study broadly and without fear. Be vigilant in the struggle towards empathy ― John Green

Being afraid isn’t a weakness, Alex. It’s only a sign of something you must overcome.” ― J Lynn Armentrout

“We would all believe in God if he served our every whim. Belief is not about an easy life. Belief is soemthing you have regardless.”

“Sit down, take a deep breath. And let mommy take care of it… just like she always does.”

Small mishaps don’t count a fuckups by the way -me

It’s not a problem, its challenge

Take the game seriously, but remember it’s just a game

“Even when you grow up and move away, its important to come home. Ok?”

It doesn’t get easier… it gets manageable.

Don’t set off running unless you can see the finish line.

Are you strong enough to carry your secrets

Escape-based choices are almost always disastrous, because they solve only half the problem. Target-based decisions at least have a shot at being successful, so keep that in mind every time you have a significant choice to make. Don’t be pushed away from what you don’t want; let yourself be pulled toward what you do want. I’m not saying your end goals can’t change—of course they might. But don’t tell yourself, “So what if this isn’t what I’d hoped for? Heck, it beats what I’ve got.” You deserve better.

Understand that there are no “wrong” decisions.

In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments; there are consequences. ― Robert Green Ingersoll

“The wise man in the storm prays to God, not for safety from danger, but deliverance from fear.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Clarity and focus doesn’t always come from God or inspirational quotes. Usually, it takes your mother to slap the reality back into you. ― Shannon L. Alder

The mother memories that are closest to my heart are the small gentle ones that I have carried over from the days of my childhood. They are not profound, but they have stayed with me through life, and when I am very old, they will still be near … Memories of mother drying my tears, reading aloud, cutting cookies and singing as she did, listening to prayers I said as I knelt with my forehead pressed against her knee, tucking me in bed and turning down the light. They have carried me through the years and given my life such a firm foundation that it does not rock beneath flood or tempest. ― Margaret Sanger

It really takes the pressure off if you understand that every experience you have, whether you characterize it as “good” or “bad,” is exactly the experience you need to have at that moment. Some choices may lead to more painful lessons than others, but living life in fear of living life is no way to live.

When I was trying to decide whether or not to go on my trip, I had a friend who flipped a coin and made me commit to the outcome. Life involves some risk. Flip the coin and see where it leads you.

William Parrish: I thought I was going to sneak away tonight. What a glorious night. Every face I see is a memory. It may not be a perfectly perfect memory. Sometimes we had our ups and downs. But we’re all together, and you’re mine for a night. And I’m going to break precedent and tell you my one candle wish: that you would have a life as lucky as mine, where you can wake up one morning and say, “I don’t want anything more.” Sixty-five years. Don’t they go by in a blink?”                                                                                                     ―Meet Joe Black

William Parrish: I want you to know how much I love you, that you’ve given a meaning to my life that I had no right to expect, that no one can ever take from me.

Susan Parrish: Dad…

William Parrish: No! I love you so much. And I want you to promise me something. I don’t want you to ever worry about me. And if anything should happen, I’m gonna be okay. And everything’s gonna be all right. And I have no regrets. And I want you to feel the same way.

Susan Parrish: I love you, Daddy.

William Parrish: That’s why it’s okay.

―Meet Joe Black

[Watching the fireworks above the party before they depart]

William Parrish: It’s hard to let go, isn’t it?

Joe Black: Yes it is, Bill.

William Parrish: And that’s life… what can I tell you.

―Meet Joe Black

Joe Black: I don’t care Bill. I love her.

William Parrish: How perfect for you - to take whatever you want because it pleases you. That’s not love.

Joe Black: Then what is it?

William Parrish: Some aimless infatuation which, for the moment, you feel like indulging - it’s missing everything that matters.

Joe Black: Which is what?

William Parrish: Trust, responsibility, taking the weight for your choices and feelings, and spending the rest of your life living up to them. And above all, not hurting the object of your love.

Joe Black: So that’s what love is according to William Parrish?

William Parrish: Multiply it by infinity, and take it to the depth of forever, and you will still have barely a glimpse of what I’m talking about.

Joe Black: Those were my words.

William Parrish: They’re mine now.

―Meet Joe Black 

[the-writing-on-the-statue]

pull the roses from your lungs and breathe in

Summary: Takane Tsubomi is not so easily caged.

Author’s Notes: In my own attempt to help purge the MP100 tag of pedophilic stories, I will begin writing a lot more fic and unleashing it upon the world! To that end, have some more Esper!Tsubomi, set during the 7th Division Arc. It’s not as strictly edited as the others, so be kind. [Read it on Ao3]

Make sure to read the first two stories in the series as well:

the fallacy of memory

in the halls of the mountain king

The boy is fast.

He is all deadly-strikes and a cruel smile, a lightning bolt given human form, dancing and crisping plant-stuff to ash as he touches down, before arcing off with a shrill burst of laughter.

Tsubomi is stronger than him, this she knows.

She has the plants and something deeper, something far more ancient within her reach. It feels like the beat-beat-beat of her own heart, magnified times a thousand. She has a voice in her head that’s she hasn’t heard in ten years, and her mother’s rose seeds in her hands.

But he knows himself better than her. This boy knows his powers better than she does, and worse yet – he knows her better than she does. He is not like the cruel-eyed man with the knife.

He never once underestimates her, and that is why she loses.

She falters, a misstep, her feet searching for a grip on the smooth floor cracked by vines, so unlike the tennis courts, and the boy’s eyes narrow. There’s a soft sound, the air makes a cracking noise like thunder, and the boy vanishes.

Tsubomi whirls, only to feel a fist crack into the side of her head, her vines too slow to stop it, she’s too slow-

She drops to the floor in a pile of limbs and screeching vines, the world going dark around her as she does.

And the taste of defeat lingers like ash on her tongue.

Takane Tsubomi rarely dreams. It is just darkness when she sleeps, insensate and drifting.

If ever she does dream, it usually is wild colors and blurring lines that drip away like grains of sand in an hourglass. Dreams are always forgotten, when she wakes.

But, as the boy carries her deeper into the building, quiet and limp over his shoulder, she dreams, and dreams true.

Smoke, and ash, and burning. Her father is a pale line on the ground. Her mother screams as green things sprout thorns and sprout ash all at once.

There are arms around her then, as her mother twirls in the fire. Dancing, like she used to dance with her father. But her father is a pale line on the ground, roses screaming to ash around him.

She is in the car then, choking and coughing.

Keep your head down, her mother-aunt-guardian-Sato Ayuko says.

Tears trickle down her face. No.

No, I don’t want this.

She wakes slowly. Her head pounds like the beat of a distant drum and she aches all over.

I lost, she thinks, and it’s a bitter thought that comes slow. I lost.

The floor is cold, and there are voices speaking, vicious and low. Tsubomi remains still, unmoving, just how she perfected many, many years ago.

Like riding a bike or calling her power, how to remain below the attention of those who may want to hurt her (You stupid girl! rings in her head and Tsubomi casts it away, because not here, not here, she can’t afford this here) comes back in the twitch of muscle-memories.

Move without moving.

See without seeing.

Now – act.

A rose seed slips from in between her teeth, wetted with the blood dripping from her lips. It drops to the floor, and into a tiny crack. There’s dirt beneath her, Tsubomi thinks, feeling the beat-beat-beat of her heart growing in her ears.

Dirt is everywhere, Mirai-chan, no matter how you cover it with stone and steel. We are everywhere.

The rose seed blooms and grows, sinking roots through the cracks, splitting stone and fracturing steel, even as psychic power blurs like a rising wall around the room.

But still she feels her rose growing. Still growing, and growing, and waiting.

I can work with that, she thinks.

She had been twelve when she lost her first singles match, and it had stung so very bitterly in her chest. Her mother had looked down at her, something flashing through her eyes, and whispered Ayako would have won, like an afterthought, or perhaps something that had boiled over after simmering too long.

That had hurt worse than the scrapes on her knees, or the flashes of pain against her cheek, or the gnawing in her belly that still hurt her some nights, even after her mother fed her a big meal.

You lose some, you win some, her captain had said, eyes dark and quiet on hers. It’s how such things go.

…I don’t like to lose.

Most don’t, really. So you know what you do?

Tsubomi had watched him, carefully. What?

You get up. You dust off your clothes. And you sit back.

A protest on her lips-

No. Listen to me. You sit back, and you think of what was done. Why did you lose? And then - what must I do to prevent that from happening again? And once you know that, you go from there.

Tsubomi had felt those words, sinking into her bones.

…is that all?

He’d laughed.

I’m not saying it’s going to be simple, Takane-chan. It’s not, and it will never be.

And Tsubomi had watched those words, watched his face, knowing there was a lesson here, more explicit than anything she’d had to learn while running-running-running-

Nothing worthwhile, after all, is ever easy.

She feels only two presences now...no, there’s three.

There is Shigeo’s bonfire, muted now, and the softer, sparkling presence of the blond who’d been with him. Together they muffle the third aura, the one that feels like cragged and fracturing metal, splintered at the edges.

Ritsu? 

Shigeo’s little brother, cracked at the seams with psychic power.

Tsubomi opens her eyes, and pushes herself to her knees.

“Hey, you’re awake!”

This, from the blond. Tsubomi acknowledges the call with only a flicker of her eyes to him (what on earth is he wearing on his head-no, focus), and staggers upright.

A pulse beneath her feet. For a moment Tsubomi feels like her skin is bark and her feet are roots. She breathes in, and reaches. She walks.

All walls have cracks. Find the crack, splinter the foundation.

There’s a little voice in her head, whispering very softly. Tsubomi thinks it might have been her mother – the one from long before. Or maybe not. Maybe not.

Maybe it’s just her wanting to hear something that will keep away the dull aches and the quiet fear that would make her hands shake in any other case. She closes her eyes, and casts that aside.

What do I want?

To escape.

How will I go about getting that?

The roses twine and writhe outside the barrier. Tsubomi feels them, still connected to them by the blood in which they’d grown - her blood - far deeper than even psychic power could go.

Find the crack, splinter the foundation.

Tsubomi touches the wall, and begins to walk. The blood on her fingers leaves a faint line as she drags her hand along the wall, a trail that the roses follow with unnerving accuracy.

To me, Tsubomi thinks, as Shigeo wakes like the rolling of the tides, like a giant still sleeping under the earth standing free.

She hears voices behind her, quiet, pitched low and desperate, agonized. She hears crying, and Shigeo’s voice.

“Tsu-Tsubomi-chan?”

She turns, and sees Shigeo watching her, his face quiet and placid and worried.

To me, she thinks, and the wall begins to crumble. Tsubomi grins as her roses reach her hand, blood still trickling over her lips.

“I think it’s time for us to leave…ne, Mob-kun?”

It’s a childish nickname, from so many years ago, back when she first saw the fire and something in her ached so – but it slips out, muscle memory. And it’s worth it, to see the way Shigeo softens at the edges, a bit of the tension threading his shoulders fading away to hear the name.

Shigeo’s eyes widen just a touch as Tsubomi feels a rose curl thorns around her neck, as warm and familiar as a pet. It blooms a blossom as red as blood, as red as a heart.

It’s not psychic energy, not the traditional sort that Tsubomi has a little of and her mother (aunt) has even less of and that Shigeo has so much of.

She doesn’t know how she can do this, to call the plants and her roses when she’s trapped in a room that’s supposed to prevent that.

Only blood and her will (you’re just like your mother, Mirai-chan, too willful by far, too determined, and it got my sister killed, but you won’t go the same way as her, I don’t care what I have to do to prevent that) and the cracks that spread across stone and mortar.

Too willful by far, her mother (aunt) always said. Too strong for your own good.

Alarms blare out, fast and violent, shrieking reds and violent slashes of noise as they race through the hallways.

Then-

There’s a man that Shigeo greets with warmth and fondness and-

Shishou.

A man without any psychic energy – stop stressing out my student! He doesn’t have an ounce of power but stands against those who do without even thinking of what might happen because he does.

The world flashes in front of Tsubomi’s eyes, and Shigeo’s Shishou is replaced by a woman standing in front of her as Tsubomi cowered against the wall, the fire only just begun, arms akimbo.

You will not touch my daughter.

And then the world blurs in a haze of fighting, and a man in purple and gold – ostentatious, unnecessary, like so much of Claw truly is – comes at Tsubomi. Tsubomi moves back in a hurry, her shoulder pressing against the blond’s before they have to split.

Shigeo’s fire flickers in despair as exit after exit is cut off before him, and as Tsubomi’s vines scream in agony.

Shigeo’s bonfire leaves him in a rushing river, and Tsubomi’s breath leaves her as she watches it.

It’s not a fire, she realizes then (though what is, then?), and takes a long breath of the air that shines as Shigeo’s Shishou stands and puts himself between Claw and them all without even thinking of it.

Shigeo aches with love and trust and gratitude, as his Shishou stands there, and Tsubomi sees the woman she remembers only barely from her dreams and memory standing there as well.

It’s a tree, tall and strong. Sheltering them all beneath its branches.

In Shigeo it still grows, but in his Shishou it is a thing fully grown. 

Protection, fully realized.

You will not touch my daughter.

You will not touch my student.

And then it ends, with Shigeo’s Shishou annoyed and gesticulating wildly, and the men of Claw with their heads bowed in shame.

Tsubomi lets Ritsu (so strange, to know that the little boy she tutored in English now has psychic energy rushing in his veins) sag against her shoulder, all of them bruised and exhausted to their bones.

Shigeo won’t look at her properly, and the blond – he really does look better without that ridiculous wig – keeps giving her curious looks. She looks at him, one eyebrow raised.

It raises even higher when he chuckles.

(what else did she expect, from someone who’d worn a wig like a haystack?)

Gravity breaks and cracks as the mad man hurls his power like bombs.

Tsubomi calls her vines, anchors them deep, and holds on for dear life.

Her hand snags Shigeo’s collar before he is pulled off the ground, her other arm wrapped around Ritsu’s waist.

Roses dig welts into the blond’s skin, and curl thorns around Shigeo’s Shishou as the plants grab them as well, and Tsubomi bites down on the terrified scream that scratches claws at her throat as a black hole opens up four feet from Shigeo’s feet-

Ozone crackles through the air then, and Tsubomi’s heart stops in her chest.

Red hair, a privately amused smile for Ritsu – and then another one for her when steps in front of the younger Kageyama brother, and it’s a smile that’s slightly cruel – and authority on his shoulders and in his words.

Careless authority.

Then he vanishes, leaving a wisp of his smile behind like the Cheshire Cat.

It’s not over, Tsubomi knows.

And dread like she had not felt since she was five curls up her spine.

(Why didn’t you respond when I called you Tsunami, my daughter? Do you want them to find us? from her mother, white-faced and shaking.

And from the man who stopped her on the street corner: Is your name really Mizuho Tsunami, girl?)

What now?

Tsubomi is trembling, the wind whipping through the tears in her clothes. She is standing with the others – including a strange spirit who seems attached to Shigeo – and looking around at the woods.

What do I do now?

…Go home, I guess.

She thinks of the cold house waiting her, the blood on the walls, the broken furniture. She thinks of her mother (her aunt), defeat on her shoulders. She does not think of what will happen when she arrives.

Tsubomi tells Shigeo’s Shishou that yes, she has a place to go.

But I wouldn’t mind a ride, if at all possible.

There’s a single, solitary rose curled around her neck.

It breathes with her.