#these two desperately need to be away from each other to reevaluate themselves

[the-phoenix-heart]

hang on lemme cook. LEMME COOK

Okay so I've been thinking about the stolitz breakup since I watched it last night and the thing I keep thinking about is Stolas saying, "Blitzo, I think so very highly of you...I didn't realize you think so low of me." It is a painful line read, Bryce Pinkham at his very best. And in a way Stolas is right, the fact that Blitzo thinks Stolas would willfully manipulate and play with Blitzo's emotions is a low opinion to have of him. It also makes sense that he sends Blitzo away because he's yelling at him (even Blitzo's cadence sounds a bit like Stella). However, I think Stolas misunderstands where Blitzo is coming from.

We know Stolas is aware of the power dynamic between them, and specifically the transactional nature, and that he is aware that it is unhealthy. However, I think Stolas only understands that transactional part as the unhealthy bit. Stolas (in "Full Moon" and "Just Look My Way") focuses on the "unspoken contract" and how tethered they are to each other. He thinks by giving Blitzo the crystal and semi-confessing (Stolas never says the words "I love you") it means they will be on even ground and Blitzo won't feel like he has to whore himself out for Stolas's grimoire (something he needs for his business so he can live). Then Blitzo can actually choose to stay with him or not. But he doesn't understand that even without the grimoire there's the inherent power imbalance on the hell hierarchy level.

Stolas says in "Just Look My Way", "I don't care that you're of lower station" and that's because he doesn't. But that doesn't mean Stolas is an imp ally. Stolas has never indicated that Blitzo isn't just the exception. Just in this episode Stolas was seen making life harder for his imp butler, and then there's the scene in "Seeing Stars" where he is holding the imp butler holding the phone and squeezing him when he gets pissed. His interactions with Moxie and Millie also don't really make it seem like he cares that much about them as people. Blitzo isn't wrong when he calls out Stolas's treatment of his butlers, or when he says that Stolas was dismissing him in a way that felt disrespectful. Even him putting his hand in his face feels like how he would dismiss a servant.

Throughout the entire conversation Stolas is very cordial, very genuine, and very respectful of Blitzo's emotions-right up until he takes Blitzo's response as a rejection-but even then Stolas always has the power in the conversation. Even when he is being emotionally vulnerable, he is still the one controlling the conversation. He's the one stressing Blitzo out with it. Even when he gets on his knees to put the crystal on Blitzo's glove he is technically taking the choice away from Blitzo to choose it. And then his reaction to Blitzo thinking it's roleplay is that Blitzo really doesn't want him is to completely shutdown emotionally and not listen to Blitzo.

And Blitzo is not wrong for thinking it's about sex. Half of this is Blitzo convincing himself it's roleplay because he doesn't believe anybody could truly love him, but also when isn't it about sex with Stolas? The only times where it hasn't been was after Ozzie's when Stolas offers Blitzo to come inside (which Blitzo did not believe and did not react well to) and arguably the Harvest Moon Festival where Stolas invites him, which Blitzo honestly could have misconstrued as Stolas wanting to bring his sidepiece with him. You could also make the case for "Seeing Stars" but that episode has them falling back into horny during a mission they are both participating in. And as I pointed out in an earlier post how is Blitzo supposed to realize how highly Stolas views him? Stolas has called Blitzo his "impish plaything" and covered his face at Ozzie's and has generally been condescending to him ("You are so cute when you are serious"). We know that Stolas is desperately in love with Blitzo and would do anything for him, but Blitzo himself has never really gotten that confirmation.

Hell, Blitzo is actively doing what Stolas wanted. His reaction to Stolas's semi-confession by thinking it's roleplay is specifically proof that he does want to keep this up, even if he doesn't realize the feelings behind it. And then later he is specifically trying to have a conversation with Stolas and process what's going on ("Let's go!" As in "let's have this conversation!"). The fact that Stolas sends Blitzo away when he himself starts crying, when Blitzo has been on the verge of tears throughout most of this conversation proves that Stolas is not ready to have this uncomfortable conversation. He was only ready for Blitzo to either accept or reject him, and he thought that their issues would be fixed.

"Blitzo, I think so very highly of you...I didn't realize you think so low of me." No, it's not that he thinks so low of you, it's that he has almost only seen the outrageously horny part of you, that he's more aware of this power dynamic than you, and is rightfully calling you out for how you fumbled this confession. You clearly love Blitzo, you have the right idea, but you still have these inherent biases and are unaware of the power imbalance, and you need to reevaluate some things.

This isn't to absolve Blitzo of the part he played in the breakup, but since Stolas took the initiative and almost always people are more willing to take his side, I feel he needs to be held more accountable.

[j-graysonlibrary]

The Xiang Chronicles: Book Two Chapter 16

Title: The Xiang Chronicles: Book Two

Author: Jay Grayson

Word Count: 98k

Genres: Fantasy, adventure, drama, LGBT+

Available on: my website

Synopsis: With another Xiang in the mix, for the first time in history, Pangu decides to reevaluate his methods and his place in the world. Along with taking his little sister Heidi as his last disciple, he also chooses to take the more political path in his efforts to end the discord throughout the land—particularly within Terra. (And gaining favor from the handsome Lord of Ultimos does not hurt.)

Heidi butts heads with everyone in the group, save Raine, and tensions are higher than ever. There are failed love confessions, in-group fighting, and demons from Kira’s past but that all comes to a head when they meet a servant of Shakti who is more than what she seems.

Could it be that the Mistresses of Shadow are more nuanced than previously believed? Or that the strict dichotomy between light and dark are, perhaps, a touch exaggerated? That and more begin to plague Pangu’s mind and his faith wavers…

Full chapter 16 under the cut

Chapter XVI:

Kira watched as the kids ran about in the back yard. It was far more spacious than the little area out front and, even if it was also in need of repair and maintenance, there was still plenty of flat, even fields for the kids to run. There were six kids total and they all looked under thirteen years old but Kira could not be sure. He was always terrible at guessing ages—especially children’s ages.

Beside him, Raine also stood and observed, not joining in with the play. They occupied the small, wooden porch that was built around the back door and dropped off into a couple of steps. Sometimes, Raine would glance to those stairs and wonder if there was time for him to fix them. He had heard them give quite the groan when stomped over.

But the view out in the yard was too distracting to keep either of their attention on anything else.

Baiya was, of course, a natural with the kids and seemed to know how to talk to each of them, individually, right away. At least one was always hanging from one of his arms, asking to be lifted up. Meanwhile, Pangu was doing his best but Kira kept snickering at the Xiang’s attempts at play.

At some point, he picked up one of the handballs and tossed it across the yard as if playing fetch with a dog. To his credit, however, the kid did run after it and bring it back with an eager expression. Then he floated the ball through the air, getting the majority of the kids to jump up after it.

The chorus of grunting and shouting that grew progressively more frustrated and desperate as Pangu would not just let one of them win was undeniably hilarious to Kira. Baiya stepped in, only giving Pangu a silent look, but it got the point across. Pangu allowed one of the little girls to snatch the ball and acted as if he had been just a little too slow.

Raucous celebration ensued but then all of the other kids started to chase the girl down to retrieve the ball for themselves, prompting Pangu and Baiya to join as well.

Kira leaned against the rail around the porch though not too heavily. He could tell the second he put weight on it that it could fall out from underneath him if he was not careful. “It is hard to imagine you ever being this small.”

Raine glanced down at him and raised his brows. “What?”

“You.” Kira smirked. “I am trying to picture you as one of these kids but I keep seeing a tall child clad in armor in my mind.”

The Kyrie disciple laughed, more than Kira had expected, and even wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I was a baby once, Kira.”

“I know. It is just difficult to wrap my mind around I guess.”  He rested his forearms on the rail, still keeping most of his weight off. “So, when did you leave for the military?”

“About as soon as I could,” Raine responded with a sigh. “I kept trying to leave even before that too.”

“You ran away?” Although Kira already knew the answer to when he became a soldier, this story was new. He perked up.

“Yeah.” Raine smiled as he started to recall the strongest memory—when he got the furthest. “I was about ten at the time… One of the other boys and Ami came with me.” He gestured back to the house. “Well, they followed me really.”

“Did you try to go to the palace and enter the barracks?” Kira snickered.

“No,” he answered but a smile still remained on his lips, “I worried that everyone in Castelle knew me so I wanted to find a new town to sign up with them. I thought I could lie and say I was fifteen since I was tall…”

Kira could not help but burst into laughter at the mental image of a ten year old Raine with his chest puffed out, ready to lie to a stranger so that he could be trained as a soldier. “I could not even imagine you trying something so bold now.”

Raine agreed by shaking his head. “Oh no. I had much unearned confidence as a child. Actually joining the military truly humbled me.”

Kira bet there was still a trace of that wild side somewhere in Raine but, as to not embarrass him, he would not bring it up. He had something far more serious to discuss anyway and he had already been procrastinating as it were.

Still, they both ended up becoming silent for a while as they watched the kids, Baiya, and Pangu play. They had moved on from their impromptu game of tag and had started to play some version of handball where the rules looked pretty loose.

Then Raine said in a sigh, “Part of me wishes I had waited a year or two to join…then maybe when I was being sent all around Kyrie for my active training, I could have run into your barracks.”

Kira wordlessly looked at him, unsure of why that kind of thought entered his mind. It was close to the topic he had been trying to work himself up to address and that close proximity made his heart beat faster.

Raine continued, “But then again, it does feel we were all supposed to meet this way, does it not?”

A lump formed in his throat and Kira had to swallow it down. “I…Raine…I have a question for you.”

The tall man tilted his head to the side. “What is it?”

It was now or never, or so it felt. Kira tried to tell himself that, after the event with his mother, this should be no big spectacular. So he gulped again and began, “Do you remember visiting a border town when you were just starting out? Where a barkeep gave you candy instead of alcohol and you…you met a kid a few years your junior and you gave him the candy?”

Fuzzy images began to dance in Raine’s mind, slowly forming a coherent picture. “I…think so…?”

Kira smiled solemnly. “You told that kid that he should join the military when he was old enough so that he could escape his bad situation.” The hardest part was ahead so he sighed and just said it, “Raine, there is a reason I joined the Kyrie military and not the Terran one.”

Everything clicked into place but, rather than a soft, gentle click, it felt like an awesome crash. Raine’s brows lifted and he felt his jaw start to hang as well. “I told that boy to come find me.”

“You did.”

Raine fought the urge to shake his head aggressively or to pinch himself. Something so serendipitous was impossible, right? At least, highly unlikely. He then asked, “When did you realize it was me?”

Kira’s smile turned sheepish. “Um, well…I sort of knew since I saw you. It is not like you changed much since then and your mannerisms are…unique.”

“But you did not say anything?” his pout, while unintentional, made things harder on Kira.

“Well, there was not really a good time, sorry. It might have been a weird opener when we just met and, after so long, it felt wrong to bring it up.” Kira shrugged. “But, while we are on the topic of things I need to tell you…”

Raine leaned in, holding his breath. He was not sure what to expect but if it was as eye opening as the last reveal then he was not sure how he would handle it.

“I…it was me that was tripping Heidi on the road.” Kira’s shoulders drooped and he sighed as if he had just revealed something that had been weighing him down for ages. “I do not know why I lied about it but I do that sometimes. I just say things I don’t mean.”

It certainly was not what Raine was expecting and he even leaned back but a smile crept onto his face. “Is that all?”

“Yeah, I think so?” Kira chuckled. “I do feel a little better, actually.”

“Maybe you should always tell the truth then?” Raine suggested as his smile became lopsided.

The awkward laugh from the Terran disciple was probably an answer in and of itself. Still, he said, “No promises.”

***

Dinner was not as rowdy as one might expect with a table filled with children but, perhaps because of all the playing, they were all too tired to do anything other than eat. They still rambled with excitement to Ranmu and Ami about their games but a few were already nodding off at the table, ready for bed.

Since the women had worked so hard on the meal, Raine offered to wash all of the dishes. He told Kira to go ahead and go to bed without him since they were given a room to share. Pangu, Heidi, and Baiya had another room and all three of them went up to it after dinner.

Kira was fine with waiting since he was not especially tired but, after a while, he started to get concerned. There were a lot of dishes, yes, but Raine should have been finished by now.

He walked out into the hall and carefully descended the stairs. Like most of the structures in the orphanage, the main stairs needed some upgrading as well.

As he rounded the corner, he nearly ran into a wall. Or, rather, a wall of a body.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked and quirked an eyebrow.

“Shhh,” Baiya shushed and then pointed to the back door.

Kira whispered with a flavor of irritation in his voice. “What is going on?”

“I noticed Heidi get up and leave after Pangu fell asleep. She was acting suspicious all through dinner so I decided to follow her.”

“She went out there?” Kira guessed and also pointed to the door.

Baiya nodded.

They both crept closer until they could hear the muffled words coming from the outside. There were enough cracks in the walls and spaces in the door, caused by old age and weather wear so they could hear a decent amount.

“Thanks for talking to me,” Heidi said, sounding uncharacteristically soft.

“It is not a problem,” Raine responded, “What do you need?”

At the sound of Raine’s voice, Kira pushed himself closer and rested his ear against the wall, almost pushing Baiya to the side. The Agni disciple grumbled and pushed him back, starting a miniature shoving fight but when Heidi spoke again, they both froze and listened harder.

“It is nerve wracking to actually be here, doing this…” she sighed. “But I was talking to your sister today and she gave me the push I needed.” There was a pause before she spoke again, “I like you Raine. Really like you… If you were a man in my town, I would hope that you would ask me on a date and I might even ask you first…So…”

Kira’s heart stopped and he no longer breathed. He could not until he heard Raine’s answer.

“Heidi…” Raine sighed. “I…I do not know what to say.” Was he taken aback? Happy? Confused? Kira could not tell.

“Just tell me your answer. Tell me how you feel…”

There was another sigh. “I am sorry. I am flattered by your feelings—you are a wonderful woman and anyone should be lucky to have you but…I cannot return your affections. My focus is on my duties and…”

“No,” Heidi stopped him. Kira and Baiya both worried she was furious by the response but her next words eased their minds, “You do not have to give me any excuses. I can see that you do not feel the same and that is enough of a reason.”

“I do not wish to upset you…”

“You did not. You were honest, thank you.” Heidi’s voice was closer—so close that Kira and Baiya immediately started to rush for the stairs.

But they were a little too late.

Heidi ran inside and spotted their retreating figures instantly. “What the…?” she hissed under her breath, “Were you two spying?”

“No,” they said in unison and exchanged a look.

Then Baiya elaborated. “Kira was looking for Raine and I followed you because you seemed to be doing something sneaky.”

Heidi threw her arms out and huffed. “Unbelievable. And I am sure you want to make fun of me now, is that it?”

As happy as Kira was that Raine had rejected her, he realized he could not find it in himself to revel in it. Heidi’s face was certainly one of heartbreak and, to be fair, she had done something Kira would not dare to.

Baiya as well. “You are braver than me; I will not make fun of that,” The Agni disciple responded.

Heidi’s posture shifted and she crossed her arms but, somehow, the pose did not strike them as defensive. She blew some hair out of her face as she said, “At least if you confessed, you would not be rejected.”

It was impressive she was still keeping up with that joke even now and, because of that, Baiya started to wonder if, perhaps, she was not kidding. His mind wandered back to earlier in the day, before dinner, when he and Pangu were outside with the children.

After having to coax Pangu into playing fairly with the kids, things had gone much smoother (although the Xiang did have a surprising drive to win, even against mismatched opponents such as ten year olds). When they switched to playing tag, Baiya recalled how Pangu had chased him down and all but tackled him.

In the moment, it had just been fun—plus the kids were howling with laughter so Baiya definitely attributed Pangu playing up the physicality to further their enjoyment. But his hands had lingered, and his smile…

His memory sped up, to the handball game where he returned Pangu’s over the top tag from earlier by grabbing him once he was in possession of the ball. All the children on his “team” cheered him on as he wrapped his arms around the Xiang’s waist, hoisting him off of the ground. It had earned him a sharp jab to the abdomen but, right after, Pangu spun around and apologized.

He was sill snickering, of course, but he patted down the spot of injury and then, their eyes met. Baiya would have loved to have kissed him then—it felt perfect for it, in his gut, but of course he refrained. In his memory, he studied Pangu’s face and started to wonder…perhaps he had been thinking the same thing.

His heart clenched in his chest and he fought for words. It was possible, he admitted internally, but he countered the idea verbally, “You…don’t know that.”

Heidi gave a dry laugh. “I’m pretty sure. Anyway, I would like to go back to bed so I can bury myself in blankets and die a little.”

“That is the spirit,” Kira said and even gave her a pat on the back as they ascended the stairs together. “You are strong enough to get through this. Raine was too tall for you anyway. You would have had to get a stool every time you wished to kiss him.”

Heidi cut her eyes at him but then laughed. “Are you attempting to cheer me up?”

“Never in a million years,” Kira remarked and split from her at the top of the stairs. “Goodnight.”

Baiya snickered under his breath and took his place at Heidi’s side. “He has a weird way of showing it but, yes, he was cheering you up.” Plus, he was probably over the moon with the fact Raine had turned her down though he would not say that.

[nolpat0]

love isn't enough | s. crosby

summary: they've decided to take a break to reevaluate their relationship but when she finally returns his text, things have changed

wc: 1,633

warnings: lots of angst ofc

The rough pad of Sidney's thumb brushes over the soft, smooth skin of her calf, a distracted, subconscious habit of affection he developed over the years he's known her. His coffee-hued eyes watch the flickering images of the daily news play across the large-screened TV, a crease forming between his dark brows as he drinks in the information humming in the background. Subconsciously, the flat of his palm presses harder into the unblemished flesh of her legs, prompting her watchful gaze to linger on his illuminated side profile in silent question. He's lost in the depths of his thoughts; his mind rolling around a specific worry. She wonders in hidden curiosity what's prompted the far-away look etched onto his strong features, and what it might be.

"Sidney?" she calls softly, her tone dulcet and calming, the edge of her fingers cascading over the broad flat of his shoulders, catching his attention.

His cinnamon-colored eyes burn into hers with a strange intensity that she's unused to. The edges of her chapped lips twitch as her mind snags on the intensity burning in his irises and what it means. Sidney's pink lips part, as if he's trying to form the words on his tongue and actually breath them to life. She can sense the wheels turning behind the gleam of his eyes, and it sets her nerves on edge, the soft material of his shirt sliding against her thighs as she props herself up, as if physically preparing for whatever he's about to confess.

"Is this it?" he breathes the words out slowly as if testing the way the syllables battle against the hum of the forgotten TV. The taught muscles of her shoulders drop in relaxation as her delicate, sleepy features twitch in a flicker of confusion.

"Is what it?" Sidney watches with a heavy expression as the edges of her lips curl into a confused, genuine smile that she usually gives him whenever his low, heavy-accented mumbles reach her.

Swallowing the sudden lump formed in his throat, Sidney steels himself, the tightening flicker in his strong jaw sending a new wave of apprehension through her tensed, upright body. The soft tips of her fingers fall from the thick material of his gray t-shirt and he feels the absence of her warmth-filled touch like an ache that's settled into the marrow of his bones. But he forces the sharp-edged words from his tight throat.

"Us. Are we gonna pretend that something isn't wrong here?" as soon as the words hit the air, Sidney knows they sound wrong; a cruel twist to the intended soft lilt of guilt. He's trying to plead with her, beg her to understand they want different things and the divergence is increasingly clear in every one of their late, star-lit, wine-fueled conversations. Sidney wants her to understand what he's saying, but the syllables rearranged themselves, sketching him the antagonist. The shock and waver of her easy expression rip through the soft tissue of his heart and burrows deep.

"I can't pretend if I don't know what's wrong, Sidney."

Her words are soft, a raw tenderness that almost has him flinching back, knowing he doesn't deserve the helpless look smoothing over her features or her permissive tone. She's giving him a chance to go back and restart his confession.

So he slides his hands against the smooth skin of her thighs, rough palms brushing against the worn fabric of his t-shirt that's draped over her figure until the curve of his fingers fits over hers. His dark eyes bore into hers, the quiver of his brows telling her how much he's hating the conversation.

"We want different things," he says firmly, his full lips drawn in a tight line. "Eventually," a whisper of a loose breath through teeth as he pulls together every loose, weakened string of himself and yanking them together so he can give her the graciousness of a soft, mutual goodbye. ".. we would've grown apart. Maybe we just need to step back and evaluate what we want in life outside of each other, and then see if we can do those things together."

She takes in the serious, unrelenting tone of his firmly confident words, and understands this is what he must've whispered to himself over and over, selecting and choosing words to hand to her; to let her down easy. Before she gives in to the request, she allows her silver-lined eyes to drink in the curve of his full lips, the gleam of his caramel-hued eyes, the unruly angles of his midnight locks, and the sharp lines of his strong features. She quietly places each memorization in a specific category in her mind; saving the last, unblemished memory of her Sidney.

"Do you want that, Sidney?"

Another sharp whistle of his breath sounds as his chest contracts painfully, the arrow of her permissiveness twisting deeper, searing apart nerves and blood vessels. It's a necessary wound- for survival- but he wonders if it'll scar permanently and leave a sour taste between his molars and tongue. But he hates the ceaseless, aching feeling, the sorrowfully understanding look she's wearing, and the fact he has to do this.

"It'll only be a step back," he quickly assures, fingers tightening against the joints of hers, suddenly fearful that he won't know how to sleep between the cold sheets without the press of her cheek against his bare chest or her scent lingering in the gray bedding. Or that he'll find himself lost in the rows of the grocery store without the messy scrawl of her hand on brightly colored sticky notes clasped in his fist. The breath in his lungs is stolen at the future now clearly outlined; devoid of her silvery laughter and the wink of her smiling eyes.

"Step back?" she retracts slowly, the bones of her fingers sliding from his as she physically recoils at the words, brow creased in concern. "What does that even mean, Sid?"

"Just a few weeks- not even," his words curl into a panicked octave of heartache, the tips of his lashes beaded with unshed, salty tears.

"Weeks?"

Sidney hears the hopelessness laced in her disbelieving tone, and his breath hitches, now returned with a bruising weight as he feels the situation spin wildly out of his control. He watches the emotions flit across her face, the understanding ruining the last ruins of composure she has, releasing the tears she's fighting in minuscule rivers down her flushed cheeks.

"If you think it's best," she whispers, the subdued decibels yanking savagely at the carefully replaced strings of himself, threatening to break. Her silver-lined eyes slide to meet his, hardened and determined. "Maybe it'll be good."

Sidney nods quickly, his thumbs returning to their habitual place on the tops of her thighs, a comforting motion that they understand is a final goodbye. His soft lips press against the crown of her head, a proclamation of his love whispered in her hair, too quiet for her ears to pick up as he pulls away.

"Two weeks, okay?" he promises, the gravel lilt to his voice tenderly soft.

"Two weeks."

———

The unforgivingly promised timeline of their reunion expires sourly, the date pushed back in an anxiously guilty voicemail left on her phone in the early morning of the Sunday, explaining how even though Sidney detested the eerie silence that seeped into his apartment without her off-key humming, he needed to know she wasn't conforming to his futuristic dreams for the sake of not losing him. So she settled into the itchy, unfamiliar fabric of her couch, stretching out her legs, frowning at the absence of Sidney's fingertips, and packed her emotions in a flimsy cardboard box and hid it in the back of her closet in her mind, sending the dark-haired man a simple text allowing him his request and agreeing that maybe she did need to find out her own wishes.

———

He pressed the screen of his phone to the couch, red-rimmed eyes staring in an empty reverie at the blank screen, the familiar press of heartbreak on his sternum knotted his shoulders and ached in his rough palms. In these moments, he craved her presence; aching for her mid-night kisses against his temple when she woke up, or the scuff of her feet against the hard-wood as she moved down the hall, the tilt of her head as she sang along to the music she played when they cooked. In these moments, when he felt as if the very bones of his ribs were caving in and piercing his shattered heart, he wanted the press of her palm in his or the comfort of her words. But now, Sidney can't feel the warmth buzzing in his hands from her touch or the slide of her skin against his and he feels lost, disoriented without the steadiness of her unconditional love. He wonders what moment over the tedious course of two months was the one where he lost her.

His dark eyes flicker to the flipped-over phone laying on the couch's soft surface, the burn against his cornea's too much for him to fight, and he allows the salty flow of his tears to bring him to his knees. A shaky, broken breath surpasses his chapped lips as his lashes brush his cheek, guarding himself against the text of betrayal lingering on his phone. He tries to rid his mind of the memorized line of text, but the words cling to him, refusing to let him slip away from his misery.

You were right, Sidney. We don't want the same things, and sometimes, even love isn't enough.

Sidney desperately wished it wasn't true, and that they both ended up being right, but he couldn't run from the truth. Sometimes, love really wasn't enough.

[brahkest-fr]

Fuckin uhhh Taro musings and Janus is there

Taro flicked his tail, brushing gently against Janus’ leg who was at the moment spacing out over a stack of dishes messily smeared with this night’s takeout dinner.

“Here I’ll wash those,” he grabbed the stack and moved over to the sink.

His ivory hair was down and ruffled as was its usual state after a night of drinking and going out on the town in drag. He grabbed it up in a clean, tight bun and tied it back, a few strands hanging down the sides of his face. He adjusted his tube dress that was probably a little too short and not so comfortable for chores. He let the sink run and fill up, soapy water engulfing his wrists. He looked back at Janus who simply stood staring with his usual sparkling eyes that were now just a bit hazy with weariness.

Taro uttered a low laugh, “Hah, still buzzed, Janus? I told you, you couldn’t handle it.”

“Whatever grandpa,” he snapped up, “I’m not the one who almost fell down the stairs tonight sober,” he sneered, taking the clip on earrings out of his ear.

Taro’s lipstick stained mouth turned down as he narrowed his eyes, “Hmph, they're new heels and was breaking them in.”

“By breaking your ass?” Janus bent over and held his back in mock pain.

Taro whipped his arm and splashed Janus who scurried away beyond the kitchen into the adjacent living room. He toppled on the couch and groaned after a few snickers at Taro’s direction. The couch was cozy and he was a little groggy from their night out so he lounged, heavy and eyes fluttering, but the itch from his fishnets was nagging. He sluggishly sat up, reaching up his dress to unhook the garters holding up the stockings. He slipped them off and threw them on the coffee table, feeling relieved. After some minutes, Taro strode over with his purse, plopping down on a leather recliner. He undid his hair, letting it fall to his shoulders again and took out a packet of makeup wipes. He snagged a few then threw it to Janus who caught it with some difficulty.

Taro wiped his face, blush and dark eyeliner staining the cloth. He looked to Janus, “You going home or staying here?”

“Do you want me to stay?”

Taro was midway undoing an earring before pausing, “Why do you always answer like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like that! With questions.”

Janus smiled, “I like putting you on the spot.”

“Tch.” Taro gingerly placed his earrings on the table and combed his hair with finely manicured claws dotted with tiny pink petals.

Janus leaned in, half an eye smeared with mascara, smug as ever, “You didn’t answer me.”

Taro squinted, brow raised. Anyone else would have immediately received a sharp hook to the jaw for such brashness but it was never like that with Janus. Maybe a long time ago when they first met and Taro’s opinion of the fae was pond scum adjacent. Even then he couldn’t help but avoid punishing Janus for his impetuosity. He was simply too useful and good at his job.

-

That’s what he would tell himself anyway, as he sat irate in meetings with his officers who would complain about the brash young fae that threw his weight around as if he were a breed larger. Each request to restrain Janus was met with excuses from Taro, many of which were legitimate but others being deeply rooted attempts to disguise his favoritism. It didn’t fool anyone though and no one was surprised a sentimental Taro attached himself to someone else after his wife had left so suddenly. He was never really sure if Janus acted as some substitute for Mellow who was in many ways like him: loud and opinionated and a thorn in his side. The difference was Janus was here. And she was not.

He often tried to suppress those thoughts which he felt were more selfish than genuine. A piece of his life’s puzzle had long since been missing and for some time, Janus felt too lopsided and out of place to fit. He wracked with the idea that Janus could be anything more than a particularly talented goon but that was quickly drowned out by the many imaginings of how they could be something together. As years passed, Taro and Janus saw each other less as boss and goon and more as close friends. Taro persistently kept up appearances but his favoritism would often slip which, in the beginning, surprised Janus who wasn’t very well versed in reading Taro’s stone faced demeanor. Nowadays, he could read him like a book. It gave Taro a sense of weakness, being figured out so easily, but also a sense of comfort. He wanted someone to know him again. It was lonely, being at the top of the world.

Things became harder when Rose hatched. Taro was so desperate to keep what little shred of solace he had with Janus that used Rose to do it. He regretted it deeply but the damage was done. Taro made it his mission to make himself integral to their lives, in some part to atone for his actions and another to gain the sense of family that he longed for. He knew it was selfish and so did Janus but the fae never pushed him away or rejected the help. Taro felt good knowing Janus needed him but the guilt if it all reminded him that it was his fault in the first place. It was wrong of him to throw himself into their lives like a train without brakes but he always gave Janus the opportunity to refuse. He hoped at least, Janus knew that. It was never something the two talked about, always concerning themselves with Rose this and Rose that. Maybe they just avoided conflicting for her sake.

Taro focused much of his attention on Rose to compensate for the emotions running wild in his gut. It was easy to lose himself in the care of a hatchling. He was familiar with the motions, having taken the late night responsibilities of caring for his own kids when Mellow went to sleep. Rose was much like them in the way that the Icewarden was like the Flamecaller. She screamed a lot, bit anything within reach, and persistently tried to rip his whiskers off. He simply could not be anymore proud of the little girl with murder in her eyes laced with a softness reserved for only those closest. He felt himself go back in time with her, back to a period where he was a father and was allowed to be kind and open and vulnerable. But at the same time, she was like sandpaper: chaffing his conscience in painful ways that made him regret being a part of anything at all and yet... smoothed out all the hard edges he built up to protect himself.

He wasn’t keen on admitting it but Rose was everything he wanted in a child. Unlike his own, she was raised in the mob life, trained to defend herself and strike back with a ferocity not unlike his own. She grew up to be crude and calculated despite the cutesy exterior. Taro’s idea of family was twisted and warped by his chosen life path but he felt good - enabled by Rose and Janus, both of whom were very familiar with this unconventional lifestyle. They were the things Mellow and his children weren’t: warm and loving but violent and realistic, tempered by the brutal streets of Hewn City. Mellow... she dreamed of this life but when it came down to it, she couldn’t stay. The stars in her eyes faded once she finally reached the peak of the city’s high rises and looked down on everything she had to crush to get there. So, one day, she left with the children to reevaluate her life and Taro, miserable but understanding, let her. Rose and Janus however? They wouldn’t leave him. That particular thought always hit him like a kick to the gut.

Selfish.

He wasn't supposed to have this slice of happiness but he carved it out all the same with a confidence that disguised pained hesitation.

The first time Taro “mentioned” his feelings to Janus was a cold night on the balcony of his apartment. It was snowing that night and Janus busied himself to catching snowflakes on his tongue that he remarked tasted different than the ones back in Ice. Taro couldn’t be bothered to decipher the intricacies of frozen water and Janus noticed. He leaned on the railing beside Taro and bumped an elbow to his side.

“You alright man? Been kinda spacey today.”

Taro stared out into the heart of Hewn City, mindlessly following cars as they zipped around the grid of streets below. His whiskers drooped ever so slightly, a motion unnoticeable to anyone else but present company, as he mouthed a few nothings then spoke, “Of course I am.”

Janus pursed his lips, “Uh huh. Come on, Taro, you should know by now I’m not stupid.”

Like a book, Taro thought.

“Seriously, Taro. What’s up?”

Taro shifted on the railing, turning around to lean back against it, face to the sky. Snow fluttered down softly, landing on his face where they melted instantly from the flush of heat rising to his cheeks. Janus watched curiously as Taro tilted his head in his direction but just enough to keep his eyes out of full view.

He mumbled, “Been thinking about us.”

Janus perked his ears, “Us? What about us?”

Taro gingerly inched his tufted tail towards Janus’ and it lingered there, longer than it usually did. Janus was all too familiar with Taro’s little mannerisms, slight touches and quirks that he came to learn were the ways he preferred to communicate. It was easier than words for him despite how articulate the imp was normally. In many ways, Taro was as poor at talking about his feelings as Janus was at understanding them but in that moment on the balcony he understood. Taro didn’t look his way but continued hanging his head back, snow catching on the loose strands of hair sticking out of his ponytail. It was a pleasant moment the two cherished in silence, the feeling of mutual understanding as a warm embrace against the chill. Janus didn’t move a muscle in fear of Taro retracting and looked towards the sliding door of the apartment. Rose was inside on the couch, sharpening one of her many knives and oblivious to the two outside.

Janus halfheartedly smiled, not quite sure if he was doing it right, “I getcha.”

“Does it bother you?” Taro’s deep voice was barely audible.

“No, it’s just,” Janus scrunched his face, “I guess I don’t know how to feel about it yet. Sorry if I look weird, I’m just trying to figure it out. You know how it is.”

Taro inched closer, “I know. I just figured I should say something.” He gestured vaguely, “In some...way, before, you know, I die or something.”

“Pff, you’re not that old.”

“I could get assassinated you know. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Janus paused for a serious moment then quipped, “Rose does really like your apartment...”

Taro slapped his tail against Janus’ leg and he jumped away laughing. Times like this would occur over and over again as Taro became more comfortable with his little visions of domestic life with Janus and Rose. He gave away little signs and signals of his affection even if Janus did not always reciprocate, which was fine with him. He was simply happy being allowed to indulge in such gestures, only saddened when he was too embarrassed to be himself in front of Rose who had a rather big mouth and made it obvious that the two were being mushy gushy old men. It was funny how Taro could beat a dragon near to death in his office and order Rose to giddily mop up the blood but shirked at the idea of being too intimate with Janus. Part of him didn’t want to push the fae and another wanted to keep up appearances even though he could hardly care at this point and violently made sure no one else did either. He could be patient though. Janus was perpetually trying to figure himself out and Taro was happy to let him. He had an entire lifetime of coming to terms with his own feelings and wanted to afford Janus the same luxury.

-

Taro twirled a hair around a finger as he crossed his legs and lounged back. He cocked his head in mock thought, eyeing nothing in particular about the living room. Janus' shiny dress creaked and crinkled as he leaned in closer, elbows on the cusp in his knees.

"Come on man, I'm running out of leg here."

Taro smiled warmly, "Stay. Please."

“FINALLY,” he flopped back and slouched, “I’m going to bed. All my shit’s back at my place so gimme one of your shirts because there’s no way I’m sleeping in this.”

“I’ll give you that ‘Foxy Grandpa’ one Rose gave me for my birthday.”

“On second thought, maybe I'll stay in the dress.”

[grasslandgirl]

im distracting myself from the impending doom of a six month hiatus and everything that... happened in MAG160 by thinking about all the Wonderful possibilities for jonmartin dynamics post-159 because I’m a sucker for pining and minor miscommunications and dumb fanfic tropes and I’m dragging all of you along on this ride with me!

1) They’re Both Just Chill: there’s no miscommunications, no misunderstandings. despite what peter said about them not knowing each other super well (and maybe he raised some valid points, despite being an asshole) they DO know each other well enough and had a deep enough connection during the look at me/ i see you, jon scene that they both just (for lack of a better word) Know. they look into each other’s eyes in the middle of the Lonely and they see the love there, and the hurt and the pain and the anger and everything, but they do see the love. and they recognize that, oh, we’ve been so dumb this entire time. and there’s no big Talk, no awkward stumbling around the question, they just move forward from jon and martin to jon-and-martin because they’ve wasted enough time already, haven’t they? they can’t afford to waste any more time at this point, and hey. they kind of have bigger problems going on, right?

2) I Really Loved You, You Know: ok so this one i’ve seen in quite a few fanfics and speculative posts about this one, and jon misconstruing how martin uses the past tense when talking to him in the Lonely, and can i just say....... it’s very good. you have jon, who’s been desperately trying to reconnect with people, especially martin, this entire season, who dives headfirst into the Lonely after him, and maybe he heard martin’s tape with elias from the end of s3, maybe he knows about martin’s feelings for him, maybe he at least suspects, and maybe he doesn’t; but the point of the matter is that he goes into the Lonely after martin because jon’s in love with him and i think we can mostly all agree that at least by MAG159 (and we can argue about WHEN he realizes it, later) jon is aware of his own feelings for martin. but he follows the man he loves, and he finds him, and he’s begging him to follow him out of the lonely, to come with him, and martin tells him that he loved him. really loved him. loved him, as in past tense. which, like, if you think about it? that’s SO heartbreaking. but jon keeps after him ANYWAY, and he breaks martin out of the Lonely’s grasp and they walk out side by side and then you’re left with jon, who is terrified on SO many different levels, and thinks that he failed, again. that he was too late with martin, too late to be his friend, too late to save him from Peter, and too late to love him, and he saved him, he did it, but it’s still heartbreaking, right? and juxtapose that with martin, who’s just been literally pulled out of his own loneliness by the man he’s been in love with for three years, and he told him he LOVED him and jon Didn’t Respond. and like? all the hurt and the pining and the trying to take care of each other despite everything and despite your own hurt that can happen there? SUPER good

3) Clueless Jon Doesn’t Know He Has A Boyfriend: this one kind of crosses over with #2 but it’s a little lighter and a little more fun. essentially you have martin, who says he loves jon and assumes jon heard his tape with elias where he outed martin entirely and sees jon come into the lonely to save him and hugs jon while crying when he comes to his senses and walks out of the lonely hand in hand with jon and thinks, quite reasonably, that ok, they’re dating now. and you have martin “caretaker” blackwood who’s worrying over jon and taking care of him and letting jon take care of him, and making him eat and they do all this vaguely date-y stuff because the world is kind of maybe ending, but hey! martin’s in love and hes going to enjoy it goddamnit. but then one day our beloved archivist, jon “emotionally obtuse” sims, has nearly a breakdown and he starts rambling on about how he’s in love with martin and he’s sorry and he wants there to be something between them and how he doesn’t want to change anything and this is terrible timing and he doesn’t even Know if martin feels the same way but he needed to get this off his chest etc etc etc and martin’s just like “i thought. i thought we were ALREADY dating.” which is.... hysterical if you ask me

4) Jonathan “Fuck The Lonely” Sims: kind of the opposite of the last two, in which jon is LESS of a moron than anyone expected! jon “the archivist” sims actually... thinks! he listens to the tape of elias and martin from MAG118 and reevaluates every interaction he ever had w martin after he wakes up from his coma and realizes that martin’s in love with him, and not only that, but HE’S in love with MARTIN, but has no way of communicating that to him until 154 and that whole conversation is just jon trying (and failing) to say “i love you. i love you and i know you love me and lets just say fuck this place and go. please lets just go the two of us, say you’ll come with me. i love you.” and martin. doesn’t understand. but then 159 happens and jon follows and they have That Moment and jon thinks that Finally they’re on the same page and meanwhile you have martin, who’s PEAK in his pining time, fresh out of a good year of self isolation and pure loneliness and needs a while to pull away from Forsaken and thinks that he’s alone in his pining after jon, because jon never said anything about the tape with elias, or martin saying he loved him in the lonely, and is completely clueless to the fact that jon thinks theyre straight up dating and are just taking it Slow. and then one day jon is like “hey ready for our date later” (they had dinner plans or smth but this is the first time he outrightly calls it a Date) or he kisses martin briefly on the forehead or cheek or smth and martin is like “WHAT IS GOING ON” and jon is just. baffled cause he’s not used to being the oblivious one in the relationship

5) Just Full On Pining Hours: theres some crossover here with both #2 and #4, but specifically this one is where BOTH jon and martin are full on in love and are idiots and think that the other person Doesn’t Love Them Back :( possibly featuring: jon focusing on the past tense of “i really lovED you, you know,” martin comparing jon going into the lonely to save him to jon going into the buried to save daisy/ cutting the bullet out of her leg to save melanie from the slaughter, jon being dumb and thinking all the statements he’s heard about martin’s “feelings” are elaborations/inaccurate/only in the past/etc, martin being so stuck in the lonely he pulls away from jon on instinct, jon caught up on what peter said about them not really knowing each other and MAD second guessing himself and questioning what his feelings for martin are really based on, both martin and jon throwing themselves MAJOR pity parties about falling to the power of the eye/the lonely respectively, jon going into “im a monster and im the worst and ive lost my humanity” mode and thinking he’s not Worthy of being with martin in the first place, martin being haunted by his time with peter and the lonely and keep falling back into the habit of pushing people (jon) away “for their own good,” etc etc etc etc! just a lot of sad pining hours bc these guys have been through a LOT and it’s hard to just drop straight into a healthy relationship (or Any relationship) when there’s so much baggage and history there in between

6) Run Away With Me, by Carly Rae Jepsen: I said what I said. i want them to be happy and so what if they run away and blind themselves and leave the archives and live in some house in another continent and never think about any of the entities again? i get to make the rules, its my fantasy au world and jonny can’t do anything to hurt them here

[annawoodhull]

Ben + Abigail 24 for the kiss prompt

This is probably much more than what you wanted, but what can I say? My babes inspire me 😆

#24 in danger

For anyone who knew Abigail Williams and her misadventures, the knowledge of her finding herself in trouble wasn’t much of a surprise. It wasn’t that she actively sought it out - though some might argue that enlisting in the Continental Army disguised as a man contradicted that statement - somehow trouble just always found her. (Okay, she accepted part of the blame for that, but many of those instances were circumstantial. She bore the healing bruises to prove it).

She had a long and busy schedule working alongside Anderson in the infirmary tent - that was until she had been recruited at random with a few select soldiers for a covert mission. She had been in no position to refuse, especially given the precarious situation in the camp already. With the immediacy of the officer’s orders, she’d asked Anderson to tell Caleb what happened if he came looking for her, which he often did (most likely at Ben’s insistence but out of his own concern as well as her friend).

The mission was simple. Go to the British hideout, fuck with their supplies, and get out. According to the scouts, the place appeared to be uninhabited for the past few days, which increased the likelihood of success. Still, Abigail held a healthy dose of skepticism but did as she was told.

Dressed in civilian clothing, Abigail plus four other men approached the hideout. The hair at the back of her stood on end. She had a bad feeling about it, but when the other men trudged along ahead of her, she had no choice but to follow, especially when their crude taunts about her hesitation irritated her into action.

They had managed to destroy a good bit of supplies that they couldn’t carry back to base on their person when they heard the first gunshot. Everyone froze before they hastily pulled out their own weapons and readied themselves. The next shot was even closer, shattering the window and hitting one of the men directly in the temple. He dropped to the ground, dead. The others, faces growing pale, finished off readying their weapons and made a quick strategy of what to do next.

Another bullet shot from the opposite end of the building, nearly shooting straight through like the previous shot. Splintering wood and a puff of smoke prompted Abigail to move further away. It was apparent to her that they were quickly becoming surrounded.

Needing to see just how poorly their odds were, one of the men peeked out of the shattered window and ducked just in time to miss another bullet, just barely. “There’s three of ‘em at the front!” he hissed. “No telling how many are at the rear.”

“There’s no way for us to get out,” said another, “unless one of us is willing to play decoy.”

No one said a word as yet another bullet pierced the building, making them all duck and reevaluate their strategy.

Really, there was only but one choice. Abigail eyed the rear door grimly. “Someone's got to go out the back, draw them away from the front. If we’re not completely surrounded that is.”

“And who’s going to do that, you?” another soldier asked. Judging from his tone, he had no intention of setting himself up as bait. And looking at the other surviving soldiers’ expressions, they were of the same mind.

Biting back a string of curses, Abigail adjusted her haunches. “Apparently, so. Give me your gun.” She already had the one but knew most likely she needed another. Seeing as how none of the others were willing, her request was met with immediacy. If it were any other circumstance, she would have laughed. She was close to it now and quickly choked it down.

She rose only enough to hazard a quick glance out the back window. There wasn’t anyone stationed at the rear, so whoever gave the shot must have gone to the front. Not counting her chickens before they hatched, she adjusted her grip on each gun, took a breath. She heard the discussion among the remaining men behind her. Let them talk it out about who would go out first after she lured them away.

She could just imagine Ben’s face if he could just see her now, lips pressed together and eyebrows furrowed in a protective fury. Even a furious Ben Tallmadge was enough to bring her a sense of calm. Thinking of him, she cautiously opened the backdoor.

When no immediate fire came, she quickly slipped out and firmly pressed herself against the wall. Heart pounding inside her chest, she took a quick glance around the corner and just as quickly pulled back. Three redcoats. One on horseback and the other on foot. Shite, she thought and tried to think quickly.

She ran to the bushes and took refuge in the thick foliage. If she could move in close enough without being detected, she could take a shot at them and risk having them chase her down so the others could escape and help her. Most likely, they would just escape, but she couldn’t let herself think about that right now.

Moving slowly, she avoided crunching leaves and snapping twigs as much as she could as she maneuvered towards the front of the house. When she was on their side, she crouched as low as she could, opting not to lie on her belly since she knew she would have to run as soon as she fired. Several yards away but still too close for comfort, she brought both guns in front of her and aimed at the two redcoats standing near the entrance. That was her best chance.

She’d aimed for their backs, but when she finally fired, one shot went wide and the other struck one of the redcoats in the back of the leg. He cried out and crumbled to the ground. The redcoat still standing jerked around and shouted at the one on horseback, gesturing in direction from the smoke of her gun’s discharge.

Cursing again, Abigail leapt to her feet and took cover behind a large oak tree as the two redcoats returned fire. She didn’t dare engage it when multiple bullets hammered at the oak tree. Only when there was a brief reprieve, did she poke her head out, take a shot, and quickly withdrew back behind the oak tree. She had no idea if her bullet hit anything. Her eyes were watering from the smoke and the stench of gunpowder.

When there was another lully, she attempted to aim another shot when a bullet struck her shoulder, causing her to drop the gun. Goddammit, she winced but didn’t dare move. If she bent to get the gun, she was opening herself to being shot again. If she dared to run, she risked being shut again. She was a sitting duck. And meanwhile those three soldiers were hiding inside the building as safe as they could be. If she hadn’t been stuck behind the tree, she would’ve been sorely tempted to shoot them herself, preferably in the kneecaps.

Then there were more shouts coming from the distance and more gunfire was being exchanged, this time, not in her direction. Panting, she risked a look around the tree and saw more men coming around the corner, dressed in civilian clothing. She couldn’t tell whether it was the soldiers she was sent with or someone else, but she didn’t have the luxury of time to figure it out.

She pushed herself forcibly away from the oak and took off but not before sending a series of shots in the directions of the redcoats. Not stopping to see whether or not any of her bullets struck home, she ran, adrenaline taking over even as the dull throbbing in her wounded shoulder faded into the background.

Then her foot caught over a protruding tree root. She fell to the ground and kept on rolling and rolling until she was lying flat on her back, staring up at the blue sky above her, not a cloud in sight.

A familiar exhaustion settling over her, the pounding pain in her shoulder taking precedence over everything else. She didn’t have the energy to move, instead trying to focus on catching her breath. She wasn’t even aware that the gunfire had stopped.

A rustle of leaves and rushing over approaching movement should have alarmed her, but she was too tired to do anything but lie there. If she were going to get kidnapped, it might as well happen.

Suddenly, her vision was filled with the face of an ashen faced, frightened Benjamin Tallmadge. She was so stunned she was unable to blink for fear if she did he would disappear.

It was only when her eyes threatened to water did she finally blink. She inhaled at the same moment as he exhaled sharply, his body slumped in immense relief. He barely managed to catch himself from falling on top of her.

Before she knew it, Ben’s mouth was firmly on hers. The feeling of his lips against hers quickly awakened her sense of awareness, and she found herself kissing him back. The moment she reached up and to draw him closer, she heard him exhale shakily against her mouth before kissing her with more desperation than before.

Trembling and lightheaded, she matched his desperation with her own, using up every last ounce of energy putting it into the kiss. Only when he felt her hold loosening on him did he draw back. He peppered several urgent kisses along her face. Abigail shut her eyes and savored it.

“When I didn’t see you with the others, I thought…” Ben murmured against her forehead. “And then Caleb saw someone go down…”

“Caleb’s here?” she asked, surprised.

She felt him nod. “The minute he went to check on you and Anderson passed along your message, he came to me. I’m going to find the officer in charge of this and deal with this. Are you hurt?”

She was about to say no when her shoulder throbbed in protest. “I think I was shot.” It was a statement, but her tone made it sound like it was a question.

He pulled back and asked urgently, “Where?”

“Shoulder,” she murmured, wincing as he immediately hauled her into a sitting position, though he was careful not to jostle her too much even in his haste. “Not sure if it went clean through, if it’s still in there, or if it’s just a graze. Didn’t get a chance to look.”

She heard him mutter an oath when he looked at it. It was most likely covered in dirt from her fall. Fortunately, her fall had landed her near a small ravine so Ben was able to guide her over and wash it out, wincing and apologizing for any sign of discomfort she must’ve shown.

The rudimentary bandage to her wound consisted of a torn strip from Ben’s shirt. She had argued with him against it, but he had already done it and applied to her without a second thought. It was the best they could do until they made it back to camp.

“So who’s idea was it for you to act as bait?” he inquired. His tone was calm and sounded almost casual, but Abigail knew better.

She sighed, too tired to attempt sounding defensive. “No one else wanted to do it, not after the first shot.”

Ben clenched his jaw. “I’ll deal with that, too.”

Making sure they weren’t being observed, Abigail pressed another kiss to his mouth, smiling a little when she felt him relax a little, although not by much. “I’ll be okay.”

“You say that,” Ben murmured. “But I still don’t like it when you’re hurt.”

Send me a number and I’ll write a kiss!

[leiascully]

Fic:  Baseball Metaphors (14/15?)

Part One  |  Part Two  |  Part Three |  Part Four |  Part Five |  Part Six |  Part Seven |  Part Eight |  Part Nine  |   Part Ten  |  Part Eleven  |  Part Twelve | Part Thirteen

NSFW.   Enjoy.  (For the non-baseball types, a grand slam is when the bases are loaded, meaning there’s a runner on every one, and the batter hits a home run, so four people score.  (this is not a fourgy fic))

They almost make love in the bathtub (he wants to think that they almost fuck, but it's all too tender for that, after their confessions).  The water bears up both their bodies so that they exist in a state of half-weightless grace, her hips cantilevered over his, his arms pressing her closer.  The only gravity is their two hearts pulling together.  The water on their skin seals every gap between them.  Her mouth hovers over his, wavering back and forth in a holding pattern.  They've kissed once already.  If they kiss again, it will be the end of something precious.  Something new and glorious will rise from the ashes of what was, but that doesn't mean that they won't, for a moment, mourn what they're losing.  

Her breath puffs against his lips and washes softly over his face, evenly at first and then faster.  The tide is rising inside them both, love and lust welling up from a place so deep they've both sublimated it for years.  Secret compartments under the floorboards of their souls.  Smuggler's habits ingrained so deep they've hypnotised themselves into forgetting the cargo they carried.  Once they crack the seal, there'll be no going back.  And there's treasure inside, oh yes, treasure beyond reckoning.  All the same, that life will be over, and oh, they have loved it and fought for it and framed out a space for themselves that was no one else's.  

The yearning swells inside him until he can't bear it.  Scully makes a quiet desperate noise and her mouth descends over his.  They go up in flames, a phoenix formed from two hearts.  He's half-surprised that the bathwater doesn't simmer around them.  Their hands slide over each other, remapping familiar territory in this new context.  This time, she isn't concerned with where he hurts.  He isn't searching for evidence of wrongdoing.  They're reevaluating each other's bodies as sites of worship, consecrating their former scars with pleasure.  She molds him anew out of the clay of his flesh, her deft little hands shaping him into a finer version of himself.  And all the while, their mouths move over and over each other, lips and teeth and tongues in delicious juxtaposition.  

"We have to get out," he whispers against the corner of her mouth.  "If we do this here, there will be water everywhere and I didn't see a Slippery When Wet sign anywhere, so there's nothing to protect us."

"Wouldn't that be the way it happened?" she murmurs back.  

"Finally, finally, the rapture comes," he says as she raises her head, "and one of us breaks a leg slipping on your tile or the landlord starts complaining about the flood or Jesus himself shows up to scold us."

"Is that what the rapture is?" she asks, wedging her way out of the tub like an intrepid climber.   She reaches for a towel and starts to dry herself.  

"I have to confess I don't know much about Jesus," he tells her, sitting up.  His erection juts out of the water like a submarine breaching.  Scully reaches into the tub and pulls the plug from the drain, letting her fingers trail over his body as she straightens up.  The water gurgles away, leaving him covered in stray clots of suds.  He splashes the dregs over himself until he's reasonably soap-free and levers himself up with both arms.  Scully hands him a towel.  He rubs himself down.  She watches him appreciatively.  He reaches over her to hang the towel, not quite pinning her between his body and the wall, watching her eyes for any trace of reluctance.  She just blinks approvingly at him; blue means go.

"I thought I'd carry you over the threshold," he says with studied casualness.  Scully deserves to be swept off her feet, but her fight instinct is well-honed at this point.  

"I'm afraid to tell you we're not in a fit state to leave the house," she says.

"Your bedroom has a threshold," he says.  "I thought I'd train up to the front door."

"How unexpectedly wise," she says, hooking an elbow around his neck.  

"I have my moments," he says, bending to slip his arms under her knees and her back, lifting from the legs as he hefts her.  He likes the solidness of her in his embrace, the way he has to lean against her counterweight to maintain the equilibrium between them.  She cuddles close against his chest and opens the door so he can step through it.

"That's teamwork," he says against her temple.  She laughs that low bubbly Scully chuckle that feels like he's winning a prize every time he coaxes it out of her.  He carries her the few steps to her bedroom and lays her carefully on the bed.  She drags him down for a kiss with the arm that's still around his neck.  He surrenders to her gravity and drops over her, catching himself on his elbows and knees.  Her arm flails out at the bedside table until her fingers catch the drawer handle.  He digs for the condom himself this time and sits back on his haunches to deal with it.

"I like that you're prepared for any eventuality," he says, ripping the foil open carefully.

"I was thinking of you when I bought them," she says, and his cock twitches in his fist as he rolls the latex down.  His heart thumps too.  

"Oh?" he says.

She licks her lips.  "Maybe not as vividly as you would have liked, but I entertained the notion."

"Did you," he says, amused.  

"Mm," she says.  

"Semper paratus," he quips.  "I always imagined you as a diligent Girl Scout, Scully."

"Mulder, that's the Coast Guard motto," she says.  

"There's a joke about harbors in there somewhere," he says, lying on his side next to her so that he can stroke her from breastbone to belly and beyond.

"Please don't try to find it," she says, her hands wandering over him.  "There are, ah, better ways you could use your time."

"Better ways to spend my time than trying to come up with pier-based puns while you're naked in bed next to me?"  He scoffs.  "I believe in extreme possibilities, Scully, but that's a bridge too far."

She groans, and it isn't because he found the right spot.  "Mulder, shhh," she says, and tugs at him until he rolls onto her.  He eases into the cradle of her hips, holding himself over her.  

"I love you," he says, unable to help himself.

"I love you," she says, smiling at him.

"That wasn't...I wasn't trying to talk you into anything," he says.

"Mulder," she says patiently, "we've got the rest of our lives to deal with your misdirected guilt, but right now, I need you to stop talking and start devoting your considerable intelligence and whatever else to rendering both of us absolutely speechless."

"I can do that," he promises.  

She puts a finger to his lips.  He kisses it and then sucks the tip into his mouth.

"Better," she says.  

He braces himself on his knees and one hand and uses the other to stroke his slow way down her body, lingering over her breasts until she's gasping, her back arching so that her cunt rubs against his thigh.  He strokes the underside of her breasts, weighs them in his hand, palms her nipples and then pinches them for the change in sensation.  They're everything he envisioned and more.  She moans, a soft appreciative sound that rises in pitch as he squeezes her breasts.  He slides down her body to nuzzle at them, lipping her nipples into his mouth where he can tease them with his tongue.  His other hand slips lower, caressing her ribs and her belly, easing between her legs.  He cups her mound in his palm, his fingers barely rubbing over the coarse curls.  Just enough pressure for her to want more, just enough friction to send need zinging through her body.  Her fingers clutch into the muscles of his thigh and his shoulder.

"I'm not going to say this often," she gasps, "but I think we can skip the foreplay tonight."

"What," he teases, "almost four years was enough for you?"

"Maybe I should hold out for five," she suggests, but her fingers are already curling around his cock.  "I wouldn't want you to think I was easy."

"Nothing about you is easy," he tells her fondly.

"You might be surprised," she says, and guides him down to her entrance.  She uses the latex-clad head of his cock to spread her own slickness over her folds.  He groans.  

"I love you," he says fervently, from the bottom of his heart and the bottom of his balls.

"Are you going to say that every time?"

"Probably," he admits.  He's bitten it back enough for a lifetime.

She smiles.  "I can live with that," she says.  Her eyes gleam.  

"Now?" he asks, trembling a little with the tension of not plunging into her.

"Please," she says, and guides him in.  He sinks into her and her hips shift to accommodate him.  She sighs like she's just eaten the best meal of her life.  Pure satisfaction.  It lights up the pleasure center of his brain and whatever feels victory.  Eight million years out of Africa and some part of him is still wild, all grunts and appetite, ready to abandon himself to base instinct at the first sight of her bare skin.  He gathers up whatever parts of himself are still Homo sapiens sapiens and breathes out evenly.  Her eyes are dreamy.  Her hands drag up and down his back.  

"Mulder," she says, and just the way her lips part around his name is so warm and wondrous and full of love that he almost cries.  Jesus, he's in deep, and not just inside her.

He starts to move, just gently, thrusting slowly into her and pulling slowly back out again.  They're both still damp from the bath, still so warm he's already sweating a little.  The scent of lavender mingles with the musky perfume of sex.  She's tight around him and everything about her is a miracle.  It's hard to keep an even, steady rhythm as he moves; he's always been a zealot when he comes to her, frenzied in his devotion.  She feels infinite.  He could spend a lifetime exploring her.  Every little ripple of her muscles startles him.  He can feel himself shivering.  He doesn't want to come too fast.  He wants this to last.  They might have had sex already, but he can feel in his bones that this is the time that counts.  This time, the first time after they've pledged themselves to each other, after they've revealed the transparent truths of their parallel pining.  It was just fun before, and gratitude, and stress relief.  This is the first fuck of forever.

He slows and bends to kiss her, long lingering kisses that leave them both breathless.  It isn't the mechanics - he could breathe - but he forgets, when her lips are against his, anything but the sweet jolt of loving desire that overrides even his autonomic nervous system.  She licks into his mouth, her tongue thrusting into counterpoint to his hips.  They kiss like they've got until the end of time.

When he can't take it anymore, he pulls out of her, letting his lips pave a trail down her body to her cunt.  She tastes like sex and latex, but he teases her clit with his tongue until every exhale is a gasp or a moan.  She murmurs his name, stroking his hair, and he reaches up to catch her hand.  She puts both their hands on her breasts.  He strokes her and lets his tongue swirl in lazy circles, easing her away from the edge.  

"You're a goddamn tease, Fox Mulder," she sighs.  

He raises his head and grins up at her from between her thighs.  "Just making sure I touch all the bases," he says.

"Head home," she says.  "I want to come with you inside me."

"Holy fuck," he says.  She isn't pulling any punches anymore.  She smirks.

"Please," she says, and it's more of a taunt than a request.  He scrambles up, overeager but too goddamn in need of her to care about his cool exterior.  They both reach to guide him back into her; they both groan when he slides home.  

"Kiss me," she says, and he does.  She licks the taste of herself from his lips and pulls his bottom lip into her mouth, pinning it delicately between her teeth.  He thrusts into her, letting the rocking of her hips set the pace.  It's faster than before.  There's an urgency in her; he can feel it in the thrum of her pulse.  

"I wanted this for so long," she whispers.  "I want to remember every second of this."  She gasps.  "It's a hell of a moment to have déjà vu."

He laughs, startling himself.  Of course it would be Scully who'd have visions of their future in her dreams, a sixth sense about the sex they'd eventually have.  It feels a little bit like that to him too.  His brain stutters trying to reconcile fantasy with reality, but she exceeds his expectations, just like always.

"There will be so much of this to remember," he promises.  

She cups his face with both hands.  "Mulder."

"I'm here," he says, thrusting into her like punctuation.  He's losing control again.  The velvet heat of her cunt is too much for him.  Everything's going blurry around the edges, including his sense of self.  He's melting into her, she's melting into him, and the laws of physics are bending as the space between them compresses to nothing and they're just two irresistible forces striking sparks on each other's soft places.  

"Will you touch yourself?" he manages to ask, and she wedges her fingers between the harsh ridges of their pelvises without even a wince.  He lifts to give her space as she rubs in quick up and down bursts.  God, he's close, but he'll be damned if she doesn't come first.  He slows down again and she groans and hooks her leg over his hips, drawing him closer.

"Faster," she says, and he obeys, bucking into the slickness of her, harder than before to compensate for his reduced range of movement in the embrace of her thighs.  She moans her affirmation and he shivers and barely manages to hold on as pleasure shocks through him.  He tries not to look at her, but at the same time, he can't look away: she's flushed and wide-eyed under him, lips parted, rosy nipples firm under his fingers.  She's hard for him and hot for him and wet for him and fuck, he wants to make her see stars, so dazzled that for the rest of her life there will be faint afterimages when she blinks, glow-in-the-dark constellations he's stuck to her memories.

"Yes," she says, and he moves even faster, helpless as she draws tighter around him, her thighs shaking as her heel digs into his hamstring.  She's still touching her clit, her fingers flicking between them, and he can feel when the shiver starts deep inside her, spreading through her body.  She tenses and trembles and arches and he thrusts deeper inside her, spreading her open until their hips lock together.  There's a moment when she goes absolutely still, keening in her throat, and then she cries out and comes apart in his arms and he wants to experience every second with her but he can't help toppling over the edge.  The thought of Dana Scully's orgasm was always enough to make him come in his fantasies.  The feel of Dana Scully's orgasm is impossible to withstand or resist.  But it's appropriate: they're seeing stars together.

He collapses against her, barely holding himself up.  His ears are ringing with the singing of his blood as it rushes through his veins.  After a moment, she twists her fingers through his hair and pulls him close for a kiss, rocking her hips against his.

"Again?" he asks.

"Mm," she says, and he's not as hard as he was, but that seems to be enough for her.  She grinds up against him, panting, and fuck, he wishes he had her refractory period, because watching her get herself off on him is incredible.  It only takes a minute or two before she's moaning under him and he feels the quick flutter of her cunt.  He rolls off her, holding the condom, because the spirit is willing, but the flesh is deflating fast, all the blood having rushed to his head.

"Ah, fuck," he says, sprawled out on her bed.  "Thank you, Evan, for unwittingly enabling all of this."

"Ethan?" she corrects, smirking.

"Ethan," he says.  "Sorry, Scully, my brain is melted."

"Don't apologize to me," she says. "I might send him a thank you card myself."

Mulder laughs.  "What will you write in it?"

"'Thanks for the best sex of my life'," she says.  "And there will be an asterisk that says, '*with Fox Mulder'."

"That might be a little much," he says.  "Anyway, doesn't an invitation to the wedding kind of say that?"

"He's not coming to the wedding," she says with a yawn.  "I'll give you an October wedding and a haunted honeymoon, but we're eloping."

"I like it," he says.  "You and me and whatever required number of witnesses."

"We can have a reception when we get back," she says. "They can come to that.  But not the wedding."

"We've never needed anyone else," he says.

"No," she says softly.  "We haven't."  She reaches for his hand and squeezes it.  He squeezes back and then rolls over, heading to the bathroom to clean himself up.  He disposes of the condom in the trash and washes his hands.  When he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, he sees a satisfied man, relaxed and happy.  He grins at his expression and finishes his glass of water, abandoned earlier on the side of the sink.  He'll bring Scully a fresh glass.  Maybe he'll touch the cool glass to her belly, just to watch her experience the sensation.  They've got a whole life ahead of them of enjoying each other.  Finally he'll get to indulge himself and her.  Instead of the Holy Spirit, they've left room between them the last few years for the specter of propriety and the nightmares that have escaped their flimsy manila prisons.

He thinks they'll sleep better now.

"It's a grand slam, son," he says to himself, and whistles on his way to the kitchen.

[havingaverydrarryday]

Untitled

Fandom - Harry Potter / Drarry

I am totally open to title suggestions.

Second draft, not beta-ed.

Set right after the Battle at Hogwarts, with Voldemort’s defeat the Death Eaters and their families are arrested and charged accordingly, or so the general population was led to believe.

While under house arrest until her own hearing, Narcissa Malfoy awaits news of what will become of her husband and son and forms a surprising friendship with Auror Potter who has taken it upon himself to see that she is comfortable until her conviction or release.

But when several prisoners inside Azkaban die mysteriously, including one Draco Malfoy, Auror Potter does what he can to find out what happened and discovers far more than he ever expected.

Not epilogue or true timeline compliant.

Untitled by HAVDD

Chapter One

 They came at night.

With the battle still raging behind them Narcissa had taken her son’s hand and led him away, and though she still deeply loved her husband she did not spare a glace behind to see if he was following.

They had gone home, or gone back to what was left of it. The Manor had been abandoned leaving nothing behind of the horrors that had gone on there for so long. Nothing but the blood stains and the sick, sucking feeling of the dark magic that had soaked into the walls.

None of them had felt particularly comfortable coming back to this place, but without actual plans for the future they didn’t really have much of a choice.

They had spent a quiet evening discussing what to do next as they poked at the exquisite meal the house-elves had prepared that none had the appetite for.

Draco had somehow managed to fall asleep some time after midnight but neither Lucius nor Narcissa felt able to sleep.

The couple had been in the sitting room of their suite when the Aurors suddenly broke through their wards as if there were not even there.

They had had no chance to defend or protect themselves, and had been forced from their rooms and into the main hall in nothing but their night clothes and bare feet, not even given the dignity of dressing gowns.

Narcissa and her son clung to each other with all their strength as the Aurors raided the manor searching for anyone else that may be hiding there, or any Dark artifacts that had been left behind by Voldemort or one of his followers.

Lucius had been pulled away from his wife and son immediately, roughly marched to the door just as more Aurors moved in on mother and son, separating them from each other.

“He has the mark,” one Auror announced after pulling up the sleeve of Draco’s navy blue pajama top. “Take him out.” The Auror pointed towards the same door Lucius had been taken through.

“Mother!” Draco’s voice echoed through the hall even after the Auror apperated the youth out of the building.

“No!” Narcissa cried out, not even noticing the hand that tightly squeezed her wrist so that her arm could be examined as well, or the half dozen wands pointed at her.

“She’s clear,” one of the many around her spoke but still the held her back, not allowing her the chance to see her husband or her son as the Aurors had already removed them from the property.

“Narcissa Malfoy, you are being charged with several counts of conspiracy. You will be held here under house arrest without your wand until you go to trial or all charges are dropped.”

“Lucius, Draco?” She begged.

“As both bear the Dark Mark they will be held in Azkaban until their trials, or the marks fade. If the Mark fades proclaiming that they took it under duress, they will return here to await trail as their charges are reevaluated or dropped. If the Mark does not fade they will continue to trial and near certain conviction. Of what happens after that is up to the Wizengamot.”

There was no sympathy in the Auror’s tone as he spoke, and with how rehearsed as he sounded Narcissa was certain she wasn’t the first to lose family this day.

She was escorted to a small sitting room and was allowed to have one of the house elves bring her some tea as she waited for the Aurors to complete their search of the Manor. Then she was told that the Malfoy family assets were being seized for reparations. There was a very real chance that once the family’s house arrest was served they would be homeless.

By the time the sun rose that morning the house was void of life, heavily warded so no one could come  on or leave of the property unless as a Side-a-Long with an authorized Auror.

Only one suite on the main floor was left open to her, every other room also warded and sealed stopping her from entering them. A small kitchen had been provided for her as were some books and basic entertainment by way of radio and handy-crafts. The only Floo that was left active was the one in her suite’s sitting room and it was Narcissa’s only connection to the outside world, connected directly to a Floo in the MoM. It was where her mail and food would be delivered for the foreseeable future.

Though she had pleaded to keep just one house elf for company, that request was also denied her, even when several of their devoted elves volunteered to stay for their mistress. According to the Ministry’s warrant, even the elves were to be held for reparations pending the outcome of the trial.

Weeks passed in near silence with no updates or messages from her husband or son; however she did have a surprising visitor. The first soul she had seen or spoken too since her home was raided.

“Mr. Potter,” she gasped in surprise and ran her hands down the front of her dress to smooth out the wrinkles. She had only been allowed five full changes of clothing, three nightgowns including the one she had been wearing during the raid, a single jumper, her dressing gown and various sets of stockings and undergarments.

She also hadn’t been left with any way to properly clean or tend to the clothing and as a result she had been forced to hand wash them in the small basin in her en suite bath. She didn’t even have any soap to wash them with; she simply rinsed them as best as she could and hung them across the bath tub from a rope she had crocheted with the yarn she had been given.

The Auror in charge of her case has assured her that if she sent a note in the Floo with her needs they would be met, she had yet to see it happen.

“Hello Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said softly, kindly ignoring the obvious discomfort she had in regards to the neglected state she had found herself in.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked of the man who had appeared unannounced from the Floo in her sitting room. He smiled and sat in the chair she had motioned too and accepted the tea she served him from the simple setting she had be left to use.

He took a small sip of the weak, watered down brew but smiled as if it were the best tea had ever had. Setting the cup down, he cleared his throat and pulled a thick stack of documents from a pocket inside his Auror robes. “Lucius’ trial is tomorrow. Though I’m not assigned to his case I am going to sit in and make sure that he receives a fair one. I’ll admit that I don’t like your husband but I do admire you and I respect your son now that I know that he did what he did as a way to protect you and your husband. If I can, I will do all I can to make sure your family comes home to you as soon as possible.”  

Narcissa didn’t cry, nor did she speak as she was unable due to the tightness in her throat after hearing the sincere declaration from the Harry Potter.

“I…” she tried with difficulty. Taking a shuddering breath she finally managed, “thank you.”

Harry smiled for her again and quickly finished his tea before rising and striding back to the Floo. He pulled a pinch of powder from his pocket but paused before he threw it in. Turning back to her he said, “I’ll come back in the next day or so to let you know how things went.”

Still choked up by his kindness she just nodded and stared at the flames long after he had stepped into them and disappeared.

Less than an hour later a bundle tumbled from the hearth leaving a trail of soot across the carpet. Taking the small parcel to the table she found a small note stuck to the top with a charm, it read-

‘Just to tide you over

Regards

-H’

Inside she found two other wrapped packages. In the smaller one there were two Black Family crest teacup and saucer sets, a packet of Bourbon Creams and two tins of fine tea. In the other, wrapped in a plastic bag from a muggle market she found a small bottle of delicate wear laundry detergent and matching liquid softener with a sweet lavender and French vanilla fragrance.

Rather than be embarrassed that he had notice the state of her clothing she was grateful that his simple kindness had granted her some of the comforts that she had been denied in her seclusion.

Stripping to her slip she took the dress into the bath and let it soak in the sweet smelling water while she made a proper cup of tea with leaves that hadn’t already been used twice before.

**

As promised Harry Potter returned two days later at lunch, bearing the gift of a fresh, hot meal, another packet of biscuits and the information she had desperately been waiting to hear. They ate first and waited until tea had been served before finally getting to the subject at hand.

“The trial had been, as I expected, monumentally prejudiced,” he began, “but myself and others were there to ensure everything proceeded fairly.” He took a deep breath before giving her the news. “Lucius has been sentenced to ten years in Azkaban, with the chance of early release after serving five.”

She sat with her eyes closed for a moment, forcing herself to accept the information then opened them and met the kind green eyes that had been looking on her. “And Draco?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“He is still in holding,” Harry replied. “I wasn’t allowed to see him but I was told that his trial hasn’t been set yet. Apparently they want to process the bigger names first, especially ones that have been known to be loyal from the start. As such there are quite a few that have been marked to go through before they get to him. The good news is there’s a chance he’ll get time served by the time his trail does come up, and even if that doesn’t happen the time he’s spent will be counted towards whatever time he may need to serve. So if he spends six months before his trail and then he’s sentenced to a year, he’ll only have to serve another six months.”

She nodded in understanding and thanked him multiple times for all he had done for her only stopping when she realized she was making him uncomfortable. He once again promised to visit in a few days then was gone in a blaze of green flame and Floo powder.

*

From then on for months Harry came every Sunday at 10:30 in the morning for Brunch and usually stayed until 4:30.

He always brought the meal, news of the outside world, various things her caseworker failed to provide, and something to brighten her days. Usually a bouquet of flowers and something to help pass the time like books and crafts. Especially after learning of her fondness for Muggle word puzzles. She now owned dozens of crossword and word find books. However Narcissa had begun to think that Harry only came to visit her because there was no one else for him to go to.

She knew he had inherited Grimmauld Place from Serius Black after her sister had murdered him, but she didn’t know if he lived there or not. She was fairly certain he didn’t live with his Muggle relatives. Draco had told her rumors he had heard at school stating that the family had wanted nothing to do with him and had only taken him out of fear of retaliation from the wizards what had placed him in their care after the death of his parents.

He had not mentioned if he lived with anyone else so she just assumed he lived alone.

She also knew that he was in a training program to ‘become’ and Auror, even though he already held the official title of one. He had also opted not to return to Hogwarts to complete his N.E.W.T.S. and was doing them at the Ministry Of Magic under the guidance of a tutor as he completed the Auror training.

Five days a week for close to 12 hours a day the young man spent at the MoM in classes and training, and for several hours each Sunday was spent with Narcissa. If there had been other friends or family, then why waste what precious little spare time he had with Narcissa in the dark sad shell of Malfoy Manor?

Was it just pity? She didn’t think so. He genuinely appeared to enjoy her company, and he certainly was the brightest point in what had become her very small world.  

Looking at the kind young man seated across from her and hesitated questioning him for a moment out of a fear that he would stop visiting, but there was a kind of sadness about him that she so very much wanted to ease.

Delicately clearing her throat she brought his focus from his plate to her face.

“Harry, I’ve wanted to ask you something for a while now, but I’m not sure where to begin.”

“You’re welcome to ask me anything Mrs. Malfoy, even if it’s something personal. I promise to answer as best as I can.”  She could tell he was being completely honest.

“Why do you come to visit me?” she more of less blurted out the question and he looked surprised. It only took an instant to realize it was the question she has asked and not the way she had asked it that had surprised him.

“Because you’re alone right now and in a way so am I,” he replied and it was her turn to wear a look of surprise and he smiled for her.

“I don’t understand,” she said in a confused tone, surely he had many friends falling over themselves to be around him.

“I don’t really have much in the way of family,” He began. “I lived with Muggle relatives growing up but they we don’t get on and parted ways when I came of age.”

“But surely you had friends in school.”

“I did, Ron and Hermione. I was also quite close to most of Ron’s family but things are strained right now.  Fred, one of Ron’s brothers died during the battle at Hogwarts and his parents Molly and Arthur, and Fred’s twin George were crushed. Molly is taking it harder than most because she’s pretty much alone now. All her other kids have moved out except her daughter Ginny. She and I dated for a bit but I broke it off, and now both Ginny and Ron are angry with me. I guess they expected me to marry her though I had never planned on it, and now they know that I’m not…” he trailed off with a shrug. “It makes things hard, I’d like to visit with Molly but with Ginny there all the time and looking at me like I were dog dirt on her shoe, I just can’t. And with Ron and Hermione getting married, Hermione is siding with Ron at the moment. I don’t even know if I’ll be invited to the wedding.”

Narcissa gave him a look of sympathy. It was obvious these ‘friends’ saw him as more of a celebrity than an actual person with feelings.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry.”

Harry smiled for her. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. I just hope that everything we’ve been though will count for something and they can move past their disappointment with me.”

“But they should even be disappointed with you,” Narcissa insisted. “It’s obvious you care about them but if you are not in love with the girl then breaking it off was best thing to do.”

Harry’s smile turned a little watery and Narcissa rose and gave him a hug. Harry wrapped his arms and her slim waist and sighed, soaking in the gentle contact of another human that had no ulterior motive for touching him.

“I’ll always be here for you if you need to talk,” she assured him, “unless I end up in Azkaban.”

“You won’t,” he assured her. “Like Draco I’m certain that by the time they get to you, you’ll be released with time served. You might get probation but I seriously doubt you’ll see the inside of a cell.”

She smiled as she returned to her seat, and then took a sip of tea. “Who do you supposed will be tried first, me or Draco?”

Harry thought it over for several minutes before replying, “Draco most likely. Azkaban is horribly over crowded right now and they’ll want free up space as quickly as they can. You and the others under house arrest aren’t using any cells so you can wait longer.”

She nodded. That did make perfect sense; she only hoped they would move things along a little faster so her son could come home. That reminded her, “Mr. Potter. Do you think you could arrange for someone to check on Draco for me? I know the Mark had been forced on him, it should be long faded by now.”

That was true; all forced Marks had faded away just days after Voldemort died. But if Draco was still being held then his mark hadn’t faded, meaning he had taken it willingly. He almost didn’t want to grant her request and tell her he was still marked, but it had been nearly eight months now and neither of them had heard a word about him or how he was fairing.

“Tomorrow I’ll see what I can do,” he promised her. “His trial should surely be coming up soon.”

*

Late the next evening Narcissa sat at her table circling the words in one of her word find books when a package suddenly fell from the flames, landing a few feet from where she sat. It wasn’t uncommon for packages from Harry to arrive throughout the week but one had never arrived so late before.

The only reason she was even up was because she had been unable to sleep.

Setting her book aside she went over to collect the package. There was a parchment attached to the brown paper wrapped parcel the bore an official ministry seal. It came away easily and she set the box down and took a seat before breaking the seal and reading the letter.

Harry found her some seven hours later still seated at the table, the letter lying before her.

He had received a message from a colleague in the Auror’s department when he was having his morning tea; all it had told him was to get to Narcissa. They had known Harry was friends with her and apparently she had received some bad news the night before. Though they hadn’t specified what kind of news, Harry and trusted them enough to go right away.  

“Mrs. Malfoy,” He whispered taking in her ashen face and vacant expression. He crouched so he was in her line of sight, but she seemed to see right through him. His gaze fell to the letter and his heart sank to his feet.

~Dear Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy

It is with my deepest regret that I must inform you that your son Draco L. Malfoy has succumbed to an illness of the lungs on January the 14th. As this illness was highly contagious and had claimed the lives of several other inmates prior to Mr. Malfoy, we have opted to cremate the remains to prevent its spread.

The ashes have been returned to you, and are in the package that was included with this letter.

As your son died before his trial we are dismissing the case. All charges against him have been dropped and anything of monetary value belonging to him that have been seized for reparations shall be released to you.

My most sincere condolences

Killian Bloom, Warden ~

Harry had seen the small package in the floor and felt sick at the thought of that tiny parcel containing all that remained of one of his dearest friend’s son. The same young man that had risked his own life with a lie that kept Harry alive.

He swallowed painfully and dropped to his knees to pull the ice cold, unmoving woman into his arms. Almost immediately she began trembling, then the most heart wrenching sobs spilled from her as she collapsed against him.

They ended up sitting on the floor together as Harry rocked the devastated woman he held in his arms. It was Molly all over again, how she had been when she had gotten home and it had finally came crashing down upon her, but unlike Molly Narcissa had no one to comfort her. No husband or other children to cling to, no one except Harry.

He stayed with her all day and held her as she dozed fitfully with her head on his shoulder. As evening descended he managed to get her to eat a few bites and drink a cup of tea and some Dreamless Sleep before tucking her into her bed. He stayed another hour or so, just to be sure she was sound asleep before taking the letter and Draco’s remains and Flooing to the MoM.

“Mr. Potter?” A witch called out to him in surprise. It was after hours and most everyone had known that he hadn’t come in or called today.

Harry ignored her as he stalked angrily through the halls to Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office. Shacklebolt’s secretary didn’t even attempt to stop him as he walked through the open office door without even knocking.

“Harry?”  Shacklebolt said in surprise. He was already wearing his outer robes and holding a thick sheaf of parchments.

Harry set the box he held firmly on Shacklebolt’s desk and the other man eyed it, raising an eyebrow in quest. “That’s this?”

“This is Draco Malfoy,” Harry said before holding out the letter for Shacklebolt to read.

The man set down his parchments and took the letter, then sank slowly into his chair as he read it.

“How is she?” he asked softly.

“She’s just as you would expect a mother to be after getting a letter telling her that her only child is dead, and having no one around to comfort her.”

“It says he did yesterday, when did she get it?”

“Sometime between supper and this morning,” He replied taking the seat across from Shacklebolt. “She wasn’t speaking so I don’t know for certain.”

“I was aware that a few inmates had died recently but I didn’t know about young Malfoy,” Shacklebolt sighed.

“I want her out of there,” Harry told him. “I don’t care what you do or how you do it but I want the charges dropped and some of her money released.”

“That’s going to take some time,” Shacklebolt warned him, “At least a few weeks, but I can authorize a temporary release to your custody until everything is cleared, effective immediately.”

Harry closed his eyes and sighed tiredly.

“Harry, I want you to take a few days off and see to your friend. I’ll start getting her charges dropped first thing in the morning and I’ll also look into seeing that she gets a visit with her husband.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied sincerely and Shacklebolt gave him a wan smile.

“I truly am sorry it happened this way,” Shacklebolt told him. “Someone should have told her gently in person and not like this,” he handed the letter back with a sad shake of the head. “Not like this.”

Draco Malfoy may have been a Death Eater but he was also someone’s son, a young man barely of age who spent 8 months in prison without even being formally charged, then had died of a deadly illness and was cremated and dumped out of a Floo onto his mother’s floor like a piece of garbage. It made him sick.

Harry carefully folded the letter then picked up the small package from Kingsley’s desk.

He made a few stops before Flooing home, the first was at a small shop where he bought nicer container for Draco’s remains, and the other was a furniture store where he picked out a few things for Narcissa. When he arrived home he set the urn and the box on his mantle before stopping to hang his jacket. He then climbed the stairs, shopping bag in hand, to the second floor of the small three bedroom house he had bought with some of the money left to him when Sirius died.

The unused bedrooms were completely empty because no one had wanted to visit or stay overnight since he moved in, so he had seen no need to furnish them before. He performed a cleaning charm to remove the dust from the cream colored carpet before opening the bag and setting out the tiny items it held. A quick counter spell and the miniature bedroom set grew to full size. After a few adjustments in the placement he took out the remaining items and set them on the bed and returned them to their proper size as well.

Hanging the new jade colored curtains had been a pain as the spell meant to make them fit any window hadn’t been very clear. Though they now covered the window completely, they still hung a bit crooked as the bottom edge wouldn’t charm straight, but it was hardly noticeable when they were open to let in the light. The soft sheers had been a little more cooperative as were the Any-Size sheets.

He stood back looking around to see if there was anything else the room needed. The queen size bed was in a warm honey colored wood as were the matching bed side tables, dresser, and wardrobe. The bedding was in soft shades of green and went well with the cream carpet. The lamps had matching stained glass shades with a dragonfly pattern, and deep emerald bases.

There really wasn’t more he could do to the room and decided to let Narcissa make any changes she chose when she arrived. He then collected the new towels and bath things he had bought, as he really had only had one towel, and carried them to the upstairs bath and put them in the cupboard behind the door.

A quick Tempus charm told him that it was nearly 10 at night and that he had left Narcissa alone for over four hours. He quickly hurried back down the stairs, throwing the shopping bag in the trash on his way. Not bothering with his coat he grabbed a pinch of Floo powder and threw it in the flame, “Ministry of Magic.”

He stepped out of the After Hours Floo only to step right back in, tossing another pinch as he went, “Malfoy Manor.”

Narcissa was exactly where he had left her only she was awake now, her eyes staring ahead at nothing. She hadn’t been left with much when sent into confinement so it only took Harry a few moments to gather all her things, spelling them so they fit into a single small bag.

“Come,” he urged her, getting her up on her feet and guiding her to the Floo. He threw in a pinch and they were on their way.

A few minutes later Harry was leading her up to the room he had prepared for her.

“I got Kingsley Shacklebolt to release you to my custody,” he told her gently after she had taken a seat on the bench at the foot of her bed. “You’re still technically under house arrest but for now you’ll be serving it here in my home. The wards are the same and you will still be without a wand until he gets the charges dropped.” He wanted to tell her they were trying to get her a visitation with Lucius, but in the chance that that fell through, he didn’t want to get her hopes up.

She glanced around the room with empty eyes.

“The bathroom is the next door to the right,” he told her with a motion to the door leading back out to the hall. “The wards and restrictions for leaving the property are the same her as they were at the Manor but you have free reign of the whole house and the garden.”

She didn’t show much interest and Harry sighed.

“Shacklebolt will also be working to return some of your property to you as soon as the charges are dropped but tomorrow I’m going to see if he can get one of your house-elves back to you now so there’s someone to care for you while I’m at work or in classes. Is there one in particular you would like me to ask for?”

She was quiet for so long that he had begun to think she wasn’t going to answer, so when the softly uttered “Tippy” what whispered he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Tippy,” he repeated. “I’ll make sure Shacklebolt knows. Most of the elves have been sent to Hogwarts until they are sold or returned so it shouldn’t be too difficult to get Tippy back to you.”

“Harry,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“We’re family now, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you,” he backed out of the room, gently closing the door behind him.

*

He had sent the request for Tippy with his owl Agnes that night and before morning tea he received a reply. Narcissa was to be granted a small sum of money and one house-elf to tide her over until her case could be reviewed before Wizengamot in an emergency hearing scheduled in two weeks time. The outcome of this hearing will decide if the charges are dropped or if she will go on probation. Either way she would no longer be held to the restrictions of house arrest. Afterwards Draco’s financial holdings will be released to her and they will also decide how much of her estate will be returned. Should she go on probation Shacklebolt assured Harry that he would be given the assignment of being her probation Auror. After the hearing in two weeks she would be allowed to see Lucius with Auror escort to Azkaban.

Harry set the letter down and gave Agnes a treat before going to the lounge to make a call.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall’s voice sounded pleased she saw who her caller was. “What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to call so early Headmistress, but Shacklebolt told me that the Malfoy house-elves are there at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Mrs. Malfoy had been allowed to have one house-elf returned to her, she has specifically asked for Tippy.”

“I’ll see that she is returned to the Manor immediately,”

“Mrs. Malfoy isn’t at the Manor, she’s at my home.” Harry looked away for a moment. “Draco died of an illness while in custody at Azkaban. The warden was less than kind when he informed her and she’s devastated. She’s still under house arrest but Shacklebolt has allowed her to continue it in my house so she won’t be alone, the elf is so she’ll have someone to care for her when I’m at work.”

“Please give her my condolences and if you’ll allow me, I would like to come by for a visit this weekend.”

“You’re always welcome here,” he assured her. A short while later the call ended and a muted ‘pop’ announced the arrival of an absolutely tiny and surprisingly cute house-elf dressed in what looked like two pink handkerchiefs knotted at the shoulders and belted with a tattered blue ribbon. Her ears were huge and pale and her eyes were green.

“Tippy?” he asked and the tiny thing nodded vigorously.

“Yes Mr. Harry Potter.”

“You’re mistress upstairs, second door on the right,” he told her, then asked, “did the Headmistress tell you what has happened?”

Tippy’s eyes filled with tears, “Master Draco?”

Harry nodded.

“Poor Mistress Sissy,” Tippy said tugging her ears, “Poor, poor Mistress. Tippy go to Mistress now.”

“Yes, go on.”

With a pop the tiny elf vanished.

 Tbc...

[jflashandclash]

Traitors of Olympus IV: The Fall of the Sun

Forty-One: Hazel

When Your Mom Scolds the Hope Out of You

             While Hazel rolled between the legs of two battling giants—Eris and some weird chicken-lizard thing—she stabbed a ghoul through the ribcage. She came to a stumbled stop at the horrifying sight of Melinoe and wished Nico was here to help her fight.

           Of course, she also hoped he was safely away, somewhere that hadn’t been crushed by Python or raided by creepy sleep-walking puppets. But, really she would rather he was strong enough to stand with his Stygian iron sword and do some ghoul puppeting of his own. She’d never been as good at controlling the dead, and, if it were up to her, she’d have Miss Half-Mummy-Half-Charcoal doing the Charleston dance.

           If this ghost was Melinoe.

           “Poisoned child!” Queen Marie Levesque stood and screamed where the Goddess of Ghosts had been moments before. She stumbled towards Hazel with a knife.

           Hazel almost dropped her spatha.

           When Gaea manipulated her mother’s voice, Gaea slipped into her own gravelly tone. Here, this creature had the same look of anger, frustration, desperation, and disappointment so familiar to her mother. Here, Melinoe frowned and screamed identical to Queen Marie. Although Hazel hadn’t had one in so long, she thought she was lost in a flashback, one she’d deeply repressed. But, she couldn’t be. This was real.

           While Queen Marie staggered forward with a knife, four other ghosts came closer in Hazel’s peripheral. In her shock, she probably would have been overwhelmed had a blast of water not slapped her in the face.

           Confusion interrupted her terror.

           When Hazel shook the droplets out of her cinnamon hair, she caught the distant glimpse of Percy. He had pulled Annabeth into his lap on the throne of Saturnalia and dragged Piper close—to protect them. One of his hands outstretched towards Hazel. Even from where she stood, she could tell his face was tight with rage as his mouth moved to shout. Tears streaked down his cheeks while he watched his home get ravaged.

           Over that and the chaos, she couldn’t really hear Percy, but, she assumed he was saying, “THAT’S NOT YOUR MOTHER!” and not something about “boar smother.” Likely not the latter—though Phobetor did seem to enjoy morphing into a giant boar.

           Ah, Hazel thought, Eris said Percy couldn’t fight her people. She didn’t say anything about slapping sense back into his friends.

           A voice much louder and clearer, almost too high-pitched for comfortable listening, shrieked beside her, “Tiny child of Pluto, make like a dough lump and ROLL!”

           Hazel dove to the side.

           A giant combat boot with a talon poking out the back and several in the front smashed the ground she had been standing on. Marie Levesque had also dodged to the opposite side, but the four ghostly figures hadn’t moved. Three that should have been smashed instead dissipated and reemerged on either side of the foot. The one that got impaled by the ankle talon poofed, making Hazel wonder if that talon were coated with Stygian iron.

           The giant eagle-snake raised its combat boot up, slammed it back down for better footing, and shoved Eris away from the strawberry field.

           Hazel pushed off the icy dirt, snatching up her spatha. She wished Arion was here, so she could run away from her mother and reevaluate everything from a distance.

           Now that she had broken her line of sight from Melinoe, her childhood terror quieted. She could focus enough to see five Romans and the counselor from Iris’ cabin in a small defensive circle around two downed bodies, one a centurion and one a soldier. They slashed through oncoming ghosts, but there weren’t enough of them to make a proper defensive circle. They wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer, or keep the ghosts out of the camp.

           From their other side, the God of Nightmares and his sleep-walking troop were about to flank them.

           Hazel’s stomach twisted when she thought about what must have happened to Lou Ellen. The daughter of Hecate, who had promised Hazel that she could handle Phobetor alone, was nowhere to be seen. Hazel hadn’t considered that Lou Ellen might have been bluffing and was running low on spells. She had recently pigballed a god after all, and might have fallen easily after Hazel left.

           Hazel would have to thank Percy for snapping her out of it later and the giant bird-thing for… warning her? First, she needed to bust these ghosts, defeat Melinoe, and wrangle Phobetor.

           An army. Two gods. No biggy?

           Hazel quivered.

           Another troop of ghosts were almost upon her, carrying cleavers, pitchforks and a traffic cone. Marie Levesque—no-no—Melinoe stalked towards her.

           Hazel reached a hand towards the sleep-walking campers that were about to attack Butch’s troop. A tug hit her gut. With a flick of her wrist, she disarmed the sleepwalkers. Their weapons spun from their grasps, whipping towards Hazel, until she redirected them to slam into the oncoming ghosts and Melinoe.

           The ghosts shrieked and dissipated under the holy metal. Marie screamed and almost made Hazel freeze up again.

           Her mother stood there, a scowl and wrinkles marring her beautiful face. She clutched where a celestial dagger had imbedded into her saffron robes. “Poisoned child!” she yelled. “Worthless. The main gift your father gave me, and it ended up being a worthless child that would kill her own mother twice!”

           “No! You’re gone! You’re in the Fields of Asphodel!” Hazel choked back tears, struggling to remember that wasn’t her mother she just stabbed. Right? Melinoe couldn’t actually conjure her mother, could she? Hazel didn’t sense the Mist around her.

           “And who put me there?!” Marie demanded.

           Hazel stumbled backwards from the goddess, repositioning her spatha into a defensive stance. With her other hand, she battled with herself to maintain control on the floating celestial and imperial blades. The other ghosts she’d struck had dissipated. Marie had not, and Hazel wasn’t sure she could bring herself to attack her mother again. [1]

           When she saw someone else help the Romans beyond them, Hazel’s tears turned to relief.

           On Butch’s other side, an elephant stampeded the ghosts that were about to flank their allies. Her heart warmed to see Frank tossing the more corporeal ghouls left and right. Some sleep walkers even stirred as he and the giants’ steps made the earth shake. Maybe Phobetor was stretched too thin with keeping the Mist barrier down and controlling a sleep-walking army.

           Seeing Frank gave her hope and reminded her not to listen to this wretched woman—this wretched goddess.

           Butch and the others cheered at his presence.

           The raging elephant morphed into a swarm of wasps—causing some not-so-sleepy sounding cries from the sleep walkers, now jumping awake in shock—then morphed into a gorilla mid-lunge at Phobetor.

           The creepy minstrel raised his piccolo-hatchet to pipe in staccato.

           The few sleepwalkers still asleep collapsed to the ground as—Hazel assumed in horror—Phobetor released them from his spell.

           At the same time, the gorilla face-planted.

           Frank morphed back into a human.

           “Frank!” Hazel cried. She lost control of the imperial and celestial weapons. They cluttered to the strawberry field. Her hearted pounded inside her eardrums.

           During the distraction, Hazel’s mother withdrew the blade in her stomach. She grinned maliciously and lunged at Hazel.

           Hazel barely blocked the attack with her spatha and retreated. Nico had once said he’d met Melinoe, but wouldn’t talk about it beyond that. She understood why now. Hazel felt like she’d forgotten how to control the Mist, how to fight, and how to do anything more than be a scared child, split between watching her friends be attacked and defending herself. Where had this terror come from? How could it return so quickly?

           “Cursed girl. Can’t save your friends. Can’t save your soldiers. Can’t save your love!” Marie Levesque screamed between attacks that Hazel could hardly counter. “All you do is bring misfortunate to everyone around you!”

           Beyond the Goddess of Ghosts, Hazel saw Phobetor grin down at Frank. “Ah! This one shall do nicely!” he said before piping out a few notes.

           Frank jerked to his feet, but his posture was off. Hazel knew his eyes would be closed.

           The previously sleepwalking, now confused Greeks were defenseless when the ghosts turned to attack them. Hazel had taken away their weapons. They scrambled for a way to defend themselves and the Romans tried to join their rank.

           This was too much. The undead army seemed never ending. Every one they took down, more shadows seemed to pour in. How many had snuck out from the Underworld? How many had used her brother like an EasyPass fast lane? How long before her friends fell to panic and exhaustion?

           Hazel needed to save the camp and all of her friends. She’d won impossible battles before, but this was different. She felt alone. Percy couldn’t fight. Annabeth and Piper were too sick. Neither Jason nor Leo had returned. They’d wasted so much of their energy and magic fighting the Triple A Chimera the night prior, and she was the only one who came out mostly unscathed.

           Hazel fell to pieces at the thought of Phobetor making Frank kill the Romans that he’d just saved.  She wondered where Clovis was, if the son of Hypnos was still alive, and if he had the strength to help her wake Frank.

           Her insides quivered to think that this time, without her friends and without the gods to help, Hazel might be about to die again. They all might be about to die. Hazel didn’t mind sacrificing herself in Alaska to stall Gaea. She did mind failing this group of Romans and Camp Half-Blood. She minded not being able to save Frank.

           Something made her shakes become violent.

           Although the ground had been rumbling with each of the battling giants’ steps, the vibration became more consistent, almost rhythmically so. Hazel could sense the ground shifting a few yards away, further outside where the Mist barrier should have been.

           At first, she thought Python was about to make another hole for a second grand entrance. But, it couldn’t have been her; the massive drakon had paused by the cabins, as did a figure running towards the draken, the sinister gleam of the Cloven Terror.

           Even the ghouls seemed to hesitate.

           It was a song coming from the ground.

           When the sound became loud enough to distinguish a terrible cacophony of words, Hazel gritted her teeth, wondering if this song was one more way for the gods attacking their camp to dishearten them.

           “Heartbroken, we found a gleam of hope.

           Hearken to the sound, a whistle blows.

           Heaven sent a reply, however small.

           Evidence of life beyond these walls.”

           Hazel couldn’t tell if it was the shaking ground or the pressure in her eardrums that sent her to her knees. Others, ghosts and allies alike, fell near her. Even the two giants faltered, though, one laughed in squawkish delight. “My favorite lyrical maniac!”

           “We dream of jailers throwing down their arms.

           We dream of open gates and no alarms.

           Look to the day the Earth will shake.

           These weathered walls will fall away.”[2]

           Right as the dissonance became unbearable, the earth itself seemed to give before anyone else.

           Outside the strawberry field, and just outside camp, the grass sagged downward.

           The singing abruptly stopped.

           “K’oop!”[3]

           A male and female voice cried in harmony.

           Then, a greenish, glowing fist smashed through the weakened earth’s surface.

           Something massive crawled out of the hole.

           At first, it looked like a holographic projection—a twenty-foot-tall glowing greenish-turquoise woman with the head of a bestial feline. The semi-transparent warrior had claws as long and sharp as Hazel’s spatha and fangs the same length. At first, Hazel felt herself despair. How were they supposed to fight this along with all the others?

            A familiar voice shouted, “ROMANS! FEAR DOES NOT CONTROL US! WE CONTROL IT! LIKE WE WILL TAKE BACK CONTROL OF THIS BATTLEFIELD!”

           Hazel almost sobbed to hear Reyna. Her terror dissolved.

           When Hazel blinked through the tears, unsure why she had been in doubt before, she could see four figures riding on the cat warrior’s shoulders. In the center of the greenish avatar, a man’s body hovered. When it braced forward, the avatar mimicked his movement and did the same.

           “What in Tartarus is that?!” Phobetor demanded, apparently forgetting his control over Frank. His kiwi bird skull twisted to look at Eris, now shrinking in the lack of continued mayhem.

           “I’m starting with him,” said a girl balanced perfectly on the outside of the cat warrior’s right shoulder. The familiar daughter of Demeter had a faint glow of her own. Euna gestured towards the God of Nightmares with a scythe. With her other hand, she tilted her head back and appeared to drop something into her eye.

           Phobetor huffed. “I beg your pardon?!”

           “Thalia, let’s you and I give the Cloven Terror some cover fire. Don’t want that dodgy prick getting all the glory,” said a hulking figure crouching by the cat’s neck and grabbing on for dear life.

           “Oh my gods!” The huntress’ voice shook with rage from the other side of the neck. “Python wrecked Artemis’ cabin?! Let’s crush him!”

            If Hazel hadn’t been so close, she might not have heard Reyna’s finalizing strategy. Her imperial gold armor glinted in the hologram’s glow like a halo, though splotches of the metal looked tarnished and her cloak tattered. “Are you ready to make good on your debt? Help my troops as I have helped yours,” she said to the cat warrior.

           “Yes, Praetor. Then we’ll go to—” the male and female voice separated from harmony as one said, “my” and the other said, “his” before uniting to say, “brother.” With each pronoun, they split again. “Remember, I/he’s not used to this form. I/he can’t hold it for long. We need to do this fast.”

           Hazel, thankfully, didn’t see the Plague Bringer up there, but she could hear the scratchy singer from earlier howled with glee, “You heard the man-lady! Let’s kick some ass!”

Thanks for reading! Sorry this isn’t my cleanest chapter, especially at the beginning. Things kinda went to Hell in a hand basket between some work and family stuff, so I’ve been struggling to find time to clean these up. >.< Regardless, I hope you enjoyed! Stayed tuned next week for Calex’s chapter: A Boycott on Falling.

Footnote:

[1] Hazel, the level 3 Ranger, casts Blade Storm! Then she rolls a 2…

[2] Thrice. “The Earth Will Shake.” Vheissu 2005. This song is WAY older than I thought it was >>’’ (Mel, I might change the song choice later. I couldn’t find a more recent one that fit so well.)

[3] “Strike” in Mayan.

[ganymedesclock]

Voltron Character Study: Lotor

[read more analyses like these here]

Zarkon’s son, notable tactical mastermind, and, apparently, someone with really nice hair. The writers really did deliver when they promised a complicated character.

We know relatively little of Lotor besides that he’s considerably withdrawn from the empire, preferring the near-exclusive company of his mixed race generals. While we have yet to see him and Zarkon actually interacting with each other, Haggar comparing him to Zarkon once, even in a rather offhanded manner, made him immediately angry- and Haggar also seems to see fit to follow him.

It is incredibly likely that Lotor is half-Altean given he was able to activate the beacon on the ship stuck between realities, as well as his overall appearance.

Other than that, it seems rather clear Lotor’s trying to work behind the empire’s back.

Fight Smarter, Not Harder

What definitely can be said about Lotor is that so far, the empire has operated exhaustively in terms of “when all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.” Which makes sense- the galra empire has the biggest hammer in the known universe for the last ten thousand years. Their only real issue is that an even bigger hammer has turned up- Voltron itself- and no less, in the hands of people who have the good sense to not try and solve all their problems by smashy smash.

Zarkon’s defeat, however temporary, is the ultimate failure of that hammer thinking, and Lotor, in one of his very first spoken onscreen lines, outlines it perfectly in his opposition to Throk:

“Your technique is flawless, I’ll grant you that. But you must realize your repetitive attacks are getting you nowhere.”

“And in the end, your aggression is your own undoing.”

Lotor, eloquently and very mockingly, tears into his father’s strategy, while, more subtly, outlining his own.

“You must realize your repetitive attacks are getting you nowhere” is the first part: Lotor is someone who constantly reevaluates opponents and situations. If the response is not exactly what you thought it was, then you need to adjust your models, whether or not it works out in your favor. 

Lotor takes nothing for granted- when Voltron seems out of commission his immediate response is to set a trap and prod them until all five Lions come out. If he prevails too easily, that’s evidence something is afoot here- because these are the soldiers that defeated his father, and Lotor hates his father, but he knows that Zarkon is too dangerous to get shown up by a bunch of chumps.

So that’s one of the central tenants of Lotor’s philosophy- pay constant, excruciating attention to your surroundings and adjust or replace anything that doesn’t work or doesn’t get you there fast enough.

The other side of it is: the whole ‘victory or death, we are a Culture Of Warriors’ schtick ain’t your friend according to Lotor.

Merciful

Lotor is plenty outspoken in his challenging of the empire’s regard of any kind of compassion as proof of weakness. He’s keenly aware of the empire’s culture and attitudes, and yet- despite being a talented orator, to Lotor, this seems to be his hill to die on. We see Lotor pushing this attitude of mercy in audiences that it will not remotely endear him to.

Lotor’s first act onscreen is to betray his own cunning strategic edge and the incredible teamwork and precision he and his generals share. Without anyone even knowing he was on the fleet, Lotor identified Throk’s plot, had the generals surround him, and then arranged a public challenge that Throk, by the very culture of the empire that Lotor is so aware of and so willing to challenge, really could not have backed down.

Lotor basically crucifies Throk as a warning to the empire at large that despite his unorthodox policies, he’s not to be trifled with- but at the same time, he spares Throk in the public eye, something that serves both practical and moralistic purposes. Practically, killing Throk on the spot would create a martyr in the eyes of his followers. Sparing Throk appeased most of them. And when Throk is ultimately taken out- it’s certainly not anything that can be traced back to Lotor himself.

But from a moralistic perspective, that Lotor so utterly disarms a potential opponent and then spares him is a very bold challenge to Zarkon’s assertion- and one that the empire operates on- that mercy is weakness. Lotor’s devastating outfoxing of Throk is supposed to shake up the audience, many of whom were potentially supporting Throk in a bid for the throne.

Lotor basically walked in, said “I can take one of the highest-ranking and most powerfully interconnected people here out of the picture that quickly, like I’m not even trying. Do you really want to call me a weakling?”

Pragmatism

And this is something really interesting about Lotor- an awful lot of what he does cannot really be chalked so easily to purely self-serving or purely altruistic. It’s usually some of both. Even Lotor’s stance on mercy seems to have two components to it.

On the one hand, Lotor keenly understands the machinations that drive rebellions. To Lotor, it’s not a coincidence so many people are crawling out of the woodwork to fight the empire- because those people were always there. Zarkon has created an environment that people just plain can’t tolerate. They’re in deplorable conditions dying like animals and being killed for the amusement of an upper class of imperial soldiers who are themselves sticking to their caste because they’re aware that their position is not that much more secure than the people below them.

Lotor knows that tearing people down builds resentment. And more importantly, he knows that Zarkon has given him a golden advantage in that Lotor doesn’t really have to be the best person or an ideal person- he can be the lesser evil and people will go for that. Because their other option is Zarkon- and once again, Zarkon is unlivable.

Playing the nice guy card even when it doesn’t in the short term get him what he wants- continuing to spare the people of Puig even when their leader doesn’t choose to join him- is going to pay off. Because Voltron right now is desperately trying to coax in allies and a lot of these planetary leaders are scared for the sake of their people. They’ve been living in awful situations (“I’m so glad I put on my best tarp”, anyone?) and it stands that not all of them are going to be feeling brave and heroic and ready to fight the empire.

Some of them would just rather the empire was a little more agreeable, and a little bit less of a boot on their windpipe. If maybe they didn’t have to fight- if they had a shot at negotiation.

Word is going to spread that Lotor is reasonable in a way Zarkon isn’t. And just that- being reasonable- suddenly changes the game. I think there’s an incredible thematic parallel to this with Lotor stealing the second comet and seeming to build... basically, an anti-Voltron.

Charisma

Because Voltron isn’t just a weapon, the way Zarkon sees it. Lotor understands the other side of Voltron- it’s the beacon of hope to a downtrodden and enslaved universe. It’s a symbol- an incredibly powerful symbol.

And Lotor’s fighting Voltron not just on the military front, but the symbolic and interpersonal front.

Lotor doesn’t attack Puig to show them that resisting the empire is futile. Lotor’s spiel to the leader of Puig is basically making a point that Voltron won’t protect them the way they’ve promised- but Lotor, with his superior reach and resources, is making the claim that he can.

Lotor is challenging Voltron on who’s the real defender of the universe.

The fact that he’s so attentive and focused on small details in his environment stands out because Zarkon basically threw away everything that wasn’t direct military supremacy. We do not see Zarkon as a diplomat. We don’t really even see Zarkon addressing his populace. Civilians look up to Zarkon because he’s a symbol- but at the same time Varkon betrays a fundamental understanding of what Zarkon actually stands for.

Zarkon is basically passed into public awareness as a generic everyman that the empire supports because they assume his priorities are theirs. He’s like an Uncle Sam figure- treated as an abstract of the empire, when, in actuality, he is a person with specific policies and actually someone whose specific policies are very easy to disagree with. Despite the size and weight of his authority, he’s fundamentally on shaky ground because he’s not really, in practice, the person he was revered as.

Lotor, on the other hand- Lotor is actually a politician. He’s a diplomat first- and when he attacks something, that’s just one tool in his arsenal. Lotor ultimately is someone who makes a plan, identifies an end goal, and will then take whatever route actually works for him, and much more than combat, Lotor knows people.

Even his actual fighting style, both in a craft and on foot, has a distinctly psychological angle. He isn’t just talking off his own morals when he says Throk’s aggression was his downfall- Throk repeatedly trying to hammer at Lotor’s defenses wore him down because Lotor’s style of evasion and parrying is very minimal energy- Lotor dodges by inches at best and parries strikes juuust far enough to not get stabbed.

And the dismissive air to that style just further angers an opponent like Throk, the same way having the Lions of Voltron get shown up by a single, puny fighter waves a big red flag in front of Keith’s face. Even a more levelheaded adversary gets mad, because- it’s right there! One shot and he’s dead! You just have to get that one shot in.

There are a lot of layers to how Lotor operates and what he does because Lotor is keenly aware that everything he does makes a statement- that any engagement with a potential enemy, rival, peer, or even ally sends messages and other people will read them.

The authentic side

But how, exactly, is Lotor so keenly in tune with the plight of downtrodden people? Because something repeatedly asserted with Lotor is he has clear preference of company and it is not the empire at all. Towards Haggar, towards Throk, towards even the idea of Zarkon, Lotor is dismissive and manipulative at best, and far more often, outright scornful.

The generals- seemingly the only people Lotor really completely trusts- are all mixed-race galra looked down upon by the main empire, and in the eyes of said empire, Lotor fraternizes with them to a truly improper degree- fighting alongside them.

The standoff with Haggar over the fate of the galra general Haggar sent after him, Raht, illustrates I think a significant side of Lotor:

He is not as free, or as happy, as he pretends to be.

Lotor is ostensibly a member of the imperial elite, but in practice, he’s an exiled son and it seems until very recently, Haggar has been quite content to keep him on as short of a leash as she can afford. Which is about what we could expect: he’s Zarkon’s son, and with Haggar as the sole exception, all of Zarkon’s close interpersonal relations seem viciously possessive in nature.

And even if the general public doesn’t know it, Lotor is very likely an “unacceptable” mixed-race galra himself, and Lotor’s clear proclivity and interest towards Altean technology would suggest he knows it quite well.

Lotor has not been raised as an elite or groomed as a legitimate heir to the throne. He has been, in some regards, a prisoner of his father’s empire, very likely for most of his life.

This has fueled a far greater understanding of, and empathy towards, victims of the empire- the people of Puig, other mixed-race galra who were rejected or overlooked- over the soldiers themselves.

Bitterness

Unfortunately, as it stands, being able to empathize viscerally with people’s suffering because you’ve spent most of your life being trapped, frustrated, and upset yourself does not usually make for an enlightened soul. And this is where the real twist comes in with Lotor’s character.

Because Lotor would really love to be nothing like his father- in another time, another situation, he’d probably love to be a perfectly altruistic figure and a pure diplomat.

But he can’t afford that... because he is also terrified, desperate, and embittered.

All of Lotor’s generals, when we see them, are very bitter. Ezor’s ebullient personality often waxes very facetious indeed- she acts bubbly but she enjoys tripping people up, hurting them, having power over them. Zethrid wants to prove herself powerful and dangerous and thrives for being able to strike back and dominate people who themselves try and dominate her, first. Narti’s power bodes absolutely no negotiation. Acxa, the most inhibited, still has her coldness and haughty anger.

And Lotor fits in perfectly in that regard. His smooth charisma only hides so much. When cornered, when confronted, when caught off-guard, what slips is gritted teeth and raised hackles. When Haggar sends people to follow him he lashes out, hard, fast, and very harshly and snarls at her for insinuating he’s anything like his father.

Lotor’s whole strategy betrays a distinctly cynical worldview. He has an exquisite understanding of unhappiness, pride, vindictiveness and cruelty, but also, in contrast to Zarkon who was self-assured to a degree of pure hubris, Lotor tends to turn tail and run as soon as the situation isn’t in his favor. He fights and plans like someone whose victory is never given unless he can think of a way to profit off of any of the most likely scenarios.

He’s smug, but never actually smug enough to not worry. Because he worries constantly. We really only see Lotor acting safe and satisfied when he feels like everything is accounted for and as soon as he can’t track a variable then he isn’t happy.

And Lotor’s fighting style often hinges on multiple opponents attacking him- tripping them up and making them hurt each other. He gets rid of Throk by playing Haggar, another enemy, against him. It’s brilliant, but a style and worldview that only really makes sense by someone who feels that most of the time, they are surrounded by enemies and in an environment that wants to hurt them.

It’s a strategy we see echoes of in Shiro and Slav both- but on Lotor, he’s had his entire lifetime to perfect it.

Because ultimately Lotor isn’t playing this game because of altruism. He’s playing this game because like so many other people in the universe- he can’t live like this any more. He’s been about as controlled, restrained, forced down, as he can tolerate.

Lotor wants power, and he’s much more dangerous than Zarkon, because Lotor doesn’t want power because he thinks he’s entitled to it or some other elitist posturing.

Lotor wants power because he sees this as his only conceivable way out of an abusive environment. He doesn’t have Zarkon’s laid-back certainty, and he’s not content to play the slow inexorable villain. He’s the type to set up forks where he wins either way because he can’t afford a single loss at that juncture. 

He negotiates, but negotiates at swordpoint because he’s ultimately, not in a position to think beyond what his life experience and almost certain abuse has taught him: that with the exception of a tiny cluster of safe people, anyone he gives the opportunity to will try and hurt him.

Ultimately, Lotor is desperate- and right now, Voltron is something standing between him, and escaping his abuse- and that’s a nasty place to be in, because Lotor isn’t going to hold anything back.

In Summary

Lotor is a highly intelligent and perceptive individual whose behavior is intensely multifaceted, and part of it very deliberate because he’s very much a politician and diplomat trying to send specific messages with his behavior.

However, at his core, Lotor is a curious mix of empathetic and calculating- he can relate very intimately to the victims of the empire and seems to genuinely want to do better for them, but he can relate because he feels trapped himself and ultimately, he desperately wants to free himself, and that desperation makes him both highly tenacious, cynical, and belligerent about achieving his goals.

[carrieautumn-blog1]

Magic March 7: The Prophecy

The Prophecy:

“No, no! Set them on fire, don’t go get a beer. You’re mortal enemies for heaven’s sake.”  Pyrus screamed into reflective void. In it’s shimmering pool, Earth’s every moment from conception to end could been seen. His worn fingers gripped the pool’s edge, as he collapsed onto his knees. Another robed Weaver, with a few strands of fate still stuck to their fingers rushed,  to Pyrus’ side.

“Again?” Lorvis panted, breathless from the endless untangling and re-weaving of this tainted fate. The Weavers of destiny were faced with something that had never occurred before, a fate that refused to be. It was the simplest of prophecies, but current state of all things rested on it’s coming to fruition, something that was beginning to seem impossible. To maintain the duality created by their predecessors; the balance of creation and destruction, peace and chaos, every few thousands of years or with every fresh iteration there had to be  a revitalization of power. The forces that be and the entities of Good and Evil must test each other to decide who will have the upper hand in the new age. Out of fairness, the new balance was decided on the outcome of a prophecy. It could be an epic end of days battle, or something as simple as a card wager. However, it must come to fruition as worded. Since time immemorial, the worlds have been made anew from the prophecy and balance maintained, now something had gone terribly awry. The two chosen souls meant to fulfill these cosmic roles and decide the fate of the world kept becoming allies at worst and apathetic nonparticipants at best. They would do no more than argue before deciding to give up their ethics and ideals and live mundane, ordinary lives. Often, to Pyrus’ great  despair, in each other’s company. As Pyrus was in charge of this prophecy, he was under a great deal of pressure to resolve this issue.

“Ten minutes. Ten minutes and they decided to go to a bar. They aren’t suing each other, they aren’t setting the world altering precedents for the catastrophic policies that will bring about the end. Instead they- NO! Stop kissing, not again.” Pyrus threw his multiple arms up, pulling back his mane of cloud dust in disbelief.

“Perhaps their bonds are too strong?”

“They have to be strong enough to be tied by fate, otherwise they could wander the Earth without meeting their purpose.”

“If we increased their animosity? They seem too drawn to each other.”

“It only makes them want the other one more. I’ve tried everything. I’ve made them strangers, childhood friends, family,  rivals, even lovers out of desperation. No matter how they betray each other or how I stack one up against the other they end up allies. One killed the other’s family and they still came to an ‘understanding.’ Ha! The best results I’ve gotten is were they never speak to each other again or one kills themselves. They aren’t driven to save or end the world, they just want to get high on the couch. They know, they have to know. How else could they spite me so?” The other weaver took a step away from the raving Pyrus. Who made rude gestures at the unwitting peons of destiny.

“It’s been a tough iteration.” The female-ish weaver comforted the older weaver, knowing that they would have to undo everything and start again. “You just need fresh perspective. Have you been looking at past prophecies?”

“Yes, I’ve been over them again and again. I think I no longer have the touch. I can’t design two enemies, hell, I can’t design one soul who is driven to change the world. I’ve failed, the balance upset will bring untold happenings to the universe, and it is because I have FAILED.” Lorivs watched the grief fall over Pyrus who hid their face and cradled their exposed heart in their luminous cavity. It was a painful thing to see, and for a moment they were embarrassed by the sheer vulnerability.

“Perhaps if you just made them hate each other more-”

“I’ve added enough hate, Lorvis! Anymore and they’d rip each other’s arms off without reason.” Pyrus shouted at the startled weaver before shooing her off, “Get out of here! Go tell the others to undo it again.” He began thinking of how he could get them to cooperate this time. Murder, theft, greed, poverty, love, commercialization, envy, war, sickness, fame, oppression. No motive had been good enough. Nothing stirred their passions long enough after they met. Somehow they were disarming each other, they instilled apathy and acceptance into each other. Pyrus has suspected foul play from some of the entities and forces that be, but they had been found innocent. Well innocent by Evil’s standards anyway. Something was diluting the weave and Pyrus suspected it was this bloody thing called friendship.

Pyrus reached down and pulled the two souls from the woven void and observed them. He cradled them in two hands and then mimed them talking, “Blah, blah, I forgive you, blah, blah.” Pyrus mimicked before taking them to be redesigned yet again. “Perhaps you two have found a new balance. A truly new shift in the powers that bind and guide us. It may be time that we reevaluate our binary, beliefs and way of design. If two such small, insignificant souls so yearn for their freedom of will that they are able to shake off fate, shouldn’t that be honored?  Perhaps so. I will consider that. No matter this time, however,  I’m giving you both worms.”

[ourlastbastion]

Embers Ch. 6

I’m terrible at remembering to post these

AO3 FFNet

“She wasn’t the most extroverted student I’ve had,” Mr. Rayner said as he led Soul and Maka through the halls of the school. According to the files they had received, this was where Amanda had been attending prior to being abducted, and Mr. Rayner had been the lead teacher for her class during the year she went missing.

He seemed a pleasant enough man. Tall, his dark hair combed back, a pair of dark-rimmed glasses framing his face. He dressed in a simple suit and carried a stack of carefully organized papers under one arm as he walked. He was polite to everyone they had passed; the students seemed to respect him, and from the glimpse they got of the tail-end of his last lecture, he was very intelligent.

All in all, Mr. Rayner seemed like a model teacher in appearance and in behavior.

Moving aside to let a group of kids by in their blue school uniforms, Mr. Rayner shook his head. “She kept to herself, was rather quiet, and she was frequently absent from class. On the days she did attend class, well, she often wound up in some form of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Soul asked.

“Well, the kind of trouble you’d expect,” Mr. Rayner shrugged. “Sometimes she was disrupting the classroom, she’d get into altercations, or she’d sleep in class.”

Maka wrote that down on the notebook she had brought, looking to Soul, sharing a look with him, a knowing glance. More kids rushed past them, eager to get home, to get to practice, or to hang out with their friends. “Did she ever come to class with… bruises? Bandages?” she asked, watching Mr. Rayner carefully for a reaction, not just in his body language, but his soul as well. “Did she ever come to class injured?”

There was a pause, “She sometimes got roughed up when things with the other kids got out of hand,” he said. “Kids being kids, impulsive and acting out.”

His words sounded honest, his face genuine—his soul was different. Maka saw it. When she asked him, she saw his soul’s wavelength flicker and shift, radiating a nervous energy to it—he was lying. Had he been talking to anyone else, he would have been lying convincingly, but Maka wasn’t anyone else. She could see his soul, and his soul was not something he could control like his voice or expressions.

She looked to Soul again, gave him a small nod.

“Look, teach,” Soul said, stepping forward, raising his lips a little as he spoke so that Mr. Rayner could see the sharp points to his teeth. Maka felt his soul flinch. “We don’t want to cause trouble, but we know that’s not true. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by lying, but it won’t do you any good.”

Mr. Rayner looked between the two, clearly reevaluation his standing with them. Maka could see the sweat trickling along his neck. “Well… yes… she did come frequently covered in bruises. Her parents, they informed us that due to a medical condition, she would bruise quite easily from even the lightest bumps or trips”

“And you believed it?” Soul asked.

The teacher glared at him, but his fear was evident. “Look, we didn’t have proof to say otherwise, and Amanda wouldn’t speak of any sort of abuse,” he said, desperately trying to defend himself. “We can’t go around accusing every parent we see of abuse just because their kids sported a few bruises!”

“So you chose to ignore what you saw and hoped it went away, didn’t want it to be your problem,” Maka surmised, feeling disgust deep inside of herself. “What about the other kids? Surely they noticed.”

He scowled, looked away, “They just saw her state as a reason to ostracize her. I’d often come into class to find her cleaning graffiti off her desk left by the other kids.” He said. “She was bullied frequently.”

“And you did nothing,” Soul crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m their teacher, not their warden. They never did anything extreme, so I left it alone knowing they’d grow bored with her and stop on their own.”

This man was disgusting.

Maka frowned. How could people like this be teachers? How could people be so callous when it came to the suffering of others? “What about friends? Her mother told us she’d hang out with her friends, sometimes spend the night at their places. Do you think you could tell us who some of them are?” she asked. “We’d like to ask them questions if possible, see if they might have seen something.”

Soul stepped forward again, nodding his head. “Better yet, we need you to give use the names of everyone you had in your class that year.”

There was a moment where Mr. Rayner looked as though he was going to be defiant, to refuse their request. But it was only for a moment before he deflated like a bag of air, leaning against the lockers in defeat of a battle he hadn’t known he was a part of. “I’ll get you the names…”

Once the two had gotten the list of students who had attended his class the year Amanda had been abducted, the two had taken the car the police department loaned them and had gone to the elementary school to do the same with Anna’s teachers.

The results had yielded better results.

Her teacher, Ms. Cooper, a young, pudgy woman with a fierce temperament and a kind heart had informed them as soon as the two seated themselves across from her desk that she had suspected the Bailey kids were being abused. She had no proof as she couldn’t very well make the children strip to see the bruises, but she had been keeping an eye out, trying to find as much evidence as she could to bring to local authorities. She didn’t want to do it prematurely and risk making it worse, but now feared with one child missing, she had waited too long.

It was clear that Ms. Cooper cared much more about her students than Mr. Rayner had, and she was entirely willing to cooperate in whatever way she could, providing a comprehensive list of students in both Anna and Alex’s classes, a list of guardians for each of those children, as well as a list of reports the headmaster had of unknown individuals lurking around the property within the last six months. That one had been a very short two-pager, but still appreciated.

Anna had been a lively girl, always ready to help other students, playing with other kids, spending her recesses and lunch breaks with her brother. Unlike Amanda, who had been ostracized and abused by her peers, the whole class had loved Anna.

Well, they could mark ‘similar personalities’ off the list of possible additions to the victimology.

With a list of people to talk to and only so much daylight to work with, Soul and Maka had made the choice to split up to cover more ground. Maka would handle Amanda’s classmates. Soul would talk to Anna’s. With any luck, they’d find something.

That was how Maka found herself talking with two of the most annoying teenagers she had ever met.

Stacey and Mary were both fourteen, yet they dressed like they were nineteen and hitting the clubs. They were the last of the students that Maka had tracked down, and boy did Maka feel her brain cells dying with every word the two said.

“I still don’t get why you’re wasting your time talking with us and not hunting down the bad guys,” Mary said as she sipped her coffee, her attitude just absolutely awful, stuck-up, and snotty. “Like, all we did was go to school with the girl, it’s not like we knew her or anything.”

Stacey nodded her head in agreement, “Yeah. We spoke to her only when we had to, we’re not going to know what happened to her.”

Maka held her breath, wanting to sigh and smack her head against a brick wall. “I’ve talked with the rest of your classmates, and they all said that you two had a history of harassing her, on and off school property,” she said calmly, trying to keep professional.

Mary gasped, hand over her mouth, “That is such slander!” she yelled

“Yeah! We may have teased her now and then, but it’s not like we bullied her or anything!” Stacey added.

Oh, fun. They were going to deny it. “Please don’t pretend it’s not true,” Maka said, feeling her intelligence lowering even more as this conversation dragged on. “You can’t expect me to believe the entire class would lie about you bullying Amanda.”

Mary scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest while taking careful care to not spill her coffee. “I don’t get why it matters anymore, anyway. Amanda’s gone, it was two years ago. Live and let live, you know?”

“Yeah!” Stacey agreed.

The need to bang her head against a wall was increasing. “Look, I don’t care if you think you weren’t bullying her or not. I just need to know if you ever noticed any strange people watching you when you were with her outside of school,” Maka said, a bit sharper than she had intended, but it had gotten her point across.

The two girls flinched, shared a look, and looked ready to bolt.

“We never saw anything,” Mary insisted, standing her ground firmly.

“Well, there was that one guy,” Stacey had said at the same time.

Mary looked to her, a look of betrayal crossing her face. “Stacey!” she hissed.

Maka wanted to smile. Finally, they were getting somewhere. “What can you tell me about this guy?” she asked, looking to Stacey.

“It was no one important!” Mary said quickly, trying to do damage control. But, she was effectively ignored by her friend.

“Well, a lot of the times when we were with Amanda, I noticed there was always this guy watching us. He really stuck out to me because he carried a camera all the time, that and that his hair was blonde,” Stacey said, brining a finger to her chin as she thought back. “I thought he was stalking us, it was really creepy, but Mary said we should ignore him and he’ll go away—and he did just that, he went away!”

Maka nodded, already she had her notebook out and was jotting these down. “I see. And, when did you stop seeing him around town?”

The girl gave it some more thought, but it was Mary who spoke, rolling her eyes and giving an angry huff. “It was around the time Amanda went missing.”

“Your right! That is around when I stopped seeing him!”

Frowning, Maka wrote that down as well. “Do you think he might have something to do with her abduction?”

“Seems pretty hard not to be,” Mary snipped back.

Maka nodded her head again. “And, may I ask, why you never brought this to the police’s attention earlier?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Mary glared at Maka with all the fury a 14-year-old girl could possess, which is a lot. “Because I didn’t want us getting involved,” she snapped. “If we let it slip that we might have seen the kidnapper, we’re just making ourselves into targets, too! I have no intention of being kidnapped, thank you very much.”

That was a fair reason, a cowedly one, but she couldn’t blame her. Mary would have been twelve at the time, of course she wouldn’t want to get involved if she thought she was putting herself at risk.

“Okay. Okay. What else can you tell me about what he looked like?” She asked instead, veering the topic somewhere else. “Anything else that stuck out beside the camera and fair?”

Stacey raised her hand. “He always was dressed in dark colors, and in like, jeans and hoodies,” she offered. “No matter the weather, that’s what he always dressed in, and we had been seeing him for months, so it’s like, ew, gross don’t you have any other clothes?”

“It wasn’t like he was close, either,” Mary added, still bitter, still angry. “He was always a bit away, so we never got a good look at him.”

“Understandable,” with that, Maka closed her notebook and handed them a card from her pocket. “You two have been big helps. If you remember anything else that you think might be important, please don’t hesitate to call.”

Rolling her eyes, Mary took the card and slipped it into her bra. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Maka forced herself to keep smiling as she bid the two teens goodbye and going on her way. She had to find Soul, let him know what she had found. They had a description of what one kidnapper looked like—this was big.

~~~~~

“They were both enormous men,” the shopkeeper’s son said as he leaned against his broom in a lazy slouch. “One of them had one of those, like, buzz cuts. You know, the ones you see in military movies? They were also both pretty buff,” he added offhandedly, a yawn cutting through his description.

Soul nodded, “And you’ve been seeing them both around this area for a while now?”

The teen nodded, “A few times a week. They wouldn’t go into any of the shops or buy anything. They’d just stand outside their car and smoke. People watch. Talk. They’d do that for a few hours and then leave. They’d point at kids and talk among themselves—it was kind of creepy. I saw them following a girl around the area one day, so I just started walking with her as she did her errands, walked her home too. Forced the creeps to back off.”

“That was a good thing of you to do,” Soul praised, earning an embarrassed smile from the guy. Todd,  he corrected as he glanced at the nametag. “Anything else you can tell me about them?”

Todd scratched the back of his neck, “Well, they drove an SUV, it was dark in color, so it didn’t stand out too much, and, ah, I think the plates were from out of town.”

“That’s good, that’s great. You wouldn’t happen to remember the plate number, would you?”

To that, Todd shook his head. “Sorry, dude. I can barely remember the plates on my dads car, let alone some strangers,” he apologized, and then shook his head, “Though, there was one thing. I noticed one day that one of them had a tattoo on his right arm. I don’t know what it was, but it kind of looked like one of those Asian things.”

“Would you be able to draw it out for us?”

Todd once again shook his head. “They all look the same to me. A bunch of lines mushed together, sorry.”

Soul nodded and was about to ask something else when he noticed Maka running towards him. Turning his attention back to Todd, he smiled. “Look, you’ve been a tremendous help, thank you,” he said, reaching into his pocket as he saw Todd give another sheepish smile. “If you think of anything that might help us, if you see them again, or any other suspicious individual who catches your attention, call me and I’ll be down here as soon as I can,” he said, giving Todd his card.

“Thanks, dude,” Todd said, looking at the card and sliding it into his pocket. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled, not gonna let them get away with this,” he said, heading back into the shop to finish up his chores.

Watching him go, Soul waited until the door shut before turning towards Maka, just in time for her to slide to a stop in front of him, out of breath and panting.

“Soul…I…. I got… something…” she said between breaths, bending over as she struggled to breathe.

Soul chuckled, patted her on the back. “Let’s let you get some water and breath, fist,” he said in amusement. “I’ve got some information, too.”

And so, he had led her to a bench, left her there to buy some bottles of water, and waited until she had caught her breath and drank her water before letting them talk. Who knew how far she had run or for how long to find him, and he wanted to tell her she had been dumb and over eager to just start running to him rather than calling him. But she wouldn’t have been Maka otherwise.

It was a good ten minutes before they actually started anything.

“Amanda was being stalked months prior to being abducted,” Maka said, looking at her notes. Soul raised a brow. “Two of her former bullies said they saw the same man watching on numerous occasions when they were with her, and that he had vanished along the same time Amanda had.”

Soul hummed. “I’m hoping they were able to give you something to go off of for what he looked like.”

“They did,” she confirmed. “He had blonde, always dressed in the same dark hoodie with jeans, and carried with him a camera.” She paused, looked at her paper, and shook her head, “The only thing that can narrow anything down is the blonde hair, and he could have easily dyed it to a different color after snatching her.”

“He could have.”

“But it’s more than what we had earlier today!”

Soul smiled, nodded his head, “It is,” he agreed. “Even if it’s been two years, we’re bound to find something out from what you were able to find.”

Laughing, Maka nodded her head, leaning back against the bench as she laid her hands across the notebook in her lap, “What about you? You said you had found something out, too.”

“Ah, yeah. One of the shopkeepers kids had noticed a pair of dudes who had been hanging around the area for a couple of months,” he said, opening up his own notebook to scour the notes he had written. “They showed up about three months ago, and about three days a week they would stand outside and just watch people for a few hours before leaving. At one time, they started following some kid, so the guy joined the girl and helped her with her errands so the two would be forced to go away.”

“That’s pretty suspicious,” Maka frowned.

“Yeah, it is. Apparently he hasn’t seen them since Anna went missing, but, we don’t know for sure if they’re still in the area or not. He’s gonna keep an eye out, and if they show up, he’ll let us know.”

“I’m hoping you got some descriptions, too.”

Soul nodded, and handed his notebook over to her, rattling off the traits that Todd had told him. Big, adult, muscular. One had a buzzcut. One had a tattoo. Around their thirties. Drove an SUV. So far, he did have more to go off of than Maka did, and he had the advantage of it being so recent the men might still be in the area. That meant they had a higher chance of catching one of them.

Between their there suspects, Soul felt like they had begun making good ground.

“Let���s get a hold of the detective,” Maka decided, stretching her arms above her head.

It was getting late, Soul noted, they had spent hours going around Pocklington to go through their lists of people, and now the sun was setting. It would be night soon, and tomorrow would be another day spent investigating. Such was the life. “Let’s hope the old man hasn’t called it a night yet.”

Maka chuckled, swatting him on the arm. “He’s not too much older than us, so if he’s old, what’s that make us?”

“Not as old.”

She laughed again, and Soul smiled.

~~~~~~

The music of the bar was loud, but even the various rock and pop songs playing on the speakers couldn’t get the Disney songs out of Haruto’s head.  Between every order, verses from ‘A Spoonful of Sugar’ or the song those Siamese cats sang would play in his mind, the songs switching between being sung by Bea or by the actual vocals.

Needless to say, Bea had fun with the two movies they had watched earlier, and thus Haruto would say movie day had been a success.

“She certainly had plenty of fun,” Mara agreed as she sat at the counter where Haruto was working.

Haruto hummed, passing a freshly made Dark & Stormy to a customer. “That was the whole point of doin’ it, if I ‘member right,” he said with a healthy amount of snark. “She had fun an’ that’s all that matters.”

Mara smiled, placing one hand on her chin. “You know? I will never not be surprised by how well you clean up. You certainly look good dressed nice.”

Frowning behind his mask, Haruto looked down at himself—he had changed his clothes, of course, and was dressed in the long sleeve dress shirt and black vest that was the uniform of the bar. Of course, he wasn’t without his mask and gloves. Not even a uniform would make him forgo those. But, even then, he didn’t quite get how he looked any better than he did before.

“Yer a weird one.”

Mara smiled and laughed. “Moving on. Come on, Mr. Bartender, come and fix me up a daiquiri.”

Snorting, Haruto moved to instead start working on a rum & cola. “Pretty sure ya aint old ‘nuff.”

She gasped in full offense, moving to almost rise from her seat in a fury. “How dare you! I am older than you, boy! Don’t take me for some child!” she yelled.

“Then don’t act like one when ya get riled,” he retorted, passing the drink on and moving onto another customers. “Still, ya don’t have an I.D. on ya to confirm yer age, so I can’t sell to ya.”

She scowled, but said no more on the topic, instead favoring to turn in her seat and watch the people moving, dancing, and talking. She hummed, watching.

Haruto did his best to ignore her as he continued to work. A couple of Miller Lite twist-off to the two over there, cans of Budweiser to the partiers. Some Hurricanes, a sidecar, a paloma, a few shots of vodka, a whiskey sour. He continued to move, continued to mix and take, his actions robotic, rehearsed.

It was monotonous work, really. Mindlessly making the recipes he knew by heart, making a few short-word responses

He hated it here, that went without saying.  The people were too loud, too friendly, and too obnoxious. Then, once they got a few drinks in their systems, they were unbearable. The only saving grace was that they tipped well.

And, well, Haruto wasn’t going to frown at money. Life wasn’t cheap, two lives were more expensive.

“Well! My, my, my, my!”

And with that, Haruto frowned. Well, scowled, really. He looked up from the cosmo he was making to sigh and glare at the approaching newcomers.

Mara hid a smile behind a hand, chuckling a little. “Well, isn’t this a fun surprise.”

Collapsing into a seat beside Mara was his brother. He was a tall man, taller than Haruto, thinner, and dressed similarly, though his clothes much darker. His eyes were black as opposed to Haruto’s green, and there were hints of red in his dark hair. What marked him different from Haruto, what truly marked him as different, was the unnatural grin that stretched from ear to ear, an expression Haruto rarely saw leave.

Beside him was an older man who was a few inches taller than his brother, a white man with black hair and a scruffy beard forming around his face. He was stockier, dressed in a black tee and jeans, and had the years of anger and exhaustion painted on his face.

“Ichiro,” Haruto greeted curtly, and then looked to his companion. “Caleb.”

The man raised a hand. “Hey.”

“And I see Mara is here, too!” Ichiro said with glee as Mara waved at him, “Why, we just need Rosie and Astra and it’ll be like a family reunion!”

Haruto scowled, “let’s not. What can I getcha,” he asked, ignoring Mara’s whine of indignation.

“Whiskey sour, my dear brother!”

“Beer,” Caleb said.

Haruto nodded and began grabbing the drinks, handing them over within a minute.  “Wasn’t expectin’ ya to show up so soon,” he said, giving his brother a pointed glare. “Usually when ya give someone an advance warnin’, ya give em time to prepare.”

Waving his hand, Ichiro laughed, it was loud and obnoxious. “Why! Where is the fun if I let you get yourself all gussied up?” he asked, and when Haruto handed the drinks to them, he took a savoring sip of his whiskey sour. “Besides, I would think you’d enjoy your dear big brother coming down to visit.”

“Why would I enjoy it? I hate ya.”

Caleb raised a brow at Haruto’s words, taking a gulp of his beer and letting the bottle clink loudly against the counter. “That’s pretty harsh.”

“Don’t care,” Haruto muttered, taking some dirty glasses to the tub under the counter so it could be sent back to the kitchen later for cleaning. “Just drink an’ get lost, both of ya.”

Ichiro laughed, “You should be nicer to your customers, little brother.”

“He raises a good point,” Mara added, earning a ‘See! Dear Mara here agrees!’ from the man, “You’re going to get in trouble if you swear at your customers.”

“Fuck off.”

With his ever present grin, Ichiro remained silent as he sipped and watched, even Caleb was quiet—but Caleb didn’t talk much anyways so that wasn’t a surprise. Mara even resumed a contemplative silence. If it wasn’t for the fact that he knew the three, he would have said it was becoming downright peaceful, but he doubted the word was even a possibility when Ichiro was in their midst. It was always just a matter of time.

Twenty minutes had passed where Haruto made drinks for increasingly intoxicated men and women before that silence eventually was broken by his brother, as Haruto had expected.

He had been in the middle of making a nigroni when Ichiro chuckled and pointed at Haruto’s head. “You’ll need to fix yourself up, soon,” he said in a teasing tone, waving his finger around in the air. “Your roots are showing.

Instinctively, Haruto reached to touch his scalp, stopping before touching his hair. Scowling behind his mask, Haruto finished the drink and passed it down the counter, “Fuck,” he muttered. “The dye never stays fer long. It’s startin’ to piss me off.”

Ichiro chuckled, though Mara frowned in concern. “It’s not too noticeable, but it is rather frustrating that you have to re-dye it frequently, when Ichiro just needs to do it once and leave it alone.”

“I’m special, my dear, simple as that.”

Haruto grumbled, glaring at his brother and at Mara both before moving to fix up more drinks. More people were coming into the bar now, so he needed to keep his attention focused.

“Hey, kid,” he scowled, glanced at Caleb. “If you’re done being a damn weirdo, get me another beer.”

Haruto did that, grabbing the bottle and sliding it over to him with a glare, “There ya fuckin’ go,” he said, earning a nod of approval from his customer.

He left it at that. Caleb drinking in silence, nursing his beer like a baby at their mothers teat, while Mara and Ichiro chatted, catching up on old times. It had been months since either had seen the other properly, they had much to say, no doubt about it, and Haruto thought it better like this. That meant the other three were off in their own worlds and would leave him the fuck alone so he could attend to his other customers.

And he did just that. Serving drinks, taking orders, collecting payment. The usual bartending crap that he got minimum pay for.

He would have once again said it was becoming peaceful, but that was just going to bring bad luck—and bring bad luck it did.

“There you are!”

Haruto stiffened when he heard Maka approaching the counter. Thankfully, her attention was on someone else and not him, she didn’t even seem to notice him as she and her partner walked past. He looked past them and—sure enough that damn detective was sitting at the far end of the counter. Oh fucking Hell.

They talked, voices hushed. Haruto could hear them if he tried, but he didn’t bother. As on edge as he suddenly felt himself to be, he didn’t want to get involved, not in any way or form. He tried to not be noticed, tried to ignore and be ignored as he wiped the glasses and made his way to the other side of the counter where his own group was seated.

“Ah, so they’re here,” Mara hummed, and Ichiro was watching with a smile, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

Haruto looked to Caleb. “DWMA,” he said.

The man downed the rest of his drink. “In that case, fuck this, I’m getting out of here,” he said, standing up from his seat. An understandable response, Haruto would run if he could, too. But, he couldn’t. “You shoulda told me there were fucking meisters and weapons here.”

Ichiro shrugged, “It must have slipped my mind,” and made no move to get up, though both he, and even Mara, would be in similar danger if they were found. They just did not fear the academy as Caleb did.

Frowning, Haruto shook his head, “Would have if I knew ya were comin’.”

Face softening just a bit, Caleb reached over to lightly hit Haruto’s shoulder with a fist. “You be careful, kid. Even though I’m hightailing it out of here, if things go south I can be right back in here at first notice if you need me.”

That got something of a smile from Haruto, though it went unseen. “Yeah, yeah. Get yer ass out of here, ya drunk.”

He watched as Caleb lumbered through the crowds, heading out the front doors of the club. He watched his silhouette in the windows as he moved and vanished. Caleb was gone, out of the club, safer now that he was away from the two DWMA lackeys. The same couldn’t be said for Haruto, though.

Turning around to see if others needed more drinks, he saw the woman staring at him with such intensity that he knew she was looking at his soul.

His scowl returned.

“Hey, boss,” he said, throwing his towel off to one of the bins under the counter, already walking away, “I’m taking my break.” He didn’t wait for a response.

[rinrinp42]

Taking the Romance Out of “Necromancer”

@sumigakure Halloween Event 2017

Original Prompt: Prompt 5 (Urban Fantasy)/Bonus Prompt (Grave Robbing)

Word count: 1626

Notes: I’ve been wanting to write a Necromancer!Detective!Tobirama with ghost partner!Izuna for ages so I figured that this was a good time to knock it out.  The magical rituals that are included here within are completely made up by me, though I did look up various symbolism for the components used.  

The only sounds that filled the air under the harvest moon was the quiet thwump thwump of loose dirt piling on top of other dirt and a tarp, accompanied by the whistling of the wind as it passed over the ground.

Do we have to do this now?  It’s the middle of the night.

“I highly doubt anyone will be happy with even the idea that I’m digging up the esteemed Judge Uchiha Baru barely a week after his funeral.”

Yeah but you got permission from the Sheriff.

The man in the hole huffed but ignored his companion.  Soon he hit the coffin and began to break it open.  Soon he was able to see the head of the former Judge.

Uh, Tobirama?

Tobirama gave a distracted hum.

“Where did I put-” he pulled himself out of the hole, glancing around for the bag he had brought with him.

The hair on the back of Tobirama's neck stood up, bristling much like his cat did when danger was around her.

Tobirama!

He ducked, sweeping his leg across the dirt.

A snarl erupted from above him as the figure began to fall forward.  Tobirama was caught underneath the other and could only grunt as an elbow landed on his gut.

“Just what the hell are you doing?” the other demanded.

“Madara?! What the fuck?” Tobirama sputtered, pushing the older man away and scrambling to his feet.

“I always knew you had something to do with Izuna's death, and now you're digging up another Uchiha!”

Tobirama felt as if a shard of ice had stabbed into his heart.

“You're the only one who thinks that!” Tobirama snapped.

Madara growled and dived at him, knocking Tobirama back onto the ground.

Tobirama punched at Madara's head, trying to get the other off of him.

Madara cursed, rearing back from the pain.  Tobirama scrambled backwards, putting space between them.  He glanced around for his bag, knowing he had things to use as improved weapons.  He caught sight of the bag to the side and half way between him and Madara.  He pushed himself towards it, desperately trying to reach it before Madara attacked again.

Madara recovered and bolted for him.

They collided right next to the bag.  Madara grasped Tobirama’s arms, try to wrestle the other to the ground.  For his part, Tobirama tried to push-throw Madara away from him.

The air became saturated with a earthy scent - chrysanthemums, Tobirama's mind supplied.  He could taste tin on his tongue and he cursed, trying more desperately to throw Madara away from him and reach his bag.

“I won't let you desecrate Uncle Baru!” Madara growled, grappling him.

Behind Madara there was a flash of green-grey movement.

Tobirama's eyes widened, and he twisted, maneuvering the two of them to be perpendicular to where they were.  Madara barely noticed, still engrossed in trying to wrestle Tobirama to the ground.  The Uchiha was thusly surprised when Tobirama suddenly threw himself forward, knocking them both onto the ground.  He tried to flip them over, but Tobirama pressed the opposite way, keeping on top of Madara.

Tobirama arched into Madara with a yelp of pain as claw-like nails gorged across his back.

Madara froze as he took in the figure over them.

It had clearly once been human, but nothing about it could be called thus now.  Elongated limbs with boney growths poking through the muscle and skin to be visible from a distance were attached to an emancipated torso.  The milky eyes were wide as the mouth under it snapped at them, thin strands of dark, oily hair contrasting against the dry, cracked green-grey skin.

Over top Madara, Tobirama twisted in his lax grip and donkey kicked the monster away from them.

“Move!” Tobirama snapped, scrambling to his feet and pulling Madara up.

Without a thought, Madara darted away from the, the thing.  He almost stepped into the newly opened grave, having forgotten it was there.  He only stopped because Tobirama cursed and yanked him back.

The monster now stood between them and Tobirama's bag, with the pile of dirt blocking one side of the hole as well.

Madara licked his lips, unsure as to what they could do, his eyes darting over and over again to the growing wet patch on Tobirama's back as the other faced off again the monster.

Madara suddenly knew that he was about to die.  There was nothing that either of them could do, and this thing was going to kill them.  He was going to die at the hands of a monster with the only sounds being the wind and the odd creaking of wood.

Suddenly Tobirama turned around and pushed them both into the grave.  There was a boom from over their heads and the monster went flying backwards.

Madara gapped as a wood mannequin jumped over the hole.  Tobirama hissed in pain as he tried to get up.  Madara automatically steadied him with hands to his hips.

“I need my bag,” Tobirama gritted out, “He can't keep the Ghoul busy forever.”

Madara stared up at him for a moment.

“Alright, let's go.”

Tobirama flashed him a quick grin.  Madara helped Tobirama get up and out of the grave, supporting him as they made their way around where the mannequin and the Ghoul were circling each other, the shotgun that was in place of it's left arm regularly going off.

When they got to the bag, Tobirama pulled out a tealight candle, a feather, and small silver plate.  The candle was placed on top of the feather on the plate and a ring of dirt encircled it.  Tobirama produced a lighter, and mumbled something as he lit the candle.

Madara could only watch as the Ghoul stumbled before the mannequin shot it again.  The difference this time was that a hole actually went through the Ghoul and didn't close.  Given that the hole was in the head, the Ghoul fell over after a pause.

Tobirama sighed, “What took you so long?”

The mannequin opened the block that looked like a nutcracker’s mouth and Madara jumped as he recognized the voice.

“Hey it's not my fault you decided to leave the Puppet in the car!  And in a bag!”

Tobirama snorted, “I wasn't exactly expecting a Ghoul here.  How did it even get in?  There's protections against Undead around this graveyard.”

“I don’t know, maybe our intrepid murderer caught wind of us looking into Uncle Baru’s death.”

Tobirama hummed, contemplatively as he put the supplies back in his bag and pulled out a sketchbook and two tall taper candles.  Both candles had symbols and some sort of strange language carved deep into them.

“Izuna, can you go and get some remnant of the Honorable Judge?”

The mannequin, no, Puppet, moved over to the grave and jumped down, only to return to them with a few hairs in hand.  As it- he did so, the sketchbook was propped up by the bag.  Tobirama took the hairs and used a piece of thread to tie them to the bottom of the blue candle, placing it at the top of a blank page of the sketchbook and lighting it.

The candle burned quickly, and the wax dripped down the candle and created an outline of Uchiha Baru with various symbols appearing within and around the body.

After the image was complete and the wax began to make a line over top the image, Tobirama blew out the candle.

“Help me over to the grave,” he looked up at the Puppet.

“Why?  What happened?”

“The, the Ghoul carved into his back,” Madara answered.

Though he said nothing, aggravation and shock seemed to emanate from the Puppet.  Madara could still picture the disappointed and worried face that his brother would make when someone he cared for didn’t show the same level of caring about themselves.  It was disconcerting to realize that Izuna still cared for Tobirama even after his death.  But then, many of Madara’s assumptions had to be reevaluated based on what he had already seen tonight.

Izuna helped Tobirama over to the grave, and Tobirama lit the aqua candle and dropped it into the coffin.

“Sit down before you hurt yourself more.  I’ll fill in the hole and then we’re going to Reto.”

“It’s not that bad Izuna.  Honestly, if you keep motherhenning me, I’m going to put your skull in jello.”

Maybe Madara didn’t have to change his opinion on Tobirama just yet.

“Why the hell do you have my brother’s skull?!”

The two glanced over at him, obviously having forgotten he was even there.

“Because it was the only way to make sure that my corrupted teacher didn’t turn him into yet another ghostly slave.”

“Technically speaking I’m bound to the skull as a connection to my living days and to Tobirama as a way to keep me from being chained by any other Necromancer.  But it really just means that I can actually help with the whole ‘Death Protector of the City’ thing in a way that I couldn’t when I was alive,” Izuna almost shrugged as he began to shovel the dirt back into the hole.

Madara’s mind reeled from the information.

“You mean there’s more than just that Ghoul thing?”

Tobirama snorted as he gingerly sat down, “There is a whole community of what most would call ‘the supernatural’ to the point where there are subgroups within it.  I just deal with those that fall under Dead/Undead.  Like ghosts, zombies, and vampires.”

Madara could only stare at him before getting up and moving to the tarp that still held a good amount of dirt.

“Can we just flip this in?  Because I have so many questions but I really don’t want to be here all night.”

[lovelacedx]

When: October, 2017

Out of all of her appointments for the day, Fern was looking forward to this one the most. He was a new client, coming in to have his tarot cards read and she had already done her research. She had just blown out the lavender incense burning in the corner of the parlor when the door opened and in walked Jesse Andrews. 

Fern knew who he was, of course. People seemed to believe that she lived her life walking through graveyards and communicating with the spirits in the beyond, but she enjoyed a good party as much as the next. Especially if she could make a quick buck off some girl drunk enough to believe any bullshit she spewed out while waiting for her drink at the bar. Behind the lush drapes, she waited, pretending not to have heard him just to see what he’d do. It was usually a good way to get a read on someone. If they waited patiently on the old velvet loveseat in the drawing room, they weren’t as inquisitive, or their nerves would often get the better of them. If they wandered around the room, looking at the accoutrements lining the walls or picking up the book she left out specifically for that reason, they tended to make themselves at home wherever they were, comfortable in any situation.

Jesse kept standing, glancing around the room and called out, “Hello?” and it was time for Fern to make her grand appearance. Not with smoke or an overly tacky accent that was reminiscent of the crappy late night television psychics from the 90’s, but with a soothing smile and a delicate handshake.

“Mr. Andrews. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Jesse.” He smiled quickly, clearly a little uncomfortable but the soft smile remained on her face. After he shook her hand, he shoved his right back into his pocket. She’d be willing to bet it was to keep from displaying a nervous habit. Flicking his fingers, drumming them, picking at his nails, something you didn’t let people see. No one wanted anyone to have any real sort of information on them and a tell was the worst kind of information. Someone knowing when you were nervous could essentially ruin you if they got their hands on a juicy tidbit of gossip that turned out to be true. “Yeah, likewise. Look, can we just get this over with? I’ve got some place to be tonight.”

She couldn’t have asked for a better opening. He was in a rush to get out of there, even though he was the one that called this meeting. “Ah, yes, you have a gig tonight, don’t you? Where are you spinning?” He raised an eyebrow, all while she smiled serenely. Please fall for it, please fall for it.

“I never told you what I did for a living.” Hook, line, and sinker.

“You didn’t have to, dear. The spirits did.” Wikipedia and the inability to sleep at night did, actually. He didn’t look like he was necessarily buying it, but he was still there and seemed to grow a bit more uncomfortable, shifting his weight between his feet. “Shall we get started?” He gestured for her to lead the way and she sauntered off towards the parlor where she did the readings. A wooden table sat in the middle of the room with two chairs on either side. They were both velvet lined but they didn’t match, as it would take a little bit away from the idea that she scavenged for what she had and that it was all given to her by her goddess. Finding out she got them from a furniture store a couple blocks away would really ruin the mood she worked so carefully to set.

The room itself was lit up with string lights, a vase with day old flowers starting to wilt on the chest she kept all of her things in. Granted, it was a false bottom and there really wasn’t much in there, but no one ever went looking. It was bad karma to go snooping around what didn’t concern you. The crowning glory, though, was the crystal ball that sat up on a shelf directly in the middle of the room, her crystal tiara balanced on it precariously. She never used either of them, they really were only for aesthetic appeal and people ate that shit up.

“Is Fern your real name?” he asked as he followed her in, glancing around the room. His eyes were drawn to the crystal ball, just as everyone else’s were and really, Andrews, be any more predictable.

She glanced back at him, eyebrows raised. “Is Jesse yours?”

“Point taken.”

Her favorite deck of tarot cards sat in the middle of the table and she motioned for him to sit at the side the cards were facing. She picked up the cards and shuffled them wordlessly, flawlessly, before holding them out for Jesse to take. “Take these and shuffle them.” He didn’t ask why or even look confused but the slight hesitation told her that he was questioning her words.  “It will transfer some of your energy into the cards, so that you will have an accurate reading.” As he shuffled the cards to his heart’s content, she explained. “You’ve asked for a ‘mind, body, spirit’ reading.” She said this like she was announcing it to the powers that be, but it was more because she found a lot of her clients to be forgetful idiots and needed to be reminded of why they were here. “Three cards. Three ways to look at yourself.”

He handed the cards back and she sat them on the table, drawing the first one. “Mind.” When she flipped it, it was The Sun. The only bad thing was … it was facing her. “The Sun.” She paused for dramatic effect, making him wait out the result for just a moment before she continued, “When rightside up, The Sun means success and accomplishment, but sadly, it is reversed. That means loneliness and unhappiness. You find yourself longing for company that isn’t there …” Where he originally seemed to disbelieve her and (rightfully) think she was a fraud, he shifted, straightening where he sat. Okay, Fern. You’re on the right track.

“Body. The Nine of Cups … reversed.” He seriously needed to get his shit together. “You spend your time overindulging in things that only bring you pain. They will do nothing but hurt you at the rate you’re going.” If he at least had gotten it rightside up, it would have meant that his body was in decent shape, but she didn’t have to look very closely to notice the fact that his whole body just screamed exhausted: he’d been slouching on the way in, feet dragging a little, and the bags under his eyes were larger than the Prada purse she’d bought last week. He was hanging on her words now, desperately awaiting what she would say next, she could tell by the way he was leaning forward, leg beginning to shake under the table.

Last but not least, “Spirit.” She was hoping for him that this card was good, that he got something positive out of this session even though the negatives meant he had something to work on. “Justice.” Thank you, Maiden, Mother, and Crone. “Your spirit is focused harmony and equality. All you wish is for the world to be at peace and for the factions at hand to stop warring with each other.” Give him just enough information to satisfy him, leave him reflecting on himself instead of picking out a detail she might have messed up and narrowing in on that. It appeared that the spirits on the other side had spoken, but really, when your client was an out and proud transman, it wasn’t hard to figure out that he was tired of dealing with transphobia. “Mr. Andrews, I suggest you reevaluate what is truly important to you. You have a wonderful life and I would honestly hate for it to come down around you.”

He hadn’t said anything throughout the reading, not even a scoff that would have suggested she got something wrong. In fact … he seemed shaken. Shaken was a good sign, it meant that she had done her job well and used the tools at her disposal to get him to believe whatever crap she pulled out of her ass. He stood slowly and extended a hand again. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, dear.” And as he left the room, with his cash on the table, Fern breathed a sigh of relief.

A sucker was born every minute.

[franciscretarola]

Matera, the Brigantaggio, Southern Italy’s Mostly Unknown History

There was a lull during our tour of Matera's sassi, the former cave homes of workers, farmers and shepherds carved into the gorge beneath the city's elegant "Civiltà" and "Piano" neighborhoods.  Sasso literally means "stone" in Italian. The homes had been excavated from the calcareous tufo stone and fronted over the centuries by what are often elegant facades. The rest of our tour group, a family from Seattle, was still inside a small sasso that had been turned into a museum.  My wife Cathy and Kateri, a professional photographer and staffer at our Philadelphia Abruzzo-dedicated restaurant, stared out over the densely packed and compelling warren of the Sasso Caveoso, one of two sassi quarters in the city, apparently reflecting on what we'd just seen. The cave home was just slightly larger than my South Philly row house living room but until the 1950s had been shelter for thirteen people, a donkey, pig and chickens.  All the family's possessions - mostly equipment used for farming and raising animals - were stowed on the walls.  There was one table with a large wooden serving board and two chairs.  The home had just one bed which stood high above the floor to separate the sleeping family from their animals and afford the chickens a place beneath to roost.  It was both a sobering look at the desperate circumstances once faced by the common people of Matera and an impressive display of ingenuity: each sasso had an intricate system for water collection - rain is scarce in this part of Basilicata - that was connected to a common cistern shared by its immediate neighbors. When the family's cistern was filled, runoff was channeled to the common container; nothing was wasted.   

Our guide, Luigi - a trim, dry-witted and instantly likeable guy with thick, professorial glasses and dressed casually in jeans with a flat cap - leaned back against the stone facade of a sasso and stared pensively at the ground.  Before the tour had started we'd talked a bit about the town and local history - this was not my first time in Matera - and I felt we'd had an instant rapport. So, I screwed up my nerve and asked him what I'd been dying - for years, actually - to ask someone from Basilicata. We spoke in Italian to keep our conversation private. 

"So...what do you think of Carlo Levi and Christ Stopped at Eboli?"  Luigi's face first registered a mixture of surprise and fear but resolved into a knowing smile.  "How much time do you have?"   

First published in 1945, Levi's book has come to define much of Italy's south, especially Basilicata.  For most people, it's all they'll ever know of Basilicata, called "Lucania" in antiquity and during the Fascist period (Mussolini was trying to evoke ancient Rome and inspire a renewed imperial spirit), unless they've heard of or been to Matera, whose sassi are now a UNESCO World Heritage site and were used by Mel Gibson to stand in for Palestine in his film "The Passion of the Christ."  Levi was a vocal critic of fascism.  He was arrested and then, like many other left-leaning intellectuals and opponents of fascism, sent into "exile" in the remote south, specifically in his case to the towns of Grassano and Aliano (which he renames Gagliano in the book).  His account of the appalling living conditions, poverty and malevolent neglect (centuries old, by every form of government and of every conceivable kind, from a lack of educational resources and infrastructure to access to medicine) suffered by Aliano's townsfolk and other lucani (citizens of Basilicata) moved postwar Italy to (briefly) countenance the "Southern Question" and seek remedy. It has deeply affected readers all over the world, including me.  

Levi's description of the poverty in the sassi (delivered in Eboli by his sister, who'd had to stop in the town to receive official permission to visit him in "Gagliano") is particulary grim:   

"...Of children I saw an infinite number. They appeared from everywhere, in the dust and heat, amid the flies, stark naked or clothed in rags.  I have never in all my life seen such a picture of poverty... I saw children sitting on the doorsteps, in the dirt, while the sun beat down on them, with their eyes half-closed and the eyelids red and swollen; flies crawled across the lids, but the children stayed quite still, without raising a hand to brush them away. They had trachoma. I knew it existed in the South, but to see it against this background of poverty and dirt was something else again. I saw other children with the wizened faces of old men, their bodies reduced by starvation almost to skeletons, their heads crawling with lice and covered with scabs. Most of them had enormous dilated stomachs and faces yellow and worn with malaria." 

At one point during her exploration of the sassi, Levi's sister was followed by bands of children begging not for coin, but for quinine. 

Eboli stirs the emotions and Levi's heart was certainly in the right place (his actions as well: his atrophied skills as a trained physician were much needed in malaria-plagued Aliano) and much of what he writes about Italy's neglect of the south was - and is - certainly true, but after much reading and travel I began to believe that, however well-intentioned, the book’s tone is condescending, its view of history distorted by a northern perspective and, to create the desired effect, its depictions of the rural population exaggerated. Luigi agreed. 

"For years we've been living with Levi's book on our shoulders. People come here looking for his lucani, his Matera and his Basilicata. I think they see what they want to see."  Levi's lucani peasants are superstitious creatures (that much was true, and to some extent is still, and not just in Basilicata), immune to or unknowing of logical process, cause and effect.  They seem almost another species, existing beyond the boundaries of time and untouched by the influences of the region's many conquerors, from Greeks and Romans to the Piemontese army of Vittorio Emanuele.  Their physical appearance reminds Levi of depictions of ancient Italic peoples and to him shows no evidence of later ethnic incursions. Their stoicism and desolate world view, bereft of any hope, are born of millenia of futility and neglect.  To hammer home the desperate situation he found, Levi - knowingly or not - created mythical beings beyond our understanding or experience.  This device was effective but Basilicata (and much of southern rural Italy) still suffers the stigma that his book and descriptions, and other less well-intentioned depictions, created.   

"Farmers and villagers then might've been simple, often ignorant, but they are not now and never were stupid.  They certainly understood most of the reasons they suffered, as well as who might carry some of the blame.  Their beliefs weren't all based on emotions and mysticism." 

Levi's bias and prejudice are clearest when he discusses the local peasants' obsession with and  vibrant emotional connection to the Brigantaggio, the guerrilla war fought by southerners from 1861 into the 1870s in opposition to the unification of Italy under Piemontese rule, Italy's fabled and much-celebrated Risorgimento.  He contrasts this persistent and vibrant link to the past with the peasants' apparent indifference to and distrust of Italy's more recent nationalistic adventures: in the First World War two decades before his exile and the expedition to "Abyssinia" then in progress. Unlike some of the town's bourgeois citizens, the very same element who had tended to favor unity over continued Bourbon rule in 1860, the farmers and workers show no nationalistic zeal.  They seem to feel that any expedition designed to capture territory and displace others to allow for Italy's expansion, even if they themselves might profit from access to arable land, is doomed from the start and fundamentally wrong. Though many of them fought, suffered and died in the "Great War," they never discuss it.  But they seem perpetually ready to discuss the briganti and their exploits; every locale seems to have some historic connection to the doomed resistance.   

Levi places the brigantaggio in a context of previous uprisings - to invading Greeks, Romans, etc.  and posits that the briganti reaction couldn't be rationally justified but could be understood as an emotional response.  The peasants, he argues, reacted with an understandable but irrational and hopeless attempt to strike out at the fates and cultures that seemed to persecute them. Maybe Levi actually believed this.  His upbringing in Piemonte occurred during a time when many of the dark and brutal facts about Italy's unification and its effects on the ancestors of these very same peasants had been suppressed, swept under the rug and willfully ignored.  But there were still living briganti during Levi's exile. He even met one of them during his time in Grassano. The brigantaggio was not ancient history to the villagers. Modern study has focused welcome light on the Risorgimento, the Brigantaggio and the Savoiarda reaction.  Eyewitness accounts from both sides and previously ignored scholarship have been revisited, reevaluated and resynthesized, and the resulting picture - of Garibaldi, Vittorio Emanuele, Cavour and the Savoy military - is not a particularly pleasant or flattering one.  What emerges is less an image of a war of liberation than of a violent and abusive invasion, occupation and systematic exploitation.  Southern Italy, the new scholarship argues, was conquered, occupied and turned into a colony of the North. 

Prominent Italian journalists, politicians, thinkers and historians have been questioning the national narrative for decades.  Novelist and screenwriter Carlo Alianello (one of the modern founders of revisionism and a cinematic collaborator with Visconti and Rossellini),  economist and one-time Italian Prime Minister Francesco Saverio Nitti, historian and politician Giustino Fortunato (both from Basilicata) as well as Marxist thinker and politician Antonio Gramsci (a Sardinian) all believed northern development had been achieved, to some extent, at the South‘s expense.  Much of the best known revisionist scholarship on the Risorgimento has been done by non-Italian academics (English historians Denis Mack Smith, Christopher Duggan and Martin Clark have all, to varying degrees, questioned some official accounts and flattering portraits of the movement and its heroes). But the current spear point of reevaluation is probably Pugliese-born journalist Pino Aprile.  During our stay in Matera, I happened to be reading his book "Terroni: All That Has Been Done to Ensure that the Italians of the South Became 'Southerners.'"  (Terroni is a pejorative for southerners still in use in the north which links them to the dirt and land, their "terra"; it insinuates ignorance, filthiness and dark skin).  Aprile clearly has an axe to grind and sometimes has figurative hams for fists (and no dead horse fails to be beaten, repeatedly), but his work seems well researched (his layman's tome does not always provide source attributions, however) and his arguments well supported.  They've gained a lot of traction and currency recently, and I've found few coherent retorts.  Many Italians, including some southerners, would rather not know, but Aprile seems to have dedicated his life to speaking what he feels is the truth, or at least one side of it: the side that has gone mostly unheard.   

The economic story he weaves (mostly using others' scholarship, especially that of researchers Vittorio Daniele and Paolo Malanima) contradicts almost all prevailing conceptions about the Bourbon realm, its wealth and sophistication and the condition of its subjects, particularly in relationship to northern and central Italy, at the time of unification.  He points out the comparative wealth of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, the vast monies in its coffers and in circulation and the hale condition of its currency (the Kingdom used gold coins while the Savoy realm had converted to paper money).  The Kingdom of Sardegna (as the Piemontese realm was known) had exhausted its funds in a series of wars, including adventures in the Crimea, and was heavily in debt. "War or bankruptcy," one of Cavour's deputies wrote in 1859. Taxes were low in the South and, contrary to the popular image, the Kingdom had a relatively developed industrial base: it was named the most industrialized state in Italy after the 1855 Paris World's Fair, and third in the world.  Under King Ferdinand II, it began liberal reforms and pioneered antituberculosis campaigns in Italy, as well as public housing and assistance programs (though the kingdom was hardly liberal and Ferdinand’s reactionary nature and narrow-mindedness undermined these efforts and alienated much of the kingdom‘s intelligentsia).  Aprile also notes that, preunification, southern emigration was minimal and significantly less than the diaspora from the North, which stands preconception on its head.  And indeed, I'd been surprised to read years ago in Richard Juliani's "Building Little Italy: Philadelphia's Italians Before Mass Migration," that the founders of the city's Italian quarter in the years before Italian unification had been northerners, especially from Liguria.  The United States’ first dedicated Italian Catholic  parish, Mary Magdalen de Pazzi  in the city's Bella Vista neighborhood, was founded by these northerners in 1852, eight years before the war.   The destruction and economic disruptions caused by the invasion were exacerbated by the newly unified Kingdom's seemingly punitive measures against the South: disproportionate taxes were imposed, ironically to pay for the "liberation"; many southern industrial plants were dismantled and sent north, as was the gold of the Bourbon treasury.  Other plants were closed.  Once vibrant cities, most notably the port of Gaeta, were left in ruins.  The former Bourbon army, tens of thousands of men, was disbanded, leaving scores of (armed, politicized and militarily trained) men unemployed (they would eventually form the core of the brigantaggio). These actions and policies would persist for decades and, Aprile argues, built the North and created the modern South.  But they are not nearly the darkest part of the story.   

The Piemontese response to popular dissent and the brigantaggio was violent, at times sadistic.  Critics of the new regime were jailed, tortured and sometimes killed.  Martial law was imposed on the entire South and the populace forced to endure a brutal occupation that drove many of them, who might have been otherwise indifferent to the regime change, to support or join the briganti.  It was illegal, for example, to be outside town boundaries with certain (vaguely defined) quantities of food or supplies as authorities suspected these were intended to sustain the briganti, who indeed relied on local populations for support (which was offered gladly or obtained by threat and violence).  For a time it was illegal even to have stores in the larder, as this was deemed suspicious. And the penalties were harsh, including jail sentences, corporal punishment and summary execution. Whole villages were razed to the ground, their populations (including women and children) murdered, displaced or forced into concentration camps. Aprile's rage appears most in the chapter discussing the Savoy army's well-documented atrocities in the towns of Pontelandolfo and Casalduni, in Campania, whose alleged support for the briganti, he maintains, prompted the worst acts of reprisal ever committed on Italian soil (which would include Nazi war crimes during World War II). Individual acts of rape, torture and murder are relayed in excruciating detail, including the names of the victims. Many unarmed and nonresisting villagers were bayoneted, hanged and burned alive in their houses, slaughtered even in the churches where they took refuge.  The diary of one of the northern soldiers present at Pontelandolfo, Carlo Margolfo from Sondrio in Lombardia, is matter-of-fact: "We entered the town; immediately we began to shoot priests, men, however many as it happened, then sacked (the town) and finally we set the town aflame."  He adds, "...it was impossible to stay inside (the town) because of the great heat, and such noise was made by the poor devils whose fate was to die toasted under the ruins of the houses. We, instead, had everything during the fire...bread, wine, capons, nothing lacking."  The general responsible for the slaughter, Enrico Cialdini, enjoyed a long and profitable political career in the service of the newly united Italy.  A piazza in Venezia bore his name until January of 2014, when the controversy surrounding Casalduni and Pontelandolfo forced the town council to make a change.

Of course atrocities are common in wars, especially guerrilla wars, and the briganti were not innocent or blameless. But the scale and systematic nature of the northern repression and reprisal leaves no room for comparison. Tens (maybe hundreds) of thousands of southerners were killed, and many more traumatized, injured, displaced, imprisoned and impoverished during the war and brigantaggio, which in some places persisted into the 1870s, more than a decade after the South's fall.  And there are components to the repression and treatment of the "terroni" that stink of racism and a lack of the respect one human being affords another.  The severed heads of executed briganti were routinely displayed on pikes in southern towns to dissuade locals from supporting the resistance. Photos of dead and mutilated briganti were hot commodities in northern cities during the period. Many of these images are easily found on the internet (though one recurrent photo supposedly of severed briganti heads turns out to be from the Boxer Rebellion). Images of both living and dead guerrillas were used by northern social scientist Cesare Lombroso to form his ominous theories about physiology and criminal behavior. Indeed, the Nazis later enthusiastically (and ironically: Lombroso was Jewish) parroted many of Lombroso's theories on the connections between race, ethnicity, handicap and criminality.  The museum of his collection - which is still in operation at the University of Torino in Piemonte - includes the skulls of hundreds of "criminals," including several briganti.  He believed he'd identified a "southern" racial type which was, of course, inferior and more prone to criminality than the "northern" example.  Over 150 years after the brigantaggio, the relatives of the briganti displayed in this "museum" are still fighting for the return of the remains for proper interment. 

A female brigante, or brigantessa, has come for many to symbolize the fate of the South.  Michelina Di Cesare was born in 1841 in the small village of Caspoli, a satellite town of Mignano Monte Lungo, in what today is part of Campania’s Caserta Province. Photos of her alive - posed in traditional village costume, holding a shotgun and pistol and with what looks like a sheathed bayonet in her belt - create the romantic impressions of a beautiful, fire-eyed,  mountain warrior.  She and her husband Francesco Guerra, an ex-Bourbon soldier who’d resisted the draft under the new regime, were part of a band of briganti that operated around Mignano from 1862 until their deaths in 1868.  Michelina was not the only brigantessa.  Many southern women, after seeing their communities suffer and their brothers, husbands and sons punished, jailed or executed as briganti or Bourbon and briganti sympathizers, supported the resistance, even as armed participants. This created quite a stir in mid-19th century Italy.  Northern authorities strove to rob them of their femininity and dignity, and some period reports refer to them as “drude,” or druids, a derogatory term meant to degrade and dehumanize them.  Some sources diminished their role and dismissed them as mere companions to the male insurgents.  But by all accounts, Michelina was a competent and courageous guerilla and her band a feared cell.  In 1868, she and her compatriots were betrayed by local collaborators, trapped and killed by Northern soldiers and Carabinieri under the command of Emilio Pavellicini, who’d used no small amount of coercion to get some locals to turn on the band.  Most authoritative accounts have Michelina dying in a gun battle, falling next to the body of her husband (though some maintain she was taken wounded but alive and then tortured and raped before her execution).  The last photo of Michelina is posthumous; she is nude from the waist up, her face and body a study in torment and already showing the effects of decomposition.  Di Cesare’s corpse was displayed nude, under armed guard, in Mignano’s town center, as a lesson and deterrent to the local population.  It’s said to have had the opposite effect, and the local brigantaggio intensified and persisted for several more years.  

(Michelina de Cesare) So, if Aprile and the revisionists' studies have any merit, Levi’s notion that the passion and nostalgia Grassano and Aliano’s common folk felt for the brigantaggio was irrational or logically unjustifiable doesn’t hold water.  But he was a product of the schooling and propaganda of his time, especially as a well-educated son of privilege raised in early 20th-century Piemonte.  The history Levi (and most educated Italians, then and until the present day) had been exposed to had been scrubbed and rewritten.  “We have made Italy, now we have to make Italians,” remarked nationalist Massimo D’Azeglio (who also famously said that "uniting with the Napolitani was like uniting with lepers") after the war.  A narrative was created to justify the invasion and elevate its purpose.  And, in fairness, there were many, north and south, with purer intentions who had long dreamed of a united Italy, Garibaldi included.  There had also been many actively against it and millions more indifferent to the question of unity (many liberals, including the blond “liberator,” were later disillusioned by post-war governance and policy; Garibaldi eventually resigned from Parliament, disgusted with the use of martial law in Sicily).  Statues of the Risorgimento's heroes were erected throughout the new country and streets and squares named after them, often despite local opposition.  If you find yourself in any major southern town, you’re sure to see places named after Garibaldi, Cavour, Nino Bixio or Vittorio Emanuele.  The southern kingdom and southern Italians were portrayed as backward, uncivilized and in need of the North’s intervention.  And as decades of Savoy economic policy and political repression had their effect, this portrayal was seen to be true, even among some southerners. It was not until decades after unification, Aprile argues, that metrics showed southern farmers and workers to be appreciably worse off than their northern counterparts.  The great southern diasporas that followed further reduced and depopulated the South.  

Italy’s conscience has, from time to time, been awakened and attempts made to redress the inequalities.  In the 1950s La Cassa per il Mezzogiorno sought to build the region’s infrastructure, stimulate economic growth and fill medical and educational gaps in its poorest areas, but these initiatives were mostly short lived, poorly administrated and informed by the idea that southerners were responsible for their condition.  This tendency to judge the South undermined efforts and engendered a prejudice which has, more recently, laid the groundwork for separatist groups like the Lega Nord, whose founder Umberto Bossi was for a time Minister of Federal Reform under Silvio Berlusconi.  Aprile goes to great lengths to compare the relatively few monies sent southward as part of the Cassa with the vast haul pilfered from Bourbon coffers and raised through punitive taxation of the South during the decades after unification. And he tries to connect the racism of men like Lombroso with the politics and words of Bossi and his allies. 

This racism or, if you prefer, virulent ethnocentrism, is real and permeates daily Italian life, and I‘ve had my own small experiences with it. During my first trip to Italy, I stayed with a wealthy family in the town of Vincenza, in the Veneto.  My Italian then was limited, but I vividly remember a car ride with five or six local twenty-somethings to what turned out to be a fairly decadent and enjoyable pool party. They were blasting Bob Marley in the Alfa Romeo and the overloaded car attracted the attention of the local Carabinieri who stopped us and interrogated the driver.  After a brief but tense exchange, we were sent on our way.  The car erupted in laughter and animated conversation.  My host, who spoke perfect English, explained that Carabinieri were invariably stupid guys with few options and from ignorant southern regions.  I think she’d forgotten that my grandfather was from Abruzzo.  Years later, while studying Italian in Firenze, a regular at the bar my new Canadian drinking buddy and I frequented asked us why we were studying the language.  My Canadian friend was studying Florentine history, which pleased our interlocutor, whose name was Alessandro.  When I mentioned my Abruzzese heritage as part of my reason, he was less impressed. Alessandro described himself as the scion of a noble Florentine family, though I’ve no idea if it was true.  He pointedly explained to my friend that the Abruzzesi were just “cafoni,” poor peasants without much going for them. “Cafone” is a term that implies ignorance, lack of couth and culture, and can be a synonym for terrone.  I asked him if he’d like to discuss the issue privately, around the corner, but he declined.  He took off instead to buy cigarettes, and things de-escalated.  The owner of the bar - a fat, loveable and improbably promiscuous Napolitano named Massimo - explained that Alessandro was a bit of a tool and his ornery attitude might be attributed to his wife’s flagrant cheating, which had made him the butt of jokes at the bar (which was in the Oltrarno and strangely named Camelot).  Minor stuff, but illustrative. 

In 2005, while revisiting what was the last Bourbon fortress to surrender to the Piemontesi, Civitella del Tronto in Abruzzo’s Teramo province, I mentioned to my guide Bruno (the fort’s curator) the stickers I’d been seeing on house windows and cars around the town and other places in the region that read “Zona Degaribaldizata” (“De-Garibaldized Zone“).  He said they where part of a recent movement, which was only half joking, calling for the return of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.  He then gave me an edition of the movement’s magazine, “Due Sicilie.”  Its cover was a photo of the door of an apartment building in Torino. There was a handwritten sign advertising vacancies but beneath the notice, in smaller script, it read: “Non si acettano meridionali,” southerners not accepted. It was from the 1970s.  

(Civitella del Tronto)

In Philly, Mary Magdalen de Pazzi’s northern parishioners resisted the waves of southerners when they came and newcomers were directed to a second Italian parish founded in 1898 for their use, according to Stefano Luconi’s “From Paesani to White Ethnics: The Italian Experience in Philadelphia.”  Luconi writes that Antonio Isoleri, the Ligurian priest who was pastor at Mary Magdalen from 1870 until 1926, was particularly dedicated to preserving its northern character. This dynamic, Luconi notes, was common throughout North American Italian communities, from St. Louis‘s Hill neighborhood to immigrant settlements in Providence, RI. I’m not sure what kind of mindset all this history (both official and revisionist), discrimination, prejudice, regionalism and economic privation engenders in most southerners, the depth of anger or offense felt, the inferiority complexes and desperation that might exist or the desire for vindication, but I’ve plenty of friends from the South and I can guess.  And the Italian-American community (which is less a community than an identity and far from monolithic), comprised overwhelmingly of the descendants of southern immigrants, bears some of the South’s stigma and suffers its own complexes.  Most Italian-Americans travel to the same spots in Italy as other tourists: Roma, Toscana, Venezia, maybe a visit south to Pompeii or the Amalfi Coast.  And places like Roma and Firenze certainly merit a visit.  They are among the world’s most significant historical and cultural jewels and the first places I went in Italy.  But most Italian-Americans will never explore the regions that produced their ancestors and if they do most will stick to the home town and things specifically connected to family.  Some of this has to do with a loss of language: Southern Italy is less accommodating language-wise than the North to the English-speaking traveler and the loss, which amounts to a loss of one’s roots and a blow to personal identity, can be painful and embarrassing.  But I don’t think that’s the heart of it.  Many Italian-Americans can be almost as dismissive and ignorant of the broader southern culture as any northerner or common tourist, maybe more so (many open-minded northern Italians will admit that life in the South is more rooted in traditions, that it has more soul).  Perhaps there is an embarrassment that attends emigration and engenders a desire to justify your decision by denigrating the place you left (though many early Italian immigrants made multiple trips back and forth and lived a kind of double life, one in America and one Italy).  When I first began traveling extensively in Abruzzo, many of my South Philly neighbors, including those whose families had roots in the region, were baffled.  “Fran, what’s in Abruzzi?” one of them asked.  “My nonno said there was nothing back there. He said all they had were dirt floors.”  There was a kind of shame expressed, though none of them would have ever used that word. Compared to the splendor of Roma, the art of Firenze and romance of Venezia, what could the apparently forsaken places our parents and grandparents had fled - and always seemingly with nothing - offer us?  Who wanted to be reminded of such deprivation, squalor and sadness?  But those of us who do go are incredibly rewarded. And the ignorance of and prejudice we see everywhere directed at the South becomes difficult to bear, even in polite conversation.  We walk around with chips on our shoulders not completely unlike those born by our meridionali friends.  And if one loves Italy - as millions worldwide claim to - one hopes for the resolution of the “Southern Question.”  Ironically for many who’ve posed the question before, no solution seems possible until the entire country, particularly the North, comes to terms with its history. 

At the end of the tour I asked Luigi how he felt about current developments in the sassi, the luxury homes and boutique hotels created from the former homes of the poor, the restaurants and craft shops, the influx of wealthy tourists, including many northern Italians.  We ourselves were staying at one of the new hotels and had mixed feelings about it.  Luigi thought our ambivalence  was misguided.  Obviously, he owed his job to these changes.  “The economy moves here when it isn’t doing so well in a lot of other places in Italy, especially the rest of the south.”  This was true; the week before we’d been in Abruzzo which - though gifted with inspiring, evocative and unspoiled cultures and some of Italy’s most dramatic natural landscapes - has been perennially challenged economically and was now still traumatized from the enduring effects of the economic crisis and the 2009 earthquake.  The vitality we saw in Matera was nowhere in evidence in Abruzzo.  “Our job is to make sure that people know the history of this place, that they understand and respect the people who built it and made their lives here.  But it would be a mistake to keep it as a lifeless museum.”  Luigi explained that he’d left his job as an economist, which must be a pretty depressing job in early 21st-century Italy, and followed his passion. Telling people about the area’s history and patrimony gave him a sense of purpose.  And he was making a living. 

But mostly, Luigi thought our perspective on the sassi and their legacy was too influenced by Levi and based on ignorance. "The conditions in the sassi were not always as Levi described.  For much of their history, the sassi were considered marvels and celebrated in period accounts and literature.  This, I think, is one of the unintended consequences of Christ Stopped at Eboli: the idea that the sassi were always as overcrowded, poor and unsanitary as they were in Levi's time." 

He thought I should read up on the subject and suggested two books: Giardini di Pietra (Gardens of Stone) by Pietro Laureano and Matera: Storia di Una Città (Matera: History of a City) by Lorenzo Rota. We shook hands and parted with plans to meet again later to explore some of the caves in the gorge across from the sassi.  Kateri (naturally, for a twenty-something) vectored away from Cathy and me, and I, gently but sufficiently chastened by Luigi for my lack of historic understanding, dragged Cathy to the nearest bookstore to buy the books he had recommended.  

When you stare out - let's say from your privileged terrace in a cave hotel constructed from a deconsecrated medieval church, a glass of Aglianico del Vulture in hand - across the densely packed, intricate "plan" of the sassi, one predictable effect is to feel yourself taken back to another, ancient time.  The uniform and warm color of the so-called "tufo" stone, the complexity and apparent randomness of the settlement make the sassi seem almost natural formations, part of the gorge's topography. The views of the gorge across from the city, steep rocky walls pocked with unadorned natural and manmade caves where shepherds and monks once sheltered, heighten this impression. Inside the town, the simple sassi and the facades of the small shelters built in front of some caves are all fashioned from the same stone.  The view, for me at least, creates a profoundly peaceful feeling. That and awe. That is, until I imagine poor children in rags lingering in front of every entrance, the stench from human and animal waste, the suffering and disease.  But ancient Matera was not like this.  

(Matera) 

Al Idrisi, an Arab geographer and one of history's most important cartographers, visited Matera while working for Roger II, the 12th-century Norman King of Sicily, on a study of the latter's realm. He found the city "magnificent and stupendous," and Al Idrisi had been around, from Islamic Spain to the Balkans.  Writing in 1595, Eustacchio Verricelli gushed about Matera: "The air is so good that very few people get sick and the inhabitants live very long: many of them live ninety, one hundred years. The men are of average height and clever... The town is made by buildings in white stone and dug caves where rooms, cellars, mule sheds, cisterns, hollows for grain keeping and even hen houses can be seen... When it gets dark, after a trumpet sounds, all the inhabitants place a lamp out of the houses and buildings. Watching the Sasso Barisano from the Cathedral (located on the Cività above the sassi), it looks like a starry sky... the sky and the stars are under the feet and not above the head...". Other written and artistic depictions describe a harmonious, well-organized community integrated with the Cività.  Today, it's possible to visit an enormous cistern located beneath the Piazza Vittorio Veneto (in the so-called Città del Piano quarter, also built above the sassi), with pilasters, fifteen meters tall in places, chiseled from stone (it was one of several such cisterns beneath the upper town). The water it collected fed terraced gardens throughout the sassi. Water descended through intricate channels to nourish walled gardens in front of the homes in the settlement's lower levels. These green plots often sat upon the roofs of the homes below.  Two larger, constantly flowing channels called grabiglioni washed each sasso neighborhood of sewage and waste which in turn was collected, dried and turned into fertilizer and humus. Each home and cluster of homes also collected water. The sassi were self sufficient, self sustaining and verdant, a 21st-century environmentalist's green dream. Nestled in the gorge, carved into or fashioned from the stone, they sheltered their inhabitants from heat and wind. Middle-class townspeople as well as laborers and farmers made their homes in the Caveoso and Barisano neighborhoods, living side-by-side. 

Things began to go downhill in the mid-17th century when the town became the regional capital. Development of the upper Cività and newer Piano neighborhoods followed and the population swelled, stressing and damaging the vernacular infrastructure.  Still, according to Laureano and Rota, some equilibrium seems to have persisted until the 18th century when a decline in the local pastoral economy (due, in part, to the decline of the South's importance in the international wool trade) dealt the peasants a major blow.  The beginning of the next century brought more unrest when Joseph Bonaparte, installed by brother Napoleon as the King of Naples, presided over a division of public lands.  Joseph's reforms favored the landed gentry and new bourgeoisie over ecclesiastical claims but, in effect, broke the peasant economy which depended on working small plots of land (as well as work done for third parties and civic projects). Joseph also moved lucrative regional government offices to Potenza, north of Matera.  The Bourbons eventually returned but the power of the new bourgeoisie grew.  Development of the areas along the rim of the ravine - essential in the water collection and dispersement systems that sustained the settlements and already weakened by construction projects in the previous century - intensified with buildings oriented away from the sassi and toward the expanding Cività and Piano quarters and the trade roads leading from Matera.  In the 18th and 19th centuries, to quote Laureano: "...the pits, granaries, cisterns, vicinati (clusters of houses centered around a well) and gardens on the upper plain, major nerve centers of the systems of the sassi, are buried and hidden beneath the streets and buildings of the new physiognomy of power."  The sassi, gradually cut off from the upper city, their water systems compromised, became poor ghettos.  The decline increased after the fall of the Bourbons in 1860, when ecclesiastical holdings were liquidated and the middle class, much of which had favored unification, gained control of vast tracts which had been previously worked as small plots by local farmers.  The situation of local peasants and workers became dire and, as Rota notes, their options extreme: "il brigantaggio prima e l'emigrazione poi" ("the brigandage first and emigration after"). Those who stayed crowded into the only place available to them, the sassi, exploiting every undeveloped space, converting granaries, stalls and even wells into the single room homes where they lived in filth with their animals and that are now preserved as museums. The vestigial water systems were further degraded and unable to supply the numbers then living in the sassi. Disease, especially malaria, was rampant. The wonder that had been Matera was gone and its previous splendor faded from memory.   

(Cistern beneath Matera)

By Levi's time the sassi had become the fetid, diseased hell described in Eboli.  Fascism brought ineffective, poorly considered projects to improve the lives of their denizens.  The two grabiglioni drainage channels were buried and paved over to create carriage roads to ease entry into and connection between Sasso Caveoso and Sasso Barisano.  Many of the bottegas found today in the sassi exploit these relatively new corridors. But this was a mortal blow to what remained of the sassi infrastructure and left the inhabitants to rely on what insufficient modern systems existed. Conditions only got worse. Levi and other reformers' protests eventually spurred the government to act. In 1952, evacuation of the sassi began.  New settlements were built on Matera's periphery to house the displaced.  There, they'd have running water and toilets, modern gas and electric service.  Luigi took Kateri and me on a drive through one of the new sections.  Viewed from the car window they seemed like smart, moderately-sized homes. They were generally built on two levels and organized into compact units. There was plenty of green space and, in all honesty, they didn't seem entirely unpleasant. Luigi thought so as well, but told us that many former sassi inhabitants had been traumatized by the move. Some of them didn't understand how to use the modern amenities they found in the new apartments. Some resisted relocation and most agreed that essential aspects of their lives in the sassi - traditions, daily rhythms, a sense of community - were lost in the transition.  But modern Italy, which had largely forgotten the remarkable past of the sassi, looked forward and not back, misinterpreted Matera's legacy and encouraged modernization. The postwar economy, writes Laureano, needed "new houses, new ways of living, new products... necessary to the consumer economy." The sassi were abandoned and each individual property sealed.  Without maintenance, some began to crumble. The first collapses stirred conversation about the sassi, whether they could be saved and to what end. Enter, yet again, Carlo Levi (and a little irony).  At the end of the sixties, he lent his voice to the cause of conservation: "The sassi are not of minor importance among the most celebrated and important things that exist in our country, Europe and the world... (the example of the sassi) is of a very great value and unique in the study of urban planning, architecture, agrarian culture and world culture." Film maker Pier Paolo Pasolini, who set his Il Vangelo secondo Matteo (The Gospel of Matthew) in the sassi (starting a trend for biblical epics set in Matera), also called for intervention. An international debate began on the future of the sassi and in the 1980s national laws were passed to encourage restoration and investment. Things began to move. In 1993 Matera's sassi were named a UNESCO World Heritage Site; their unique history and contributions would be celebrated. 

But many (maybe most?) visitors still focus on the Lucani, Matera and sassi described in Eboli, the sassi and inhabitants preserved in modern accounts and photographs: the sassi as a former vergogna nazionale, a national shame. The accomplishments of the people who built and for centuries maintained the sassi, and the potential lessons the historical sassi might offer a resource-challenged 21st century seem largely obscured and unknown. 

In truth, I'd known a little bit about the more positive past of the sassi before Luigi and Messrs. Laureano and Rota took me to school.  I remember reading some of Verricelli when we'd been in Matera the first time ten years before, especially his description of the lights of the sassi as stars under his feet. During that visit we'd stayed in one of the first hotels to locate in the caves. An older gentleman, maybe the owner, saw me reading a history of Matera at breakfast on the hotel's terrace and invited me on a tour of the complex.  He focused especially on the complicated system for collecting water, explained how it was connected to others in the surrounding caves.  He was cheerful, effusive and proud of the ingenuity the network displayed. Despite his obvious familiarity with the sassi - he told me he'd been among those forced to relocate - he smiled broadly when discussing his former life in the caves. His face expressed wonderment. But I was also reading Eboli at that time, as well as other depictions - some written by former sassi inhabitants - that described overwhelming poverty, sadness and stoic perseverence.  The idea of the caves as wonderous or even sometimes happy places wouldn't stick. They were undeniably beautiful to look at, exhilarating to walk through, but their legacy was a sad one: poverty, inequality, neglect. 

That night, after our tour with Luigi, we navigated the alleys down through the Sasso Barisano to a trattoria recommended to us by him and located on the neighborhood's former grabiglione.  The cucina was simple but elegant - whipped sheep's-milk ricotta with honey, local salumi, purèe of fava with olive oil and bitter cicoria greens, a rustic, coarse-ground pork sausage and a potent Aglianico del Vulture, all capped off with several shots of the local Amaro Lucano.  Kateri left us after dinner to explore the nightlife on the Cività and Piano and Cathy and I returned to the hotel.  I stepped from our spacious cave room out on to the terrace overlooking the sassi.  A light rain was falling and I was a little drunk. The sassi reclined in the gorge below me, bathed in the warm glow of the street lights.  The rain and wine gave the view a kind of Impressionist aspect. I rested my arms on the terrace wall and saw, really, for the first time, the stars beneath my feet. 

The next morning we drove out of Matera on a day trip to see the ruins of Craco, an abandoned medieval village in Basilicata that had gained some fame as a kind of ghost town.  The first glimpse of the place, towering above a narrow crag and silhouetted against a pewter sky, was truly spooky.  There seemed to be no human presence. Olive groves were scattered in the valley beneath the road. Goats grazed silently among them, apparently unattended.   

(Craco)

We drove to a spot just beneath the village, which was cordoned off with barb wire-topped chain link.  On the other side of the road, across from the fence, another herd of goats grazed beneath a soft pine canopy.  A light rain fell. Kateri got out to take some photos of the goats, and Cathy and I looked for some way to get behind the fence.  A young shepherd appeared from below the pines, dressed in a toque and heavy jacket.  He seemed a little bemused at the attention Kateri gave him.  Just then a old man crested the hill on the road above us. Nearly toothless and apparently agitated, he asked- mostly in an impenetrable dialect - what we were doing there, what we wanted.  I said we wanted to see the town.  “Ma non c’è nessuno (But there’s nobody)!” he yelled, and then launched into a passionate but - for me - indecipherable rant from which I could only make out the refrain: “Non c’è nessuno.”  The shepherd smiled at him and waved.  We located a sign on the fence which explained that tours could be arranged at an office a short drive beyond the ruins. 

A young man - short, stocky and dressed in the somber, worn but clean clothes I associate in Italy with farmers - sat behind the counter at the office. We’d have to fill out a waiver if we wanted to tour the ruins.  “Where are you from?” he asked.  When I said Philadelphia his eyes lit up. “Il paese di "Rocky" (The town of ‘Rocky‘).”  I smiled and said yes and then told him that they’d filmed a lot of the most recent “Rocky” near our house.  “’Rocky 6,’” he responded, without hesitation.  His name was Vincenzo and he’d be our guide.  He gave us all hairnets and hardhats and told us to drive to the gate beneath the ruins.  He met us there after ten minutes. 

Vincenzo explained that the first damage from slides had occurred in 1963. As Levi explains in Eboli, the earth in this part of Basilicata is comprised mainly of a slippery clay.  Slides are commonplace.  Part of Aliano, including most of its mother church, had simply fallen into a depression beneath the town, gone in an instant.  Vincenzo pointed to an area of debris beneath the main ruins.  This had once been the lower part of the town and contained a piazza, a cinema and pastry shop.  A long street, lined with shops, would’ve wound down the hill to where we were standing.  Now there were just piles of brick, wood and plaster.  Vincenzo didn’t attribute the disaster solely to clay soil.  Instead, he spoke of neglect.  The retaining walls that had terraced the hill and provided support had not been maintained.  The medieval tower that crowned the town and provided its most dramatic visual point had been hollowed out during Fascism and an enormous municipal water tank installed. But the system had degraded over time. Water was not contained and leeched into the hill.  Vincenzo’s presentation was calm, authoritative and delivered in a matter-of-fact tone.  Contrary to the information I’d found online, the village had not been completely evacuated after the first incident.  Parts of the town remained occupied until the 70s and some individual paesani even held out into the 80s and 90s.  The people of Craco had had to be pried from their homes. We continued up the hill to the beginning of the ruins.  A solitary donkey stood next to a detached, ruined house beneath us, near where Vincenzo had begun his talk.  Vincenzo explained that one of the last holdouts had remained in the home, defying authorities to demolish his house with him still in it.  He opened another gate and we entered the ruins of Craco.   

It’s difficult and probably unnecessary here to describe the feeling of walking through such a complex, strange and painfully beautiful dead place. There’s a presence to formerly vibrant abandoned places that defies explanation.  The town, like many Italian villages, was a captivating collection of winding and descending alleys.  The buildings were constructed with honey-colored bricks made from the clay soil. Grass and wildflowers tufted from wall cracks and on terracotta roof tiles.  Frail wooden doors swung open to reveal spartan, furnitureless interiors. Vincenzo continued his narrative, stopping from place to place to show us a compelling vantage or point out a crumbling, treasured artifact, or where one had once been.  The town had been evacuated without much care given to the security of its artistic and cultural patrimony.  The bells, altars and pipe organ had been stolen from its mother church. The ceiling above the church’s main altar had caved in due to goats grazing on the roof.  Vincenzo pointed out the space beneath where once had been an altar. It had once been decorated with frescoes.  Local boys, he said, had used the frescoed niche as a soccer goal. 

We reached the summit of the town, just beneath the main tower and entered a home whose windows afforded panoramic views of the surrounding countryside, misty hills of green and brown which rippled to the horizon.  Vincenzo offered some stories of village life, of how his grandfather had resoled shoes in the town and also been the street cleaner, of annual festivals, especially the procession for San Vincenzo, his namesake and the town’s patron saint. He spoke of daily rhythms, town life, social etiquette and funeral customs and how, on at least one occasion involving the death of an unpopular woman known (for her colorful language, ornery demeanor and mistreatment of her husband) as “the devil’s mother-in-law,” those customs were ignored.   

I sheepishly asked him about briganti and he enthusiastically launched into a series of local stories and myths.  Vincenzo was in his twenties, but the connection to the brigantaggio Levi lamented is still strong.  He said that Piemontesi authorities had liked to display the severed heads of briganti at the entrance to the local towns, and that Craco was no exception.  Levi himself references this intimidation tactic. The most famous local brigante, Giuseppe Padovano (called Cappuccino and from Craco), was an ex-Bourbon soldier and sometimes fought under the command of the most feared of all brigante leaders, Carmine Crocco.  From our window overlook, Vincenzo pointed to a place at the foot of the town where there’d been a skirmish between Cappuccino’s band and northern forces.  A little over twenty briganti were taken prisoner.  They were brought to a place beneath the town in front of the church honoring San Vincenzo and lined up for summary execution.  Craco’s most prominent noble family, the Cammarota clan, who had supported the Risorgimento and opposed the brigantaggio, assembled to watch the execution, cheering on the northern soldiers.  Town mythology holds that the briganti turned toward the Cammarota and damned the family to a barren, heirless future.  And according the Vincenzo, this came to pass.  The last of Craco’s Cammarota, an old woman, died poor and alone in the family palazzo. Though most said she’d been a kind and decent person, she’d been ostracized by the local community.  The wounds and divisions were deep and her family’s sins never forgiven. Levi notes this divide between the working class and gentry in Eboli.   

As we descended the hill and again moved into the rubble field, Vincenzo explained his hopes for the town.  In 2010 Craco had been placed on the list of the World Monuments Fund, an international non-profit dedicated to preserving endangered architectural and cultural treasures.  But the monies amounted to little more than a trickle.  Vincenzo, who’d done his research on his own using the few books he could find, the internet and testimony of Craco’s older population, hoped to create a group of volunteers dedicated to the town’s preservation. They would work independently of the outside organizations and government agencies in which he had no faith. Craco’s population had numbered more than 2000 in the 60s but had declined since the evacuation to around 700 souls.  Most of them were moved into a new settlement, Craco Peschiera, a forlorn cement development a few kilometers from the old town.  The young people raised there, he lamented, had no idea of the town’s cultural and artistic treasures or traditions.  They saw only pale shadows of these and grew up with little or no pride in or connection to the town.  Most longed to escape.   

Vincenzo pointed to where the pastry shop had once been.  His face brightened as he told stories his father had told him about his life in Craco as a very young boy.  He’d go to the shop and choose several treats and then run to find Vincenzo’s grandfather, who was usually sweeping up in the piazza.  “Dad, I took three!” His grandfather would smile, reach in his pocket and pull out the money needed to pay.  “And where we’re standing, this was the piazza where everyone assembled each night. The theater was just over there.  There was music and fireworks on festival days...”. 

We stood alone on crumbled brick, surrounded by silence.        

[heatherereyna]

Paris FIc - This is the Fluff Version.  To read the SMUT Version, go to my AO3 Chapter 5.  If this is your first time reading this FIC, All Five Chapters are found in AO3.

https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeatherEReyna/works

Oh, The Smut –Yuuri Has to Leave – And More Smut

Chapter 5

Gasping for air, Victor has too pull off Yuuri’s delicious lips.  Oh, how he does not want too.  As Victor pulls away, he feels Yuuri chasing for more.  Chuckling just a little Victor says, “Yuuri, let me breath.”

Hazel eyes look up at Victor, Yuuri’s cheeks blushing, “Sorry.  I just really love kissing you.”

With that, Victor leans in, pressing his lips onto Yuuri’s, chasing his tongue, biting down on his lower lip, yearning for more.  Wondering if Yuuri is willing to go further.  If Yuuri is not ready, he will wait.  Yuuri is worth waiting for.  Victor has never felt what he is feeling now.  He would give everything to Yuuri, he would give the world.  Victor wants to make Yuuri feel good, inside and out. Yuuri deserves so much.

Yuuri looks up into Victor’s vividly blue eyes with a yearning, wanting, lust, Victor is sheepish, knowing what Yuuri is asking for.

“Yuuri, are you sure?  I can wait until you are sure.  I don’t want you to fill that I am pressuring you.  Yuuri…”

Yuuri pulls Victor back in, kissing him hard, letting Victor exactly what Yuuri wants and just how sure he is.

Victor’s heart thunders in his chest, wanting to burst out.  His grin wide, parting his mouth as he presses his lips back down to Yuuri’s, flicking his tongue at the seam of Yuuri’s lips. He’s so happy be could literally just burst as he tasted the sweetness of the champagne they drank earlier.  His kiss is hard, their tongues intertwining.  Victor felt hot all over, filled to the brim with adoration and arousal knowing that Yuuri feels the same.

They have sex.

Waking up in Victors arms felt nice.  Looking up at Victor's face, Yuuri could see that Victor was still sleeping.  How Victor looked at peace, he looked so happy.  Yuuri could feel his chest rise and fall with every breath.  Yuuri could fee that he could watch Victor for eternity.  He knew that he was going to have to go back today.  He dreaded this.  All Yuuri wanted was to stay there with Victor.  He never wanted to leave.  Was it possible to feel this already, to feel love already?  He could only hope that Victor felt the same way.

It was still early, only after 5am.  Yuuri drifted back to sleep, bringing Victor closer to him.  Holding him tighter, kissing the side of his neck.  Victor gave out a moan and held onto Yuuri tighter.  Both slept for a few more hours.

It was Victor that stirred first, kissing Yuuri on his forehead.  Yuuri stirring awake.  “Good Morning Sleeping Beauty.” Victor stated sleepy.  Yuuri looking up to Victor, pressing his lips softly onto Victor’s, “I could get used to this.”  Victor biting down onto Yuuri’s lower lip, “Me too Yuuri, me too.”

“I need a shower; you care to join me Victor?” Yuuri looking over at Victor.  “Do you even have to ask my dear Yuuri?” Victor chuckling.  They dragged themselves out of bed and headed to the bathroom.  Victor taking in Yuuri, grinning, causing Yuuri to blush.  Victor could watch Yuuri blush all day if he had his way.

After showering and getting dressed, both headed down-stairs to get breakfast.

Chris, Otabek, and Yuri were already in the kitchen.  Chris was cooking breakfast.  Looking over at Yuuri and Victor, raising an eyebrow, “well, look what the cat drug in. I’m guessing your night was not quite?” Victor giving Yuuri a squeeze, “you know I don’t kiss and tell Chris.”  Yuuri’s face becoming a deep red.  “From your boyfriend’s face, that explains everything.” Chris chucking.  Thinking to himself, boyfriend?  Chris was calling him and Victor boyfriend, smiling.  Yurio, gagging, “gross Chris, I think I am going to go puke now. Thanks!” Sputtered Yurio.  Otabek laughing.  “Guess I need to make extra now that your two are here.” Chris stating.

They all ate breakfast with few words, with Victor sitting next to Yuuri, one hand under the table on his leg.  Yuuri, with a constant smile plastered on his face.  Chris, watching, the two interact with each other, thinking that it looked so natural between the two.  Chris had a pretty good feeling between these two.

After Breakfast, almost 11am now, Yuuri and Victor headed back up to the guest room. Once inside, Victor pushing Yuuri back again the door, pressing hard into Yuuri’s lips.  Victor knew that Yuuri had to leave.  He did not want Yuuri to leave.  He wanted Yuuri to stay with him.  Victor has never felt this way about anyone before, nor so sure.  Yuuri sensing Victors needs, “You can come see me, you know.  Next weekend if you’re not busy.”  Yuuri desperately questioning Victor.  “Oh Yurri. I want too but I have deliveries that weekend.” Victor replying.  “Oh, um… that is alright.  Maybe the week after then?” Yuuri looking at Victor with such sad eyes.  “Please don’t look at me like that Yuuri.  I hope you know I would do anything for you if I could. I will see what I can do.  I cannot promise you anything though.  I will call you every day or text you every day if you will allow me?” Victor looking back into Yuuri’s eyes.  “I would love that Victor.” Is all that Yuuri could say.  Kissing Victor hard on his lips, intertwining their tongues, only stopping to come back up for air.

Victor walking Yuuri out to the car, Yuuri put his things onto the back seat.  Kissing Victor before getting into the car, sighing deeply, not wanting to leave.  Victor knowing this, telling Yuuir that he should get going before he must pay a late fee or additional day for the car rental.  Victor reassures Yuuri that he will call or text every day until he is able to go see him.  Victor tells Yuuri that he was planning something special for them to do and to be prepared. This brings a smile to Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri has left.

Yuuri returned the car a little late but did not have to pay another day.  He was glad for that.  He drove all the way back without stopping to eat.  Feeling a bit hungry now, deciding to find a place to eat.

He found this little café that had outdoor seating.  Yuuri ordered his food.  Sitting about the long weekend he had with Victor, going over the pictures he had on phone.  How he was starting to miss Victor and it had not even been a full day.  He was feeling pathetic.  He was hoping that Victor would find a way to come over on the weekend. He did not know if could wait two weeks.

The server bought out his food.  Thanking him. He finished eating.  Paid the bill and headed towards his flat.

He felt so alone in the flat.  He really wanted Victor here with him.  He wanted to feel his lips upon his own.  He wanted to be able to hold him in his arms.  He wanted to be able to lay with him is his bed or sit with him on the couch while cuddling up and watching a movie.  He just wanted Victor there with him.

His phone buzzed.  It was Victor texting him.

Victor – Yuuri.  I hope you made it home alright.

Yuuri – Yeah.  I a home.  I miss you already Victor.

Victor – Oh Yuuri, me as well.  I hope I was there with you, to hold you so close in my arms.

Yuuri – You’re going to make me cry Victor.

Victor – Do not cry Yuuri.  You know I am not good when you cry.

Yuuri – I feel so alone Victor.

A few minutes pass by and Yuuri stares at his phone worried that he said too much.

Victor – Sorry, Chis was asking me something. Yuuri, do me a favor.  Wrap your arms around you.

Yuuri – Ok.  But I will have to set my phone down.  Hold on.  Ok.  I can see the texts. Now what Victor?

Victor – Now feel that is me hugging you. I am there Yuuri, hugging you, whispering into your ear.  Everything is going to be alright.  Yuuri….

Yuuri – What Victor?

Victor – Uh, never mind.  Anyhow Yuuri, I must go but I don’t want too.  Are you going to be alright?

Yuuri – Yeah.  I am tired.  I think I am going to go to bed.  I need to get up early and head over to the rink.  Even though I took the year off.  I still need to get in some practice.  Victor, are you going to call or text me tomorrow?

Victor – Yuuri, I promised you that I would. Have a good night my Sleeping Beauty and I’ll talk with you again tomorrow.

Yuuri – Good Night Victor.

With that, Yuuri went into the bedroom, changed into a tee shirt and boxer-briefs and crawled into bed, pulling the blankets over and hugging onto the extra pillow, eyes closed, dreaming of his Love, Victor.

Yuuri woke up too early.  It was before 5am.  Ugh he thought!  Just lying in bed, trying to go back to sleep, 30 minutes past, he was not going to fall back asleep.  Yuuri decided to get up and put some coffee on.  Maybe he should take this time to write.  That is why he was taking this year off, to write.  He was starting to have doubts.  Maybe in reality, it was just to take a year off, to reevaluate his skating career or maybe he just needed a break from everything.  Whatever it was.  He was not expecting to meet Victor and have his life turned upside down.

Yuuri needed to go to the rink.  He needed to skate.  Skating normally calmed him.  The rink would not be open until 8am for figure skaters and ice dancers.  He had several hours.  He decided to drink his coffee and try to write.

******************************8******************************** 

Chapter 1

( Title )

The skies above were vividly blue, feeling the sun’s warmth upon his cheeks, just a few cumulus clouds in the sky above.  This was the day he decided to visit that winery he had wanted to, Nikiforov Winery.  He had thought about his visit for days, trying to plan it all out.  What would he see first, the vineyard, the tasting room, the cellar, perhaps stroll thru the vineyards?

Arriving at the Nikiforov Winery, getting out of the car, looking at the castle, it was much more beautiful than Yuuri imagined it to be.  Suddenly, Yuuri found himself on the ground with a brown hair poodle licking all over his face.  He could hear a spirited kid yelling for the dog to get off.  “Makka, off, come here Makka,” grabbing her and putting the leash back on.

He heard a familiar voice, “Yurio, you’ve been told to keep Makka on a leash. You know how excited she gets.”  Giving a handout to the poor boy on the ground.  “Oh, it’s you.  Yuuri? Right?  Here, let me help you out.”  Chris grinning.  “Uh, sure thing Christophe.  Christophe, right?” Yuuri asked back.  “You can call me Chris, Yuuri.” Chris grinning.

******************************8********************************

Yuuri stopped writing. He was starting to feel hungry. He wondered if that bakery would be open yet?  The one the was just below his flat off to the right.  He thought that they should be since it was now after 6am.  Deciding to get dressed to head down there. Closing his laptop, he would have to come back to the story later, thinking.  Making his way down to the bakery to grab a pastry and espresso.

Sitting outside at one of the small tables, the floral shop was starting to open.  All the fresh cut flowers coming out to be displayed, made the area smelled nice.  Yuuri would have to remember to pick up some flowers before returning to the flat. The streets were starting to be filled with people, Watching the on passers.  Yurri did enjoy watching people.  They often fascinated him.  Finishing his coffee and pastry, heading over to the flower shop to pick up 2 dozen mixed flowers to add to his flat.  They should make the place smell better.

Heading back up, putting the flowers in a vase, deciding to grab his skates and gear to head out to the rink.  This was going to be a long week Yuuri thought.  That is if Victor was able to come this weekend.

It was Wednesday.

At the rink, Yuuri decided to warm up doing his old programs first.  His intention was to go back to competition after the year.  He just was not sure how Victor’s role in this was going to be?  He was hoping that Victor would be able to follow him, hoping that he would be able to find someone to run things at the winery, perhaps Chris.  Chris seemed to be his right hand man and knew everything that there needed to be known in order to keep the winery up and running.  This is something that Yuuri was going to have to eventually discuss with Victor.

Looking at the time, it had already been a few hours and most of the Ice Skaters had already left. The rink would still be open a few hours before closing and reopening to the public.  Yuuri wondered if they would be able to play the music to his new free skate.  Skating over, putting his skate guards back on, heading over to the front asking if they could put in the free music.  They nodded a yes.  “Thank You.” Yuuri replied.  Getting back over to the rink, removing his skate guards, going out to the middle of the ice waiting for the music.

https://youtu.be/BpkZ8B5LCLA

Free Skate

Quad Axel

Twizzles

Quad Flip

Triple Axel

Camel

Camel Flip

Step Sequence w/ Nina Bauer & Twizzles into Quad Lutz

Quad Toe Loop w/ Triple Toe Loop

Triple w/ Double Combo

Double Toe Loop w/ Single Toe Loop

Second, shorter Step Sequence w/ Sit Spin

Choreography Sequence w/ Ending

What Yuuri did not know was that Victor had found out by the florist that Yuuri was down at the rink. Victor was up in the stands watching Yuuri with this free program and heard the music.

In the center, with Yuuri’s arms wrapped around him, representing Victor hugging him, the music started and Yuuri began to skate.

Lunging forward in a slow pace, his body, as he was feeling the music.

“Sunrise with you on my chest

No blinds in the place where I live

Daybreak open your eyes

Cause this was only ever meant to be for one night

Still, we’re changing our minds here

Be yours, be my dear”

Turning backwards, gaining speed, going into a quadruple axle and landing it perfectly, a smile on his face.  Moving into a few twizzles than launching himself into a quadruple flip.

“So Close with you on my lips

Touch noses, feeling your breath

Push your heart and pull away, yean

Be my summer in a winter day love

I can’t see one thing wrong

Between the both of us

Be mine, be mine, yeah

Anytime, anytime”

Picking up the speed again, going around the rink once, jumping a triple axel with both hands raised into a camel and camel flip

“Ooh, you know I’ve been alone for quite a while, haven’t I?

I thought I knew it all

Found love but I was wrong

More time than enough

But since you came along

I’m thinking, baby”

Into his step sequence with a Nina Bauer and some added twizzles jumping into a quadruple Lutz raising both hands in the air.  Victor just watching Yuuri with eyes wide open.  He had no idea that Yuuri was this good.  Thinking, why have I not seen him skate before?

“You are bringing out a different kind of me

There’s no safety net that’s underneath

I’m free, Falling all in you

Fell for men who weren’t how they appear

Trapped up on a tightrope now we’re here

We’re free, Falling all in you”

Yuuri goes into a quadruple toe loop w/ a triple toe loop.

“Fast Forward a couple years, yeah

Grown up in the place that we live

Make love, then we fight

Laugh because it was only meant to be for one-night baby

I guess we can’t control

What’s just not up to us

Be mine, Be mine, yeah

Anytime, anytime”

Skating into a triple w/ double combo.

“Ooh, you know I’ve been alone for quite a while, haven’t I?

I thought I knew it all

Found love but I was wrong

More times than enough

But since you came along

I’m thinking, baby”

Going into a double loop w/ single loop combo.  Completely nailing all his jumps.  Yuuri is very thankful for his stamina.

“Every time I see you baby, I get lost

If I’m dreaming, baby, please don’t wake me up

Every night I’m with you I fall more in love

Now I’m laying by your side

Everything feels right since you came along

I’m thinking baby”

Yuuri skating into a shorter second step sequence.  Victor, amazed at Yuuri, not being able to take his eyes off him.  Yuuri sees Victor up in the stands and rather than his anxiety acting up, he smiles over to Victor and blows him a soft kiss, to which, makes Victor blush, thinking just how beautiful his Yuuri is.

“You, yeah, are bringing out a different kind of me

There’s no safety net that’s underneath

I’m free, Falling all in you (ooh)

Fell for men who weren’t how they appear (ooh)

Trapped up on a tightrope now we’re here

We’re free, Falling all in”

Ending in his choreography sequence coming out of his sit spin, arms wrapped around his waist.

Victor jumping up, clapping and yelling down to Yuuri, “Yuuri, that was amazing.  Your amazing my beautiful Yuuri!”  Rushing down the stairs to greet his Yuuri in a hard kiss on the lips, Yuuri not backing down from it, chasing Victor’s kiss.

“It’s only Wednesday Victor?  I thought I was not going to see you maybe on the weekend or even next week?” Smiling Yuuri. Victor grinning back, “Well, Yuuri, if you really want to wait to see me, I can leave and come back on Friday?” Eyes wide, “Uh, no, no, no, no, no, this is just fine Victor.  No need to go back.  Um, actually how long are you here for now that you’re here?” Asked Yuuri.  Winking, “That’s a surprise Yuuri.  Are you ready to go eat?  You look famished my Yuuri.” Victor stating.  Then, Yuuri’s stomach growled.  “I think you may be right Victor.”  Both Victor and Yuuri broke out into laughter.  “Just let me go take a quick shower and change.” Yurri replied. With that, Victor was left sitting on the bench to wait for his Yuuri.

Coming out of the locker room, Yuuri feeling refreshed, Victor and Yuuri headed out to an outdoor café that was not far from where lived.  Victor, of course drove since he had come down to visit with Yuuri.

With dinner done, Yuuri looking up to Victor, “So, um, are you staying at a hotel or were you hoping that I would say yes to you staying with me?” Yuuri Shyly asking.  With Victor slighting blushing, “I was hoping it would be the latter Yuuri.”  It was now Yuuri that was blushing, but more of a red than pink. “I was kinda hoping that is what you had planned also.”

Finding parking in front of Yuuri’s flat was easy Victor thought.  They both headed up to Yuuri’s flat.  Once inside, Victor spun Yuuri around, pressed his back up against the door, meeting Yuuri’s lips, biting down onto Yuuri’s lower lip.  Yuuri moaning, chasing Victor’s kiss.

Having to breath, both broke their kiss.

Yuuri looking up at Victor, “Why don’t you pour us some wine and bring it back to the bedroom.  I’m sure you can find where things are.” Victor, grinning back at Yuuir.

Yuuri Heads back to the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Victor comes back to the bedroom, handing Yuuri his glass of wine.  Yuuri takes a sip and then puts the glass on the nightstand as he is gazing up at Victor.  

Victor follows, putting his wine glass onto the nightstand.

Victor makes his way between Yuuri’s legs, leaning down to find Yuuri’s lips.  Victor can never get enough of Yuuri’s lips.  Lips so soft, so delicious.  Their tongues intertwined.  Yuuri moves up further up onto the bed, putting his back against the headboard. Victor straddling Yuuri, kissing with Yuuri chasing.  Yuuri’s hands in Victor’s hair, pulling.  Hearing Victor moan.  

Victor taking hip lips off Yuuri’s, Yuuri complains, but Victor only finds Yuuri’s neck.  Placing his mouth onto Yuuri’s soft skin, biting, sucking hard, leaving a nice red, bluish bruise that Victor feels proud of. Yuuri, pulling Victor’s lips back up his own, wanting to feel his lips pressed against his.  

Both Victor and Yuuri wanting more.  Both wanting sex.

“Wow.”  Gasping for air as Yuuri states.  Victor looking up into Yuuri’s Eyes, “Wow is right.”

Giving Yuuri a soft kiss, rolling off him, both now laying onto their sides, staring into each other’s eyes, smiling.  They both fall asleep, holding onto each other.