#this is not about the spymaster who puts a bullet through the head of a warlord because he used someone he knows to commit warcrimes

[archesa]

Sometimes, I think Lucius is too edgy. Some other times I think it's the characters around him who are not edgy enough.

[solbaby7]

Nothing Even Matters

pairing: cassian x reader

warnings: swearing, probably typos, some angst, mentions of trauma, some fluff

summary: When the only thing you want during your recovery is the very person who put you there in the first place.

[ part one ]

—

“How’s it feel?”

“Fuck you,” You seethe through your teeth, words slurred from the wires holding your jaw shut—only for a few days, they said with remorse but all you could feel was such all-consuming rage. Such intense anger because you couldn’t move your body how you wanted; your arm was stiff in the tight bandaging holding it to your body while the dislocation and fractures healed.

Azriel glanced over at Rhysand who was offering Madja a sheepish smile, hands tucked in his pockets as he stood beside you. “Believe it or not, that was a lot nicer than some of the other words she’s been stringing together.”

“She shouldn’t be talking at all. Healing from a broken jaw is no easy feat—talking before the bone properly sets can lead to us needing to rebreak it all over again.” The heated glare you send her way could’ve killed if they were sharpened swords and Azriel has to step in front of you to ease the stormcloud you were casting above the room. Madja doesn’t seem to mind, urging the spymaster to step aside while she began her assessment. “Follow my finger,” Your eyes narrow with hate but you comply after a beat of time. “Good, no noticeable neurological deficits,” She scribbles something in a notepad, noting down the amount of pain meds you’d been receiving and an update of your vitals. “Your swelling seems to have gone down significantly—does it still hurt when I touch here?”

The High Lord cringes at the stream of profanities that slam at the edge of his mind; an act you’d been subconsciously doing since the moment the tonics for the pain had worn off the first time three days ago. You’d shoved your anguish out as far as it would go, so hard Rhysand had choked on a breath, hands clenching at his sides as he put forth more effort than normal to keep his mental shields up. “She says yes.”

Your hand taps once at Azriel’s arm and when he looks at you, you give him a jerky nod of your head. “She wants to know when she can go home?”

Madja lowers the notebook, voice annoyingly calm and full of understanding; not deterred by your attitude in the slightest. In fact, she seems to expect it, smiling softly before speaking, “Have you been eating?”

Your hand slams down twice on the table before you.

It’s jarring; aggression was never something you’d displayed often, if ever, but Azriel only takes a step closer, nearly sitting on the edge of your cot with an arm wrapped around the back of your pillow.

“I’ll assume that’s a yes.” Madja continues writing, bullet pointing your behavior and way you reel in your snark for the shadowsinger beside you. “Have you been able to get to the bathroom on your own?”

Two more slams against the table but these are much harsher than the first, a cup full of water splashing at the sides and Azriel lets out a sigh. “Not on her own but she’s really close. The dizziness just gets to her when she’s standing for too long.”

Rhysand spares a glance at the towering frame standing in the corner behind them absorbing every word like a child experiencing the world for the first time. Cassian had been unbearably quiet, avoiding Azriel at all costs but he was the first who’d noticed you beginning to stir awake. He’d barely left, always getting caught with a rag and warm water, dragging at your skin gentler than fingertips on flower petals. Rhys had to knock Cass out himself when the med staff came to take you away, advising that the wiring was imperative but the General couldn’t stop screaming about how you’d already been through enough; about how you deserved a full day of peace before putting you through even more pain.

“Any other symptoms besides the dizziness?”

You hesitate, heated gaze faltering for a beat of time before you’re slamming your hand down once and Cassian waits a full thirty seconds; golden eyes boring into Azriel’s back, urging him to mention the nausea, the splitting headaches that had you gripping at the first hand you came in contact with for any sort of comfort.

But, Azriel doesn’t say a thing.

“That’s good, what about—“

“Headaches,” Cassian’s voice is raspy with such little use and he’s more than grateful for the brace preventing you from moving around too much because he’s certain one of those sickeningly sharp glares were being specially crafted with his name on it. “She gets headaches and throws up sometimes because of one of the tonics—it’s orange.”

Madja, ever the professional hums in acknowledgment, scribbling down more notes and a furrow grows at her brow. “Could be an allergy or maybe the mixture is too much on your stomach without solid foods yet,” She not even talking to you, just muttering her thoughts aloud while the others tense; awaiting your reaction. They wait for the ball to drop; wait for the throwing of the first item in sight. It wouldn’t have been the first time and Az’s shadows had gotten surprisingly good at predicting it, darkness darting before the window before you could smash it to pieces since Madja insisted she’d dock any damages from your pay. “Thank you, General, that was quite helpful.”

A full minute passes and still, there’s no yelling; no frustrated grunts or shouting in your mind—just utter silence and you’re too busy settling further into your pillow to notice Rhys’ curious stare.

“If you can manage no talking for seventy-two hours then I will clear you to finish your recovery from home,” You’re nodding before she can finish, Azriel gently pushing you back when you try to sit up in your excitement. “I mean it—I’ll know if you aren’t taking the physical therapy seriously. At least an hour of walking a day ; slowly so you don’t aggravate your ribs and I’ll take off the shoulder wrap if you swear not to do any heavy lifting of any kind.” You throw her a pointed look, a hand waving around to motion at the three men that had been permanently stationed around you.

“We’ll take good care of her.”

Madja exhales a steady breath, hands resting at her sides and way she regards you is nearly motherly; relief settling into her features when she can confidently say you’ll make it. “Then, I suppose you’re free to go.”

—

“Come on she said at least an hour.”

Azriel is a sturdy pillar before you, arms crossed and shadows incessantly tug at the thick duvet you’d been grasping at like your life depended on it since he barged in ten minutes ago. You grunt in disapproval, settling deeper into the mattress and you shield your eyes from the bright light steadily pouring through—even though you remembered closing the curtains last night.

“You’ve already skipped breakfast and lunch; it’s nearly three in the afternoon. Get up.”

Your inability to speak seems to work in your favor because all you offer Az in return is a hand peeking from the covers to flip him off.

A pause and one eye pries open when you hear footsteps retreating. Five minutes pass, then five more before you relax back into the fluffy pillows, dragging the covers up to your chin and a content smile curves at the corner of your mouth for a fraction of a second before your entire body is drenched in freezing cold water.

You lurch from the bed like a creature rising from the dead, feet bare and legs on full display when you slowly stare up at the pleased shadowsinger, eyes wide and arms frozen in surprise as you dripped all over the floor like a wet dog. “Good. Since you’re up and showered, let’s go downstairs and get you something to eat.” Azriel’s looping an arm in your own and leading you out before you even have time to change, sloshing footsteps left in your wake and when you enter the sitting room Mor has to slap a hand over her mouth to hide the laughter.

“Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

It’s harmless teasing; friendly laughs and eyes lined with water when they mention the rats nest atop your head but Cassian’s boisterous laugh doesn’t join in on the fun. He takes one look at you and quietly leaves the room; he'd been doing that a lot since the accident—ever so present when you weren't consious and practically non-existent when you were.

You catch Feyre staring at the bruises on your neck, the thick bandage stuck in place on your temple, how stiff your posture was from the tight wrappings securing your ribs in place and she flushes when you offer her a tight-lipped smile, trying to appear more sturdy than you looked. "Sit, I'll get your food."

Eyes roll at Az's choice of words, easing over to the couch with a low grunt. Food was a sorry excuse for whatever the fuck you'd been sentenced to consume until the wires were removed. A thick porridge like substance with a distinct grit that lingered on your tongue no matter how much water you chased it with.

It was nice to be home though, to sleep in your own bed and being able to ease the tension with a hot bath and a stealthily stolen glass of wine—even if it was impossible to wash your hair or to change your clothes without assistance. Fresh air breezes through the windows, ruffling the curtains and the High Lord is quick to dry your clothes with a wave of his hand. With nothing more than a quick touch to his shoulder in thanks, the others watch you brace your weight against things to get to the hallway, turning left in the same direction Cass had gone earlier.

It’s not hard to find him, cooped up in his room with a glass of amber liquid in hand; eyes trained on the crackling fire. “What are you doing in here?” He’s up in a flash, wings pulled tight behind him and a broad shoulder urges your good arm around his neck, warm hands are careful when lifting you off your feet and carrying you over to the neatly made bed against the wall. Pillows are stacked behind your back to prop you up in a way that didn’t agitate your ribs and you give a sad smile when Cassian’s eyes linger on the bruises that were steadily healing up the length of your legs and he’s carefully covering them in blankets with a shaky breath.

Usually, he’d have sat next to you but now you’re unbearably aware of the distance he puts between you; hands clutched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out to touch. “You eat yet?” A slow shake of your head and Cass lets out a little chuckle in understanding. “Not surprised, that shit’s gross. Az never was that good in the kitchen.”

Everything smells like him; male and musk, cedarwood and bourbon. It’s overwhelming in the best way and years of memories begin to flood your senses; countless late nights spent in here drinking and laughing about nothing. Lazy mornings with breakfast in bed and amused snorts over buttered toast and tea when the Illyrian boasted about his latest conquest or earned accomplishments but then would go sheepish when you’d genuinely told him you were proud of him—happy that he seemed happy.

Cassian shifts his weight from foot to foot, unable to meet your eye because you were gazing at him so lovingly; not an ounce of hate in sight and guilt bubbles in his belly like curdled milk. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll make you something.”

A few minutes pass of you examining the room before you notice there’s a bottle of whiskey on the bedside table and your brows furrow in worry. You’re grabbing it without second thought, shoving the bottle under the bed frame and out of sight before you hear the thudding footsteps coming down the hall and through the doorway. A goblet of a glass is clutched in one hand with a metal straw hanging over the rim; he rambles off some of the fruits he used while he walks over, gently settling it in your hands. Fingers graze and in the blink of an eye he’s already taken three steps worth of space between you but the berry smoothie is a significant upgrade from Azriel’s porridge mixture—little wins. This was sweet but not too sweet, thick enough to quell the rumbling in your stomach and thin enough to push through the gaps in the wires with ease. It’s half gone quicker than you care to admit but Cass seems pleased, yet the small smile he wears is quickly wiped off when you motion for him to sit next to you.

“I can’t.”

Brows scrunch together in silent question, head tilting to the side.

His face crumples, features lined with stress and it’s then you notice just how broken he appears—sure, maybe he didn’t have the bandages and wrappings but the damage was still there. “Look at you, peach,” Tears well at the pet name, your head lowering as if it could possibly hide the ugly bruising on your neck; it was the only spot that seemed to be taking forever to get better, a kaleidoscope of purples and deep blues. “Look what I’ve done to you,” Breath catches and you ache to comfort him when he doesn’t even bother to hold his wings off the ground. “I’m so sorry.”

Cassian only moves closer when you set the cup down and make way to stand; it’s then he sits near you, urging you back down and you see the way his throat bobs with the thick swallow when your hand gently rests over his own. Words aren’t needed to express how much you didn’t blame him; not anymore—not after the nights he’d spent hunched over your bedside spewing out confessions of his feelings. The unconditional love that never stopping pouring over when it came to you and the shameful jealousy that had followed. Secrets he’d kept in fear that you didn’t return the same affections; terrified to ruin the carefully crafted friendship that took centuries to perfect. To become an extension of the other and adding his feelings seemed messy—too complicated and then all of this. You and the sounds of your cries for help permanently branded at the forefront of his mind for all eternity. Waiting in anticipation for Madja’s updates on your health, how you were fairing and if there was any lasting brain damage; a burden he was fully prepared to bare for you. Willing to sit by your side with his fingers kneeding through your hair to soothe away the headache he knew was coming in from the scrunch of your nose even after being pumped full of pain relievers.

It seems fitting that you can’t voice what you know; the pieces that you’d held onto while stuck in your mind. Body too numb to even pry your eyes open but the hope of hearing it while conscious was a strong enough anchor to have you clawing to the surface—back to Cass and those lazy mornings and tea with entirely too much honey.

He’s a mess when you pull him in closer, brushing your fingers through his hair the same way he’d done for you. You can feel the feather light kisses he presses to the exposed injuries, silent tears dripping on your skin, hushed whispers of his apologies, all the ways he’d planned to do in order make it up to you. All the things he should’ve and would’ve and could’ve done and you have to pry his face from the crease of your neck to make him look you in the eye.

There are no words but the intensity of your stare says plenty and he’s right back where he started; wanting things he shouldn’t and falling back into selfish habits. Leaning into the warmth of your mouth slotting over his own and every bruise and broken bone doesn’t even matter when he’s finally kissing you—soft and tender but all too quick and he’s pulling away before you can memorize the feel of him. “You’re perfect,” Cassian whispers, forehead pressed against your own, hands keeping you close. “I don’t deserve you for a second.”

But you only kiss him again because in that moment nothing else mattered.

[yunatheintrovert]

the definition of freedom | Protective!Perseus/Fem!Bell

Note: This takes place in a post-Solovetsky AU where the CIA delayed Bell's termination until later on after Solovetsky. 

The sea breeze brushed against your face as you walked alongside Adler. You glanced at him, biting back the questions nipping at your mind. He hadn’t told you anything in the briefing. The only details revealed were the time and date of the exchange, not one mention of whoever was going to be exchanged in return for the US Senator held hostage. 

Just as you opened your mouth to ask at least where the hostage was, Adler abruptly stopped in his steps, looking at the little dirt hiking path in front of you.

You heard the sound of footsteps coming closer and closer along with the muffled sound of protests-

Your thoughts were cut short by the sight of the very man who haunted your memories and dreams. 

Perseus.

The Soviet spymaster was standing there with the struggling figure of the US Senator his operatives had taken hostage during the politician's overseas trip.

You tensed, your hand immediately going to the gun holstered at your waist. Yet when you looked to Adler questioningly, he shook his head. 

Reluctantly, you brought your hand away from the gun. You shifted uneasily as you stood there waiting for whatever the hell was going to take place. That moment of uneasy silence was broken as you finally mustered up the nerve to speak up. 

“Where’s the hostage?” you asked hesitatingly, nervously glancing at Adler. There was something...off with him. 

Adler casually took a drag of his cigarette before sighing out.

“It’s you, kid.” Adler said before gesturing to Perseus, “Now, go to him.” 

“No, no-” you shook your head in denial, taking several stumbling steps away from Adler, “I-I don’t understand-”

Adler sighed, flicking off the ash from the cigarette in his hand. You watched as the embers fell onto the grass below, “Of course you wouldn’t, kid.” 

“Bell, we have a job to do.” 

You blinked, a flash of sterile white filled your vision before fading into a hellish crimson. 

And as soon as it started, it was over. You felt something abruptly snap in mind. The unease within you faded away as you stared at him.

Everything felt distant.

You numbly nodded to him. 

Taking several steps forward, you looked to Perseus. There was something inexplicably familiar about him. He looked like something out of your dreams. 

The same Soviet military coat, telnyashka, and knife sheathed at his belt. 

Perseus was exactly how he appeared in your memories. 

You blinked for a moment, stopping in your steps. 

Was this just a dream?

A test of your true loyalties?

You turned around to look at Adler questioningly once again-

And suddenly there was a crack that reverberated through the air. 

You suddenly felt a bloom of heat at your neck. You instinctively brought a hand up to your neck only to find a heated substance spilling out from the bloom of heat. 

You pulled away your hand only to find it covered in an all too familiar crimson. 

Blood.

You blinked in shock. You turned to stare in the direction you heard the loud crack of the gunshot coming from only to find yourself staring at Perseus. 

You could have sworn right then and there he almost looked shocked .

How funny , you distantly thought. 

Because really the idea of someone much less Perseus caring about you was just comical. 

Hudson was right, after all.

You were of no use to Perseus at this point. 

Nothing but damaged goods. 

Yet as you felt blood well up in your mouth, you couldn’t stop the words from falling off your lips.

“Прости.”

You really didn’t know what compelled you to say that. 

Perhaps, you were sorry for wasting the Soviet spymaster’s time and effort. 

Or for how you betrayed him at the start, succumbing to Adler’s voice in MK Ultra. 

You didn’t remember him.

Yet all those things still haunted you. 

And then you heard a second gunshot from behind you. 

You felt the gunshot at your back throw you to the ground. The bullet hit your ballistic vest underneath your jacket. Yet you choked on the fresh new blood gurgling in your throat from the impact. 

“Nyet...you said you would let her go-”

“No, I said I would set her free.” Adler’s voice calmly said. It reminded you of how he would go over the mission briefings, coolly in that exact detached tone. You laughed lightly to yourself with your chest shaking as you choked even more on the blood welling up in your throat.

At least it would make it quicker, you thought to yourself. 

You heard the sound of approaching footsteps before you were forced onto your back by an abrupt kick to the ribs. 

“What’s more free than this?” 

You stared up at Adler’s face, not even finding it in yourself to be quite shocked.

You should have known better really.

Your use to Adler...Hudson...the CIA was non-existent at this point.

It was only time that you were going to be put down like this.

You only wished he shot you point-blank instead of letting you bleed out slowly like this. 

There was that brief thought that crept up in your mind. He could have easily gotten you to do the job yourself with the press of a gun in your hand and the muttering of that phrase. 

Suddenly, you heard the familiar accented voice of Perseus speak up calmly. 

“ты пожалеешь об этом.” 

And then all hell broke loose. 

Smoke flooded into the clearing in a sudden familiar hiss of several canisters popping open. You wheezed at the smoke inhaled into your lungs. Your vision blurred and dimmed with every desperate breath you struggled to take. 

Suddenly, amidst all the chaos of explosions and bullets going off around you, you vaguely heard the sound of footsteps approaching you. You glanced to the side only to see the blurry figure of Perseus there with his gas mask on before he kneeled down to you. 

...Was he going to finish you off like the traitor you were?

You let your hands lay limply at your sides. 

You weren’t going to fight him...not now. 

And so you watched numbly as he quickly brought a gloved hand to your throat, pressing harshly on the wound there. You groaned at the feeling of leather digging into the bullet wound. 

You closed your eyes instinctively. 

Perseus really did want to make you suffer before you died.

Although, you vaguely wondered why he would want to torture you right in the middle of a firefight. 

"You Americans...did you really think I came here without a fail-safe? I hope you enjoy the parting gift I left with the senator." you heard Perseus say calmly though you could tell there was a quiet fury to his voice.

You could understand that. Going all the way to Argentina for a hostage exchange only for it to turn out to be for nothing would be annoying. 

Although, Perseus needed to hurry up with torturing you if he wanted to deal out any real pain. You could already feel your vision dim more and more and your breathing slow. 

Cold, you noted. There was an icy feeling that seeped into your being more and more. 

It was ironic how the only warmth you felt was Perseus’ gloved hand pressing down hard on your neck. 

Suddenly, you felt the warmth leave your neck. You didn’t bother to even open your eyes. 

You knew what was going to happen next-

Yet you found yourself slowly opening your eyes in surprise at the feeling of being picked up and warmth pressed against your side. You opened your eyes to see the olive green color of Perseus’ military coat as he was...carrying you with one arm under your legs and another supporting your back. Your head was resting against his shoulder. 

“Keep the pressure at your neck, comrade.” Perseus said hurriedly, glancing down at you. You felt his steps quicken as you heard the faint sound of blades clipping through the air come closer and closer at the cliff-side. 

You opened your mouth even as you felt hot blood spill out of your lips. You choked as you struggled to ask why . Then again, deep down you knew the answer. Perseus was still maintaining that hope he could get something out of you to use against Adler.

He’s wasting his time, you thought numbly.

Sighing one last time, you leaned into the warmth against you as your vision dimmed more and more…

“Nyet, nyet- ” 

________________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: This was originally supposed to be a 200-300 word length snippet I was only going to post on here. However, this ended up being way longer than I planned and expected. Also, grammar and descriptive details have left the chat in my mind so my writing is way more brief and less descriptive in this. Apologies for that. Well, I hope this turned out alright. Thanks for reading!

[beyond-far-horizons]

How I Met Your Father...Part 2

With the Perfect Amulet taken and his legacy in jeopardy, Sparda marshals his forces to find the mysterious blonde thief, but she may have stolen more than just the Amulet...

My headcanon on how Eva and Sparda met. Please forgive any liberties, I have a fertile imagination and am not familiar with every aspect of the games. I also recommend listening to Hans Zimmer’s soundtrack to Angels and Demons whilst reading to give atmosphere.

Part One here

Heaven itself seemed to strike him as Sparda was forced to use Rebellion’s power to cut the Heavenly Seal in half. His true flesh writhed in agony beneath his human skin and his eyes were squeezed shut to avoid being permanently blinded. But over the force of divine retribution he heard the breaking of glass and both cursed and saluted the woman for her daring. Summoning his inner strength the Dark Knight briefly transformed into his real body to push the residual waves of the Seal back. Every one of them carried the force of her contempt.

That was quite a woman…

Shaking them off, he healed himself and let his human self return as he raced to the broken window and peered down. Shouts and the squeals of horses and cars told him of the commotion below but his demon senses confirmed she was gone, having miraculously survived the fall.

He let out a chuckle and shook his head, before turning around and taking in the devastation of the room. Yamato stood imperious on its stand but the rest of the artefacts were everywhere, the tapestries falling from the walls and the Chaldean Codex mere pages scattered across the floor.

That’s one more she owes me. He thought, running a hand through his silver hair. That’s the only surviving copy…

“My Lord!”

Ah, here comes the cavalry…

A contingent of his elite Guard stormed in headed by Crassus.

“My Lord.” He repeated, giving Sparda a deep bow. “Are you well? What happened here?”

“Quite well Crassus, thank you.” He fingered the bullet holes and burns on his favourite coat. It was divine work so he couldn’t salvage it. “My attire less so. Ask Manning to retrieve a change for me.”

“At once.” The commander nodded and another soldier raced off to find his butler, although given Manning’s demonic origins he was probably aware of the situation already. Sparda valued his humans but an infernal servant could be infinitely more useful at times.

“The guards at the back entrance reported a disturbance.” Crassus glanced at the shattered window and general disarray. “Was anything stolen? I take full responsibility.”

“Unnecessary, my friend.” Sparda replied. “The thief was prodigiously talented.” He traced his chest where Rebellion’s wound had healed.

“Thief?” Crassus said, aghast, and the Guards’ eyes widened.

Sparda summoned a scabbard for his claymore and placed it over his back. “Yes. The Perfect Amulet is gone.”

There were gasps. Sparda turned to them.

“It was a woman. Long, blonde hair in a braid, brown eyes, pale skin, dressed in black although I suspect she would have changed by now.”

She was too crafty by half to remain in recognisable clothes, if, of course, she was still able to move. And he would bet this whole treasury she was.

“Early twenties, I think.” He continued, pacing. “Trained in stealth and magical techniques, and given the state of the men outside the vault, I would say proficient with marshal arts as well as firearms.”

He shouldn’t have made that quip about Yamato to her, that had been tacky…

“We will put out a search immediately, my Lord. She will be found and the Amulet retrieved.”

The Guard snapped to attention behind their commanding officer.

“She wasn’t acting alone.” This was too fast, too well planned…I would have sensed scrying or a previous intrusion to scout. That meant footwork…human spies…“I want them found and I want them alive. Be aware they may possess the same capability as this assailant.”

Crassus saluted him. “They will not escape.”

“I put my faith in you, Commander.”

Crassus bowed and turned to go.

“Crassus? I trust you to do this with your usual discretion. The populace is on edge as it is.”

Half the reason for this damned recital had been to placate them…not that he didn’t enjoy the spectacle…

“Of course, my Lord.”

Boots pounded across the floor as the Guard sped off replaced by House soldiers and trusted servants tidying up the mess. Darion and Alecto had thankfully been attended to, but were no doubt going to be harangued by Niobe who looked ready to skewer them on her way past.

She dropped to one knee. “My Lord, I take full responsibility for this debacle.” She drew her sword. “If you wish for my life in recompense-”

“Captain,” he interrupted her, “you, Crassus and the rest may offer me deep and grovelling apologies to your heart’s content when this is all over, but for now I require the expertise and focus of my House soldiers.”

She came to attention with her usual alacrity.

“Have the building searched discreetly in case of accomplices, while the rest of you aid Crassus. I want Eleonora sent to me in my study in forty minutes as well.”

He needed his spymaster to confirm his suspicions and that saddened him. Which of his loyal and capable staff had been compromised?

“It will be done.”

Kalina Ann rushed in as Niobe left, still clad in her opera gown with its spectacular train flowing behind her.

“My Lord, what happened? I heard you were attacked!”

“I’m fine, Kalina.” He replied. Anyone would think Mundus and his legions had appeared. After all she, Niobe and Crassus all knew what he really was, it would take more than one human mage to achieve what the hoards of Hell could not. “Now why have you left the audience chamber? Our guests will be concerned.”

“I finished my aria.” The slight petulance in her voice told him he had been missed. “I was worried when you disappeared.” She looked about, dark eyes wide. “Who did this? They say the Amulet was taken?”

“Yes, ” he said, “now forgive me, but I must make efforts to retrieve it.”

“I can help.” She said, catching his arm. He glanced at her hand and she blushed, letting it fall. “You trained me well, my Lord. I can find this thief.”

“That would be an excellent idea - give them the second ingredient to break my spell, if that is their plan.”

The woman’s face flashed before his eyes again. With her sentiments, it was unlikely…so what was her game? She acted as if he was the villain, even when she knew his real name…

“I wouldn’t fall so easily into their hands.” Kalina was protesting.

Sparda sighed and focused his attention on her. She was about the age of the thief but despite equal passion, Kalina lacked the blonde woman’s maturity. That was his fault, he had pampered her too much.

“I do not doubt your abilities, my dear.” He said as he glanced up at the only tapestry which remained intact. Siriana’s transcendent face was forever a rebuke to him. Ten thousand years could pass and he would never forget what it felt like to plunge the Force Edge into her heart. “But I promised your ancestress two thousand years ago that I would protect her line in perpetuity.” He turned back to Kalina. “I cannot truly honour that pledge if I send you directly into danger now can I?”

“You intend to coddle me my entire life, then? She retorted, then bowed her head, the diamonds of her hair-net catching the light. “I’m sorry, my Lord. I only wish to serve you.”

“I know.” He said, tucking a stray lock of black hair behind her ear. “Then serve me in this. Return to the audience chamber for now and keep them quiet. Afterwards you can scry. Our absence will have been noted and sometimes diplomacy is a more potent weapon than the blade. And keep your ears open. I want to know all the gossip. Someone is behind this and they don’t just wield guns and spells.”

Her eyes widened again and she nodded, expression firming. “My Lord.” She said and swept out of the room, shoulders squared.

Sparda couldn’t help a slight smile. He would never have offspring but she was the closest thing he had to a daughter.

“Your Majesty.” A voice intoned in his mind.

“Leave me, all of you.” Sparda said to the remaining servants. When they closed the doors he turned as a skeletally thin old man emerged from the wall with a purple overcoat and new shirt. “Your Majesty? You always call me that.”

“I know my duty. You are the King of Hell whether you choose to acknowledge it or not.” The old man replied, holding out the clothing. “Do you require my assistance?”

“I think the King of Hell can manage to put on his own clothing.” Sparda chuckled as he took them. “And hiding my true identity should be your duty, but then we’ve had this conversation for centuries so there is no point in me arguing the matter yet again.”

A simple transformation had him back to his usual crisp self. He breathed a sigh of contentment. He was vain, there was no doubt, but vanity was a small sin for a devil of his rank.

Manning reached for the discarded items he’d let fall to the floor.

“I’ll keep those.” Sparda said quickly. “That will be all, apart from I need you to search the mansion. Let me know of any irregularities. ”

Manning raised a jutting eyebrow of white hair at his first statement but his creased yellow face smoothed at the second. “It has been done, Sire, there is nothing now the intruder has left.”

“Did you sense anything more at the time?”

“Nothing but a vague itch.” He wrinkled his large, hooked nose. “I swam through the levels but could not pinpoint it until a quarter of an hour ago.”

“When she dropped the spell.” Sparda nodded. “It was powerful work.” I’ll need to reroute Niobe’s troops then. The Amulet must be found!

Manning curled over himself, elongating his arms, hands and torso in supplication. It would have been freakish if Sparda hadn’t lived in the Underworld and gotten used to far worse. “Forgive me, your Majesty.” The butler said ponderously. “I should have seen through the enchantment.”

“Not you as well.” Sparda chided, waving a hand. “You confirmed my own feelings and I couldn’t penetrate the spell either. I just knew they would end up here. No matter.”

“I will keep you informed, your Majesty.” Manning said as he melded back into the plasterwork.

Finally alone again Sparda looked down at the ruined clothing then back at the shattered window.

So much trouble caused so quickly…He nudged a glass shard aside with a polished boot. I should be out there leading the search. That is my duty.

Capable as they were, he could find the golden-haired culprit a lot faster than his Guard or even Kalina with her ancestress’s seer abilities. In fact he could have leapt out of the window as soon as he recovered from the Seal and likely caught up with her.

So why didn’t you? A voice that sounded too much like Mundus said. Didn’t you enjoy the encounter?

The woman’s smile, her hair, the look in her eyes when she threw Rebellion all came back to him.

I always enjoy flirting with beautiful women. He thought and cursed himself and his wretched analytical mind that wasn’t going to leave it at that. He needed to act, Siriana’s legacy was at stake! Instead here he was navel-gazing, but he couldn’t stop the memories.

“Now I’ve given you my name, I believe it’s time for you to give me yours, Lady…?”

Her face in that moment…The dawning realisation, the abject horror…

Then the transmutation into iron conviction.

“I don’t care who you are or what you do to me. Humanity deserves to be free of your taint!”

Sparda closed his eyes. He had been alive for a long, long time. He had seen humankind rise and fall like waves of wheat to the harvest, but he had rarely beheld that quality of soul. It shone from her, far more radiant than her mortal body. Eternal and untouchable, it was a spark of the Divine he was forever denied.

How he hungered for it…

Glass crunched under his hands and he looked down surprised at the blood spurting between his fingers where he had grasped the window. A golden hair had caught itself on the jagged edge and curled into the breeze as if pointing in her direction. His pulse quickened.

That calibre of spirit could feed him for a century, more… He wouldn’t need all the power he had locked away in the Abyss if he had that, if he had her.

His human form flickered and fangs drew blood from his lips.

“I will not give into this.” He said and marched away from the broken panes. It had been millennia since he’d felt such temptation. He had left it all behind along with the Prince of Darkness and his ilk. Hadn’t he woken to justice and seen the suffering he had caused? Sworn to make a difference? Protected Humanity!

“You are a demon, Sparda,” Mundus had hissed, “just like your brethren. This sin of righteousness, so vile even I cannot feed on it, will wash off you eventually. All you need is the right trigger.”

He sucked in a breath and laughed at himself this time, the so called King of Hell afraid of one mortal woman.

You wouldn’t have to devour her…The voice wheedled. If she surrendered to you, body and soul, it could be pleasurable for you both.

“Enough!” He shouted to the empty chamber, the echoes of his wrath coming back to him.

Crassus would find her and put an end to this nonsense and if not…Sparda squeezed his fist together and looked up again at image of Siriana’s sacrifice. If not, I will show this woman that not all demons are a taint on humanity…

I’d be interested in your opinions on how I’ve woven in Lady’s mother and the different levels of Sparda’s character. I wanted him to be the suave, noble character we all admire but also wanted to see if he still struggled a bit with his demonic side especially when faced with the awesomeness that is Eva. #notalldemons lol I see Crassus btw as basically Credo. If I do set this in Fortuna (which I haven’t decided) then he could be Credo’s granddad or something! @fireeaglespirit and @awesomelychubby hope this lives up to Part 1!

[rawrzimon]

I'm sorry you're in a funk, love. *big hugs* Prompt for you! Athena, Leafy, and Kain go around Skyhold on a calm day and somehow, shenanigans ensue, preferably involving Cullen.

I blame you. Warning: I kind of got carried away listening to ABBA and this ended up silly. 

They all were gathered in the War Room, save for the Commander.  

The Spymaster paced on the opposite side of the table with her hands clasped behind her back, a wicked spark of mischief on her face. “Are you sure you are up for this? It could very well be the most difficult mission of your lives.”

Athena and Leafy looked to one another and nodded, crossing their arms over their chest in unison. The matron of the pair arched a brow and looked down to the war table. There weren’t any new markers on the board and they hadn’t shifted since the morning meeting. What could have changed? “Whenever you’re ready, Lady Leliana.”

“We have an important visitor coming in today, but it is important that we keep her from the Commander at all costs. At least not until the dinner at sunset that will be in tavern. She’s a surprise – and doesn’t want anyone spoiling it.” The former bard continued on, rearranging some of Cullen’s pieces in an obvious attempt to mess with him in the future. The Commander loved having his ducks in a row, and that especially included his pieces for the War Table, which had been used less and less since Corypheus’s defeat almost a year prior.

It was Leafy’s turn to talk. She put one hand on the table and leaned forward, expression suddenly turned into one of annoyance. “Who is this ‘important visitor’? If they’re so fancy, why are they getting a dinner at the tavern? Wouldn’t Ambassador Montilyet be putting something better together?”  

Leliana, as if preparing for a dramatic reveal, turned towards the table and met the young elf’s eyes by slamming both of her hands on the table. Leafy didn’t flinch one bit. “Because the guest is the Commander’s sister - “  

“Mia?!” Athena nearly screeched, eyes widening in happiness and shock.  

“None other. She wants to surprise him for his name day – since he never takes a moment to breathe for himself. It is your job to keep him distracted and out of the tavern and main courtyard today. Athena, can the Inquisitor keep Kain today so you can keep track of their movements? It will give you some warning to when you are close to colliding.” She knew she was right. The connection between her and her wolf reminded her of a familiar like she used to read about in books or watch on shows. She knew that right now he was sleeping in a pile of the Commander’s clothes that he made a bed of most nights.  

“That will work. How long do we have before she gets here?” Leliana looked outside to determine the sun’s height before pressing her lips together.

“Not long – she’s due to arrive at midday. I would be off. He’s probably on the training grounds or in his office.” Athena grabbed her daughter’s hand and took off through the Keep. Things had been just as busy since the fall of the Tevinter Magister, but in a different way. There were more nobility visits, but the troops were sent off on different peace-keeping missions. Not a day went by that Skyhold wasn’t bustling as it always had been.  

Cullen ended up being in his office surrounded by a pile of papers. He was sitting with one head in one hand and the other writing feverishly on a piece of parchment. Athena didn’t even bother to knock; he knew better than to expect her to. The first time she burst in he had just thrown a lyrium vial at the door and it sliced her foot open. He looked up with a glance and raised fingers in greeting before drumming them against his head. “Morning.”

Leafy had a child-like grin on her face and strode over, instantly jumping on his desk to sit on its edge. “G’morning, Commander!”  

Cullen blinked twice before looking up to the rebellious teen’s mother. Athena merely laughed, coming to kiss her on the top of the head. “Athena. Lev’adin. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Leafy opened her mouth to speak but Athena nudged her in the arm to shut her up, leaning on her daughter’s shoulder before looking down to the parchment that Cullen was writing on. They were updates on the Keep and different mission reports written by his lieutenants. “We are here to save you from a day of what looks to be incredibly boring paperwork. What do you say? Lunch over a game of chess?”  

He rubbed the back of his neck and sat back in his chair, looking over the two women with an assessing gaze. “Why do I have the suspicion that ‘no’ is not an answer I can give?”  

Athena gave him a playful wink. “Because you’re learning, Commander. Come on, we don’t want to waste any time.”  

She reached forward to grab him by his overcoat but he pushed back in large, wooden chair until he was out of reach. “Allow me to at least finish this missive – it won’t take long. Kain’s been whining for attention anyway.”  

Leafy looked to the black wolf who was pathetically wagging his tail while glancing up from his laying position on Cullen’s old clothes. He emitted a soft whine as the young elf narrowed her gaze at him. “He needs to hunt.” She walked over and sat down so that the wolf could rest his head in her lap. The wagging of his tail accelerated as she found his favorite spots behind his ears and underneath his chin.  

By the time they got to their third game of chess, Kain was dutifully with the Inquisitor and the group was exploring the battlements since the Commander was absent from his usual post. Athena positioned him just right so he wouldn’t be able to see the walls of the Keep at all. Plus, he was just a competitive warrior his entire attention was on the board. During the course of the Inquisition, he, Dorian, Solas, and Bull would play her in chess. On Earth, she had maybe played once or twice a year, but now she was fluent in three different styles. Qunari was the most difficult but it was rigidly straight forward.  

Leafy was napping on the stone bench next to them under the gazebo, her toe tapping in the air to an imaginary beat. Cullen made a hum of decision-making before moving his piece forward, taking one of her pawns. “How have things been, Athena?”

She moved her bishop to take the piece he had just moved nonchalantly, swapping them out with a quick gesture. “Great, actually. My people are getting settled in the Emerald Graves and I’m due for a trip to visit them. Supposedly the bears are getting restless with a dragon so close nearby.”  

He huffed a chuckle under his breath. “Are you going to slay this one as well?”  

She smiled, feeling a light ache in her dragon’s scar across her belly. “I don’t plan on it. Can you shoo away a dragon?”  

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh at her, moving his last piece into position. “Not likely but I would love to see you try. Checkmate.”  

Athena frowned before leaning back in her chair, checking in with Kain through their connection. I smell flowers! The wolf remarked with excitement, leading her to think they were coming to the part of the battlements that dropped down to the halls beside where they were sitting. She stood from the chair with a faux-expression of boredom. “All this defeat makes me crave wine, how about a glass, Cullen? Not you, Lev’adin. One glass will have you falling from my tower.” She shut down the teenager before she could even ask.  

“I have enjoyed playing, but I should really get back to work, Athena.” He pled, standing with her while glancing around. She needed to keep his attention on her and Leafy so she wrapped her arm around his shoulder and led him towards the main hall.  

“First - wine. I’ll help you with some of your letters and bring some of my own.” They breached the great hall and she pushed him towards the cellars. “Go pick your favorite and meet me back here.”  

He looked to her with a miffed expression before succumbing to her demands, rolling his eyes with a half-smile. As he left ear-shot she leaned down to Leafy and whispered, “Remember that wind swirl spell I taught you?”  

The young mage nodded enthusiastically with a wicked grin spreading on her lips. “Go cast it and fade-step back here like nothing happened. Open the window but then close the door on your way back.” She saluted to her mother and took off like a bullet towards Cullen’s office. He returned a few minutes later with a basket of sorts.  

“I think I got everything, shall we go?” Athena nodded and took the basket from him, smiling while panicking on the inside that Leafy wouldn’t be back in time. But thankfully she appeared from a side-door like nothing was wrong even though her hair was slightly frizzier than before she left. The Commander didn’t seem to notice and they continued talking until they reached his office. He pushed open the door for them but then his jaw dropped at the utter destruction that was now his office. The papers were blown everywhere and the pile that was Kain’s bed was hanging from the ladder up to his loft.  

It was like a literal tornado had torn through his office, and Athena couldn’t have been prouder.  

There wasn’t a single piece of paper that was in place. The look of shock on Cullen’s face was priceless. Athena instantly gasped, putting her hand on his shoulder while looking around in feigned terror. “What happened? How could this of - “She then looked to the side. “Oh, Cullen, the window is open. You know how this season brings strong winds up into the mountain.”

“Strong winds? This was -!” He lost the words and put his hand to his forehead instead, taking in a deep controlled breath before letting it out in a sigh. “Let’s get to work then. The missives were dated so those should be easier to organize. The rest…will have to be done later.”  

Hours. It took hours to put the office back together again and the entire time Leafy and Athena would exchange secret, knowing glances. Cullen almost enjoyed reorganizing his office, the detail maniac that he was. Things were tidier by the time they were done and the sun was beginning to set. The Commander finally sat down in his chair and looked at his desk with an expression that she could only describe as pride. It was something she understood, the feeling of a job well done.  

Athena felt a sharp jolt in the back of her head and she knew it was Kain. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, closing her eyes to that she could see through the eyes of her wolf. Rathein and Mia were bending over her companion with smiles, scratching behind his ears while going, “Can she hear us boy?” Kain nodded and gave a small yelp. “Oh good! Hey Athena, we’re in the tavern now but we’re setting up. Just don’t let him come here but get him riled up okay?”  

A rambunctious blonde woman leaned in, her curls coming over her shoulders as she smiled. “Sister’s orders!”

Kain then returned to receiving his affections and Athena faded back into her own consciousness. She didn’t know it but Cullen had stood up and walked over to her and put his hands on her shoulders, looking her up and down. “Athena, are you alright?”  

“Headache.” She lied, giving him a smile before shrugging underneath his touch. Leafy cleared her throat to the side, tapping her foot impatiently. Just as she was about to speak the door burst open to the side, Kain running in at a full sprint. He ran circles around the Commander and Leafy then pushed himself in front of Athena before bending down into a play bow, his tail furiously wagging. This would have been typical behavior for him just before dinner time, save for the fact that he was wearing Cullen’s helm. “I think we found the source of your tornado, Commander.” Athena teased while silently praising her companion.  

“Andraste help me – Kain, get back here!”  

The chase began.  

Lev’adin had been right, Kain was in desperate need of a hunt. Skyhold, for as large as it was, could be a prison for a natural born hunter. They raced down the battlements and through the courtyard, Leafy and Athena laughing the whole time. It was also the first she had really seen Cullen sprint in nearly full armor. At one point she thought he was enjoying the chase but then she caught a glance at his expression. It was pure competition at that point.  

Athena gestured for Leafy to go ahead to the tavern and lead Kain there. They had played long enough. Kain made a sharp turn down the stairs out of sight towards the meeting place for the evening. Leafy was hot on his tail and they were all en route to get there in seconds. The door to the tavern opened and Rathein stuck her head out, mouthing ‘one more minute’ while allowing Kain and Leafy to enter before slamming the door shut just as Athena and Cullen came close.  

She cursed under her breath and rubbed the back of her neck, thinking of a way to buy time before pointing to the side of the building. “I think he ran this way. He loves smelling what the kitchen is cooking.”  

“I really think he came into the tavern – did you not hear that door slam?” Cullen asked between winded breaths. They both looked ragged and worn down but she wasn’t going to give up so easily.  

“Hey - shapeshifter magic, remember? Come on this way. He’s probably lost energy like us and needs a place to sleep.” They went to the side and she led the ‘search’ in all of the nooks and crannies She heard a loud groan behind him and turned just in time to see him throw his hands in the air.  

“What are you playing at?” Shit. “Ever since this morning, you and your daughter have just been odd. It was fun but I’ve lost an entire day of work and -” He itched the back of his head and allowed his hand to drop, trying to reign in the frustration on his face. “I’m going to cool myself down with a meal and return to my duties. You’re free to join, but no more nonsense.”

Not enough time. She panicked, which was silly considering the topic, but her body thought quicker than her mind. Soon she was gripping his shoulder and turning him to face her, his back nearly against the side of the tavern. “What?” He asked curtly even with some of the frustration falling from his voice.  

She could only think of one thing that would pause him, or at least silence him for enough time. She bit her bottom lip before collecting her bravery, gripping him by the overcoat and pulling him towards her. He didn’t fight it, but as she pressed her lips against his she heard him gasp. It wasn’t entirely unexpected between them, but she had hoped for a better moment. It took a second, but he sighed, relaxed, and cupped her face between his hands and fully accepted the kiss.  His entire presence shouted warm. It enveloped her and replaced the butterflies that represented panic with affection. His war-worn hands brushed over her skin and sent a shudder down her spine. She moved until his back was pressed against the tavern behind him and they broke apart at the sound of the door opening. “Kain! Where did you get this?” Rathein’s voice called out in amusement. “We need to return this to the Commander.” Cullen chuckled under his breath, eyes completely fixed on her mouth as he ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “I suppose we should make her search shorter. Can we talk about this later?” Athena could only manage a nod while pushing him towards the tavern door playfully. He looked over his shoulder back at her with a boyish smile on his lips, rubbing the back of his neck as he greeted the Rathein. “I see you have captured the thief, Inquisitor.”  “Oh yes he is inside, can you help me pry your helm off of him?” She asked, opening the door as Athena rounded the corner to usher them both inside. The moment he cleared the door there was a loud, resounding scream. “Surprise!”  “Maker help me - “ He cursed at the group of people, his eyes narrowing in on his sister. Athena saw him stiffen, he had admitted to being almost distant with his family since joining the Templars. But that rigidness faded away once Mia brought him in for a tight hug. Once she was done with him she moved to Athena, wrapping her arms around her and nearly lifting her from the ground.  “Thank you, Athena! I knew you could do it!”  Once she was firmly back on the ground she laughed, fighting the blush on her face and chest. Mia spun and went to grab food with the Inquisitor as Cullen walked over to her, a single brow raised as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I should’ve known my sister was involved. Only she can bring such chaos to a place. That wasn’t - er – idea was it?” He asked with his voice growing soft, eyes dropping to the ground between them before shyly meeting her gaze.  Athena shook her head with a genuine smile, putting a hand on his shoulder to turn him towards the group. “Silly Lion, of course not.” 

Like my writing? Buy a tired nurse a coffee.

[rinaldoescobar]

penance - crossposted from ao3, written for low chaos week 2017 <3

 Dunwall, 1843

 10th day of the Month of Rain

Dunwall Tower was surprisingly easy to infiltrate. The lost powers pf the Bond would have made it much easier, of course, but Thomas long since learned to navigate without them. May have made a few more undignified exits, of course, but it hasn't diminished his effectiveness as an assassin-- or his leadership potential. He'd led a ragtag bunch of leftover, newly powerless Whalers and recruited gang members for over a year before rioting and mutiny broke out and the gang disbanded through the brilliant, scarlet-yellow flames of a refinery fire. Thomas figured everyone would assume that he died like the rest of his trapped underlings.

He learned from the best how to tie up loose ends, but like the best had grown to regret it in the long two years hence.

This wasn't penance. If he repeated it to himself, over and over, he could almost believe it. He drowned it out by crawling through the alarmingly spacious ventilation shafts of Dunwall Tower, searching for his goal over the heads of guardsmen patrolling the halls. His goal was, really, not that well thought out. He planned to drop down in front of the Royal Spymaster and ask for a job.

Beg for one, really, and hope that he wouldn't end up fodder for the headsman or riddled with bullets from guardsmen.

This wasn't penance.

What was the worst that could happen? A lot, actually, and Thomas would likely be better off keeping to the shadows of belowdecks or up high changing out lights. Curse his heart, unsatisfied with odd jobs and with a stubborn hunger for purpose. A loftier purpose, not just one gutting whales or men, or tying bags of goods bound for far shores, or winding ropes or weaving baskets. Sewing. Thomas had many odd skills now and none of them offered any peace of mind. Void, even the scrawling and arcane tattoos that crawled along his body when the Bond seared his flesh were gone. They'd faded with it. Apart from his scars there was no trace of his old life on him; and before, either. Sometimes, Thomas found it hard to pick apart who he used to be before Daud and what Daud had made him into. Even free from Daud's control, he didn't regret it.

It took him inordinately long to locate the Royal Spymaster's office. It was an L-shaped room that had a vent directly above the Spymaster's desk, nicely dispersing freezing air to whoever was having a meeting while keeping the Spymaster merely pleasantly cool. Thomas wiggled his fingers and noted with mild worry how they were tinged with blue, and in the next second he was carefully removing the grille with his unsteady, frozen fingers while using the clacking of an audiograph to shroud the movement in sound.

He dropped down in front of the desk while the Spymaster turned to the back of the room to stare, for some reason, at the wall. Thomas decided not to count his blessings and instead focused on keeping his footfalls as silent as he possibly could. Not silent enough, apparently, because as the audiograph reached the end of the card and shut down with a solid shunk, the Spymaster whirled around and pointed his pistol right between Thomas' eyes.

Thomas threw up his hands in front of his face and wilted back, as harmless as he could be. The pistol remained leveled at his face. Damn. He hadn't recognized Corvo Attano from the vent, and now that he was face-to-face with the Lord Protector-and-apparently-Royal Spymaster, the memories of the breathless days before Daud's disappearance caused his heart to begin thudding nervously in his chest.

“You have ten seconds to explain to me why you are here, and then my guards are going to escort you to confinement.” Corvo's voice was very soft; dangerous in the way a silent, flickering arc mine was dangerous. His face shone with caution but not recognition, which was predicted but appreciated nonetheless. Thomas nodded his understanding.

“A spy network is a fixture of any successful court, and I know that you have one. I'm very good at--” a gesture to the unscrewed vent grille, “spying around and I know my way through the Dunwall underground.” He lowered his hands enough to make eye contact-- Corvo's eyes were dark. Pitiless. Thomas looked down. “I have reasonable confidence that I could be an asset as a part of it.”

His throat closed up as Corvo's expression didn't change at all, and he worked his tongue against his top teeth for a precious second. A second wasted. “And I don't appear in any census forms, as far as I know. Legally, I don't exist.”

That was not exactly a truth, but the persona he'd cooked up as a cover would work. He already had a reputation under a different name; Corvo, digging through his network, would find enough to be satisfied.

Maybe. Thomas wasn't one to question the tenacity of determined men.

“What is your name, then?”

“Everett Warren. No relation, and I don't know my family line. My parents died when I was young.” The Warrens, a wealthy family, had stayed strong throughout the plague and aided in reconstruction efforts. Thomas had taken the surname only for the ease of remembrance, seeing it once when he was a teenager and unable to get work, so falling on the support of a false identity. There had to be scraps of contracts with the boxy scrawl of Everett Warren's signature around, and if not that then old men with scarred faces and memories of a quiet and hard worker.

“And why did you assume crawling through the vents would make me trust you?”

Thomas nearly cringed. Now, forced to examine his actions, they did not seem as great as they did during sleepless nights. “An exhibition of my skill. Sir.”

Corvo's gun hand faltered. Thomas kept his hands up, unsure. His hesitation was not unfounded, as Corvo rang a bell on his desk and in the next second two guards pawed into the room.

“Take him to Coldridge. Question him thoroughly, get all his information. I must write to the census bureau.” Corvo's voice wasn't as harsh as it had been when Thomas came tumbling into his office but it still held a certain amount of steel that Thomas respected. He kept his hands where they were and allowed a guard to manhandle them, pin his wrists behind his back, and then steer him roughly towards the door.

*

  11th day of the Month of Rain.

“My name is Everett Warren. I'm twenty-six years old. I was born on the tenth day of the Month of Wind, 1816.”

A popular month for births, and besides; everything was true except for the name. The less lies he told, the less he would have to keep track of.

The man in front of him wrote it all down. “And your parents?”

“...I never learned their names. They died when I was young.” Thomas looked down, feet knocking together. His interrogator cleared his throat.

“Who did you live with after their deaths?”

Now that was something Thomas had only briefly thought about. “I stayed with my mother's sister for a while, but she eventually sold me to a meat packing plant as a worker.”

“Do you remember which plant?”

The questions just kept coming. Thomas shook his head apologetically. “No, sir. Sorry.”

The questioning went on for another hour, and then Thomas was led-- dragged, nearly, his legs trembling and weak-- back to his cell. It was a lonely and damp thing, small, and his cot in the corner had a sad excuse for a mattress and no blanket. It was better than nothing. It was better than stocks, which he'd had the dubious pleasure of being trapped in for the entirety of the first day. To soften him up, he knew, keep him from sleeping or stretching. He took vicious satisfaction in semi-purposefully collapsing and forcing them to drag him all the way to the interrogation room.

Thomas sat in his cell and tried to pretend that soon enough he'd wake up and go to another boring day of killing whales.

*

13th Day of the Month of Rain

“Everett.”

An advantage of a long-kept false name was that Thomas responded to it without any suspect hesitation. He looked up, shoulders straightening, and stood with a sore jerk.

“Lord Protector. Or should I say Royal Spymaster?” He ducked his head, an unspoken apology for undue insubordination. Thomas-- Everett-- was already on thin ice, and he didn't want to jeopardize whatever this meeting was. A slimy fear that he already had stuck to the inside of his throat. Daud took his pointed questions in stride on all except his worse days. This place might be entirely different.

Corvo's lips twisted in the way of a man practiced at hiding amusement. He held a tray in his hands, a half-loaf of bread and a tin pitcher of water. “Lord Attano will do for now.”

“Lord Attano,” Thomas murmured, and ducked his head again. It was a hard habit to break.

“Stand back and put your palms on the wall. Keep them there.”

Thomas, mildly confused, obeyed. His palms laid flush against the clammy stone, and his eyes fixed on the pocked walls; someone had carved checkmarks with a shiv. They'd been here quite a long time. The previous two days in his cell he hadn't paid them enough attention, apparently; he appreciated the savage scraping marks for a second, nose nearly touching them. The scrape of a key in a lock informed Thomas that the door was opening, and suddenly the order to stay away and immobile made more sense.

The tray went on his low wooden table and then the door clicked shut again. Corvo's feet tapped against the stone.

“You may relax now.”

Thomas relaxed, as much as he could in prison. He rolled out his shoulder and rubbed the aching joint, then finally met the Lord Protector's eyes again. There was a warm crease to his brow that spoke of--

Amusement. That was never a good thing, people being amused at Thomas' expense.

“Try and sleep well. You're to be interrogated properly in the morning.”

That was a jibe. Had Corvo come here simply to rub salt in his wounds? Thomas bared his teeth, a scowl, and turned away. The Lord Protector turned on his heel and left. As sullen and hurt as Thomas felt, though, he'd been brought edible-looking food for the first time in three days and his stomach rumbled insistently. He padded over to the table and drained the pitcher first, then picked up the bread. There was a note underneath it-- a note and a key, the key to his cell. Thomas grinned and read the note.

This is a test. I expect you at my office at sunrise.

A test with ridiculously high stakes. It reminded him of clammy days training with Daud, the threat of a lethal drop always at his fingertips if he misjudged a transversal.

For the first time since flames had eaten the refinery, Thomas felt a flicker of real excitement in his chest.

*

He made it to the Spymaster's office an hour before the sun tinged the sky any colors at all, and promptly collapsed against the wall there. He was sopping wet from a dive into the Wrenhaven, aching from overexertion, nursing several holes in his shirt and resultant chemical burns from river krusts, and certainly his pants would need serious mending thanks to the hagfish, but he'd made it alive and arguably in one piece. At the very least he hadn't ruined Corvo's chair with his blood and wet.  

He'd been taken by a much-needed doze, head lolled onto his shoulder, by the time the door opened. He was sitting in a puddle of the water sluicing off of his clothes, his hair, and the realization of that sent a hot flash of shame up his spine. That might have been fine in the Flooded District-- there, he could strip out of his bloodied uniform and toss it to the corner to mend it, sit on his cot half-naked and bleeding in peace. Here, it felt... Wrong. Undignified, and not how a spy was supposed to act.

“Lord Attano,” Thomas slurred, trying to sit up straight. He managed, but the world tilted violently like he'd had a few too many bottles of Old Dunwall. Corvo hmphed and made for the unlit fireplace. He started to tend to it and without much preamble spoke to Thomas.

“Get that shirt off, Everett.”

“Lord Attano?” That was-- inappropriate. He shouldn't. He felt chilled to the bone, and the coarse fabric of it stung against his open cuts, but it would be entirely inappropriate to disrobe in any degree in front of the Lord Protector.

“You look like a drowned rat.”

That, finally, worked a chuckle and cooperation out of Thomas. He unbuttoned his shirt with clumsy, frostnipped fingers and pulled it off of his shoulders, laid it over his lap.

“Come sit in front of the fire. It won't be any good if my newest spy freezes to death inches away from warmth.” Corvo paused. "I'll get some bandages for your wounds.”

“Lord Attano, you really don't have to...” Thomas felt unsteady and uncomfortable and still halfway convinced that this was all a very cruel dream. Even so, he sat down on the floor in front of the fire and felt shivers he hadn't even noticed initially abate. Corvo, now seated at his desk, scratched down notes in dark blue ink.

“We'll see how your bladework is later.” That sounded... Decisive. Thomas stared into the dancing flames.

“Permission to speak freely, Lord Attano?”

Corvo paused in his scratching. “Permission granted.”

“I've been held in prison for three days, interrogated, and swam through the Wrenhaven.” The levity in his voice surprised even him, but he kept going. “I doubt it will be impressive.”

“I know.” Corvo hummed, and then returned to his scratching. After a minute or two, he stood and left. Thomas kept staring into the fire until his footsteps receded, and then immediately beelined to the open pad of paper. Either Corvo assumed he was too beaten down and cowed by his stretch in Coldridge to snoop, or that was exactly what he wanted Thomas to do-- he was too smart to make an oversight like that.

Ten minutes later Corvo returned with two bags. One held snacks from the kitchen, the other bandages. He set both down at Thomas' side-- the man seemed to have slipped into a doze again, properly exhausted, but woke up once Corvo's footsteps crossed the threshold-- and returned to his desk. There passed a minute of silence as Thomas dressed the wounds requiring attention, and then Corvo cleared his throat. Thomas tuned in instantly.

“No need to snoop around, Everett.”

He flushed hotly. In his hurry to check the pad and be back to his spot before the Lord Protector's return, he hadn't even noticed the trail of damp he left. Maybe he was too tired to be effective, right now, or maybe the Royal Protector was just exceedingly keen to those types of things.

“My apologies, Lord Attano.” He licked his lips, worried the bottom one and pulled a bandage tight around his chest. “I had assumed that it was another test.” He got no reply, and once again silence reigned. Thomas inched closer to the fire. He returned to fussing over his wounds, dutifully ignoring the bag of food (tampered with, he thought), and quickly enough a half hour passed and his hair finally felt dry. His pants, as well. Thomas regretfully crossed his shirt off as a lost cause.

“Hm. I have a meeting in a half hour. Go to the servant's quarters and choose an empty bunk. You'll stay there for now. If you need anything, talk to one of the maids, Malia.” Corvo moved behind Thomas. He hadn't even noticed, and stiffened up at the sudden change in location.

“I'll do that. Thank you, Lord Attano.”

Of course he couldn't sit in front of the fire all day. As pleasant as it was, he was exhausted and Corvo had promised more tests in the future.

“You have until sundown to acquaint yourself. Then you will meet me in the courtyard and we'll continue.”

“Understood, sir.” Thomas unfolded his legs from beneath himself and stood, offering a shallow bow after he turned to the Lord Protector.

“Dismissed.”

*

Thomas got clean clothes, took a nap, and scavenged un-drugged food from the kitchens before dutifully heading down to the courtyard.

There was an assortment of weapons laid out on the cobble. An Overseer's weapon, blade sharp on both sides. A Lower Watch blade, which Thomas had passable experience with, but the weighting was all wrong. There was a long dagger, a little shorter and thinner than his Whaler's blade, and he immediately gravitated towards it.

He made a show, though, of moving through each blade and other offered weapon. He tested the weights and the feel, and even flirted with the idea of keeping the Watch blade for whatever assessment Corvo had planned, but he had the sneaking suspicion that his performance here was just as important as his impromptu escape via Wrenhaven.

Daud's training would show. Thankfully, Thomas kept himself well-rounded with instruction from the other Master Assassins, with his own bladework. Daud's movements were all clipped and final; he struck for the throat. Thomas held the vice of preferring to play with his food. Besides, Corvo was drugged and exhausted when he fought Daud. Thomas suspected that he wouldn't catch on. It had been years, and to the Lord Protector Thomas was nothing but a shady master of skulduggery.

He settled his grip on the blade and warmed up, so absorbed in the rhythmic motions of swordplay that he nearly missed Corvo coming up behind him.

“You're early.”

“It serves to be punctual, Lord Attano.” He twisted around, settled the tip of his blade on the ground, and offered a shallow bow. Corvo huffed, hand resting on the hilt of his own blade.

“We'll see you bow properly when I beat you into the dust.” That was heartening. If Corvo allowed a little backtalk, this would get a whole lot more interesting.

“You haven't even seen my bladework yet!” Thomas stepped back with a smile, blade lifting to the en garde position. Corvo unsheathed and unfolded his knife. It was a hypnotizing motion, and Thomas' eyes followed it, but quickly enough settled back on Corvo's face.

“So says the man who was held in prison for three days and swam through the Wrenhaven.” Having his own words tossed back in his face nearly made Thomas laugh. Yes, this would be interesting. “Now let's see what you're made of.”

Thomas stepped back even more and Corvo stood at the ready. They paced, circled each other, and finally Thomas made the first move; a testing and quick slice down Corvo's front. It was parried and redirected, so Thomas lunged to the side and attempted to catch Corvo in the back. That, too, came up unsuccessful. He circled back around to Corvo's front, stealing a look at the man's eyes instead of his clever fingers. His quick blade.

“Clean clothes. I took it you spoke with Malia?” Corvo jabbed and Thomas sidestepped, feet scraping semicircles in on the dusty cobble. He struck at Corvo's sword arm. It was effortlessly parried. He'd have to try harder to land a hit.

“I did.” He hopped back, lurched to the side and feinted. Corvo took the bait and got Thomas' blade thwapping his side for it. “And I didn't eat the drugged food that she offered.”

Corvo smiled. There was considerably more teeth than what Thomas would consider friendly, the cut of Corvo's eyes glittering and sharp. The momentary distraction was enough for Corvo to ready his blade for an overhand, blisteringly quick but still telegraphed enough that once Thomas noticed the flicker of steel in the sunset he yelped and dove out of the way in time.

“I trust that the poor girl's still alive.” He whirled, showing his back and knowing that Thomas would jump at the opportunity; but still unbalanced, he didn't get the chance and Corvo had the time to slam the hilt of his blade down onto Thomas' back. The younger man gasped and staggered forwards. His knuckles whitened with the grip around the hilt.

“Oh, yes, sir.” It came out a surprised wheeze and he dropped into a roll, rising to his feet a safe distance away. Maybe he could come back from that? Corvo, at the least, seemed relatively impressed that he'd lasted so long. Speech left him and he buckled down even more, focused. This wasn't a back-alley brawl, or even a spar with the assassins he used to run with. Corvo, Thomas reminded himself, won the Blade Verbena at sixteen.

Once Corvo found a chink in the armor of his defense, Thomas really had no hope of salvaging himself and his attempt earned him a bloody nose for the effort. Corvo took him down with thorough, terrifying efficiency. The flat of his blade struck Thomas' joints, exposed nerves, made his entire body sing in pain. A particularly firm blow to the back of his ankle made Thomas drop to his knees, and the hilt thudded down on the back of his neck. He collapsed onto the stone and twisted into his back for a hopeful counterattack, and found instead Corvo's boot on his chest.

Thomas quickly gave up the idea of winning a fair fight.

“Mercy! Lord Attano, mercy!”

He kept his hands on the ground, panting. The blade rested at the hollow of his throat, Corvo standing victorious over him. He felt his throat fluttering against the sharp point, just pressed enough to threaten injury.

“There is no mercy in the spy's work. A performance like that would see you dead.” Corvo lowered the blade from Thomas' throat, eyes dark and half-lidded. Disappointed.

Thomas nodded and took another second to bring his breathing back under control. “And there's no fighting fair, either.”

He hooked his leg around Corvo's and kicked his knee out. The Lord Protector squawked only half on purpose and Thomas kept them linked together, dropping his blade in favor of attempting to manhandle Corvo underneath him. It was a fool's effort, of course, the Lord Protector was a tall and imposing man and Thomas had always been slim even as the years packed whipcord muscle onto him, but it would let him escape.

He got as far as Corvo obligingly on his back and he launched himself off towards his blade only for the dubious pleasure of an arm like a steel bar wrapping around his throat and hauling him against Corvo's chest. Thomas choked and flailed, debating the merits of crying out; but he knew that Corvo would have no issue clapping a hand over his mouth to quiet him.

Corvo let him writhe for a few moments and he kept fighting even as black stole the edges of his vision. Even as his limbs started to feel much too heavy. The last time he was on the receiving end of this, he'd woken up hours later with a bruised neck, stashed under a flight of stairs.

Corvo's voice cut through the encroaching darkness and buzz in his ears. “That's enough, Everett. Settle down.”

Embarrassingly, Thomas whimpered and obediently fell still. Corvo relaxed his grip until it was merely resting against Thomas' throat, but the threat of a continued choking present if Thomas decided to fuss. He didn't. He only sucked in grateful breaths, chest heaving. He tasted blood on his tongue.

“You're resourceful and clever, but you never even thought of using the other weapons laid out here.”

“--I guess that duels amongst noblemen are much different than duels between the commoners.” Thomas tried to laugh. It just came out hoarse. He was lightheaded from the arm around his throat but too well-warned to move, and as if in reward Corvo released him. He scrambled up to his feet and only hesitatingly offered Corvo a hand up. The Royal Protector graciously allowed Thomas to help him.

“I am intrigued at your choice of blades, though. That seems much more suited as a hidden blade than a proper sidearm.” His eyes narrowed. Curiosity, nothing more, Thomas assured himself.

“I would certainly hope that as a spy I wouldn't need to carry an obvious weapon.”

That was fitting enough, and true besides. Corvo grunted. Thomas relented, inasmuch as he could without jeopardizing his identity.

“People don't take me seriously when I use a small weapon. They go off their guard, they're easier targets.”

“I stand by what I said. You're clever.” Corvo shook his head, bemused. “Let's try again.”

Thomas smiled, just as much teeth. “On your mark, sir.”

*

 Interlude, 1845.

  Day 5 of the Month of Hearths.  

“Lord Beechworth.” It never hurt to be polite, and besides Thomas had taken to clinging to social niceties like a vine. His jobs had seen him going to parties, sitting in at court, talking with high-society servants, and all of it forced gentility back into his bones.

“Just Samuel will do, young man. All those titles are too fancy for me.”

Thomas' lips quirked in a smile and he settled down on the seat across from Samuel. “Samuel, then. I hope you'll forgive the intrusion.”

“Of course.” The boatman shrugged. “If you'll forgive the ride.”

He unmoored the Amaranth, and Thomas shrugged back as they cast off. The Wrenhaven was calm, reflecting the harsh orange of the setting sun in every cresting wave. Thomas simply stared out into the water. He'd come meaning to ask questions. Now, though, it seemed gravely inappropriate. He left it up to Samuel to break the silence and after ten minutes of floating out away from the shore he was not disappointed.

“Corvo knows where you're from, if not who you are.”

Thomas fought back a tremor and instead tilted his head curiously. “He does? But I thought the census didn't have any information on me, save from what the interrogators at Coldridge got...”

Samuel waved his hand, halfway between a dismissal and a reassurance. “Your bladework. You don't look it, but it's distinctly Serkonan. I don't know who your teacher was, but he must have been a very good one indeed.”

Oh. Thomas let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“Yes, one of the men at a slaughterhouse I briefly worked for taught me. I studied by myself, and it really does wonders for throwing off potential challengers.” Thomas brushed his hair back with his fingers, smiling. “--ah, but Lord Attano has told you about me?”

“Yes he has.” Samuel chuckled and looked down at the keel of the Amaranth, shaking his head. ”Said you were the first to just up and ask him for a job. Normally he hand-picks his allies.”

“So that's why it looked like he had half a mind to kill me.”

They shared a chuckle, and Samuel finally reached down under his seat and fished out a bottle of Old Dunwall. “The sun's going down. I don't know if Lord Corvo'll approve of me getting you buzzed before sending you back to the tower, but I figure that if you've lasted this long it merits some celebration.”

Thomas nodded. He didn't drink often, didn't have the time nor the motivation. This, though, was a gift and he couldn't afford to burn bridges that he was still in the tenuous process of building, so he graciously accepted the bottle. Samuel got himself another.

They drank in silence, boat rocking softly against the waves. The sun tinged the sky trails of red, orange, salmon pinks, spreading out like trails of blood along the clouds. For the first time in a long while, Thomas felt at peace.

*

Thomas fell into a comfortable routine. He did whatever Corvo asked, dug through files searching for Daud when time and secrecy permitted, and the day he was assigned to a security detail to discreetly follow the then-eighteen-year-old Empress on a tour of a refurbished district he felt nothing but bittersweet pride, even as his blade sunk through the gut of some poor insurgent-- he dragged the man to Corvo and Emily like a pleased cat with a caught mouse, and passed him off to the Royal Guard.

The last time he'd seen the Empress that close, she'd been a child; crying, and screaming for her mother. Now, he swept a low bow and offered her a roguish smirk, and she looked almost impressed. On Emily's insistence Corvo introduced them later. It was brief, and pleasing, and warmth rose in Thomas' chest for the hope that he was making amends, slow and piecemeal as they were. This still wasn’t penance. It was too selfish for that.

Yes, Thomas felt he had a place here. It was hard-won and the people could never know who he truly was, but Everett was a hard worker and a good man. He had many allies, if not many friends, and was usually willing to be a helping hand when not off on some ridiculous mission. He had a place with Malia, gossiping over the new recruits, and he had a place with Corvo; he'd started bowing properly, a fact which Corvo ribbed him endlessly about. He'd started growing a stubbly goatee. It didn't look all that impressive and it itched,  so within the month he shaved it.

At night he still sometimes dreamed of flames, of the screams of people he'd known for years and some he'd known for days. He dreamed of leering golden masks and the grinding of music boxes. Of Daud, kneeling and bleeding out, and himself, brandishing his blade for a doomed fight before being ordered away. Of Billie. As the years passed the dreams grew less and less, and thankfully did not encompass his thoughts in his waking hours.

Thomas did not forget, but it didn't consume him. That was they best he could do, and he accepted it.

And then Zhukov came. Thomas ended up on his knees at the Boyle masquerade, a blade he used to know with the intimacy of time pressed against his throat. He'd worn a mask styled after a wolfhound, with faux golden trim adorning the eye holes and forehead. It was off now and cracked in two. His nose was bleeding and it dripped into his mouth and down his front as he panted. Galia met his eyes, but she'd only seen him once with his mask off and it had been years and so she passed him over with a sneer.

Even if she did recognize him, he sincerely doubted that she cared.

After the party he was given a three day’s leave to rest and recover. He healed, but for the first time since he'd freed himself from the dirty cell in Coldridge, rest was hard to come by.

*

 Dunwall, 1851

  26th day of the Month of High Cold.  

“Hey, Everett.”

Thomas dug his head into his pillow and groaned.

“The Royal Spymaster wants to see you.”

He groaned again. Seeing Galia, seeing that mask, again hadn't helped him at all. She was dead, now. Rinaldo was... Alive. In Coldridge, but alive. Thomas wanted to visit him, but common sense forbade it. He simply stole bits and pieces of information when he could, and was pleased to find his tongue as sharp as ever.

“I'll be right up. Thank you, Malia.”

The maid and fellow spy smiled, and then left. Thomas shoved his head further into the warmth of his pillow before he readied himself.

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of Corvo under the full blast of the air vent.

“Lord Attano, sir. What's the occasion?” He kept his hands clasped firmly behind his back to shield his anxiety, his tension. Corvo wasn't facing him. That, in itself, made fear sing high in Thomas' chest.

“It's come to my attention that you are not who you told me you are. Is that true, Everett?” Thomas felt like a rat cut open for study. Corvo's voice filled the room no matter how quietly he spoke, even when he wasn't facing Thomas, and it made Thomas want to tremble and beg for forgiveness.

He gulped, but kept his face carefully impassive. “It is true, sir.”

Corvo turned, eyes narrowed. The crags on his face from age and strain seemed deeper, more severe. He was angry. “And you were a member of Daud's assassins, in your youth?”

“It--” Thomas' voice stuttered, and he looked down. All his careful neutrality wore away, and now he felt only guilt. Corvo's eyes burned holes into his skin. “It is true, sir. How did you find out?” His voice dropped to a whisper. ”If I may ask.”

“At the ball, you immediately picked up on the lead Whaler's swordwork. Too quickly, in fact. All I had to do was accuse you, and now you've given me enough information to arrest you and execute you on charges of treason. And don't think I didn't notice you taking out files on Escobar. I have eyes everywhere.” Corvo shook his head, and Thomas was abruptly aware of how thoroughly he'd been had. Corvo spoke again, clipped and sharp. “Tell me your name.“ Your real one hung heavily in the air between them. Thomas kept his stare fixed to the floor.

“My name is Thomas, sir. No surname.” That was truth, and it seemed to satisfy Corvo.

“Anything to say for yourself, Thomas?”

Thomas didn't feel up to looking Corvo in the eyes right now. “I'm sorry, sir. And I... I accept any consequences that my actions have brought.” As brief as it was, his real response went unspoken. By now, Corvo would be able to pick up on his implicit meaning: if Corvo chose to have him executed, Thomas would kneel for the bullet without a fuss. Corvo sighed and scrubbed at his temples with his hands, less angry now and more tired.  

“You have two days, and then I send people after you. That is my mercy, and because you have served-- the Crown faithfully, you deserve it. I don't want to hear of you in Gristol ever again, Thomas.”

There is no mercy in the spy's work. Corvo's words now rang in the back of his head. Would he have killed him, those years ago, if he knew who he was? He had Thomas entirely at his mercy in that moment, blade touched to his throat. It would have been so easy. Even though he'd spared Daud, Thomas was not so important and did not delude himself as such.

“Yes, Lord Attano.” He dipped his head. “Thank you.”

“Dismissed.”

[kiss-my-freckle]

Dembe Zuma, 6x18

I know how to hurt people I care about. I came for advice on how to live with it.  - Red

Liz is the only one “off-limits.” The only one who can betray Red without fear of his wrath. Red’s love for her keeps her that way. She never has to worry about getting shot in the face like Kate. 

Liz spoke of it - 

Ressler: What’s going on? Liz: It’s Dembe. I’m worried about him. Ressler: You think Reddington would actually punish Dembe? Liz: He wasn’t okay with what I did. And he certainly wasn’t okay with Dembe keeping it secret. I’m worried about what Reddington might do, how he might respond. I put him in an impossible place. I asked him to hide the truth because I thought my secret was more justifiable than Reddington’s, but the truth always comes out, and someone always gets hurt.

Dembe spoke of it -

Dembe: My word is my bond, and before I break my word, I will give my life.

Dembe’s spiritual advisor spoke of it -

Without it, no one is safe. Not even you?

This goes back to Anslo Garrick’s episodes, where both Liz and Dembe were on their knees, both about to get a bullet if Red didn’t come out of the box.  

It goes back to The Forecaster -

Dembe: I’m worried about Raymond. I don’t think he cares about anything or anyone in the world right now other than you or Agnes. I don’t recognize him. I can’t reach him. Liz: And you think I can. Dembe: The people at the apartment… Liz: He wouldn’t tell me who they were. Dembe: They’re cleaners. Liz: Cleaners? What about Mr. Kaplan? It’s because she helped me fake my death, isn’t it? He’s punishing her. Dembe: He saw it as a betrayal. Liz: So he’s replacing her. Dembe: No. He didn’t replace Kate. He killed her.

It goes back to The Debt Collector -

Kate: I was your friend. I protected you. I comforted you. I loved you. The truth? This is the truth. And it came at an excruciatingly high price.

And it falls parallel to Sutton Ross -

Kate: The truth? This is the truth. 

Red: The truth? The truth is that I am not -

Red: But I realize - you don’t need my forgiveness. Ever. Because when it comes to “this” - you can do no wrong.

Liz: Whatever “this” is, it’s yours. I should have respected that. The only reason we’re here is because I didn’t. And I’m so sorry. Red: You have nothing to apologize for. Not to me. Ever.

Why both Dembe and Kate should’ve been “off-limits” just as Liz is, and for the same reason - Love. Red shouldn’t need to think about what he plans to do with Dembe. Red’s love for him should’ve already answered that, just as it should’ve for Kate. 

Dembe’s dialogue in response -

Red: I guess I don’t understand. Dembe: No. And I suppose you don’t.

Goes back to The Debt Collector -

Red: I haven’t loved many people in my life. Kate is one of them. You know - as much as her betrayal hurt, what really hurt was knowing what I would have to do in response.

Love is a hard emotion for Red. And because I believe Red is Katarina, it’s quite explainable when you take all things into consideration. 

Katarina: I don’t know about love, Kate. In my job - the only one I know I love is Masha.

And falls in parallel with Tom -

Dom: Katarina was my protégé or so I thought until I learned that she had a life I didn’t know anything about - a cabal conspiring against Russia, her affair with Reddington. Liz: Which you ordered her to have. Dom: I ordered her to turn him - turn him, not to have his child.

Because Red is the Russian spymaster known as Katarina Rostova. Her own father trained her - and was even her handler for Christ’s sake. He ordered her to seduce and betray Red - which falls opposite parallel to Red hiring Tom to enter Liz’s life in order to protect her - only for Tom to fall in love with her. So even her own father trained her to basically target men without feeling - which is the grossest fucking thing I ever heard. Dom is no different than Major. I consider him worse for doing such a thing to his own daughter. But it explains why Red would turn around and ask the same of Liz - to stay with the man who made her feel filthy for the sake of learning who his employer was. Because he doesn’t understand love. He understands the job. The mission. The threat. 

Liz: Do you know we had sex the other night? Do you have any idea how filthy that makes me feel? Red: Unfortunately, Lizzy, you’re chest-deep in filth and you’re gonna have to wade through it - to get to the other side.

This is where I believe they’re heading. I saw a lot of Tom dominoes in this episode. Red’s gonna see it when he sees what he did to his own daughter by hiring a spy much like himself to enter her life. A spy that doesn’t understand love. Only the job. The mission. The threat. 

Red is much like Dom because Dom trained her to be that way.  How is Red supposed to love as everyone else, when he was trained by his own father to use love as a weapon for his targets? To gather intel?

[thomdunn]

Let’s Think About This From Comey’s Point-of-View For A Second

The storyteller in me is always interested in what goes on in other people’s heads. There are various cliches about how every villain is a hero in their own story, and I generally think that’s true — both in fiction, and in real life.

And as more and more information comes out about the whole Russia-Trump-Comey-Hillary-Email-Clusterfuck, I think it’s important for us all to remember that these are actual human beings, who, like all of us, are often forced to make decisions with limited time and with even more limited information, and that sometimes, they get it wrong.

(Except for Trump, obviously; he’s little more than a spoiled chaos demonbaby in the middle of his greatest tantrum yet.)

So instead of arguing about conspiracies and fake news and hypocritical firings or whatever petty satisfaction the Internet is feeding on right now, put yourself in Comey’s shoes, circa June 2016.

You’re a registered Republican who has always taken pride in your commitment to the Constitution. You’ve never been ashamed to tell leaders of either major party to go screw themselves, if their actions or words don’t align with what you see as your duty. As far as you’re concerned, inspiring a bi-partisan hatred is generally a good thing, because it makes it easier for you to stay objective in your job. You earn respect through hatred and truth.

This is how you inspire loyalty within the Bureau — but lately, that loyalty has come under question. There are a lot of eager FBI agents championing the Trump train, which is bad for objectivity; you’re also in the middle of investigating the other major presidential candidate, which is even worse for objectivity. (Also, you yourself have never been a big of Secretary Clinton, but you’re trying really hard to get past that.)

And yet, the more you dig into Hillary’s emails, the more the answer stays the same: she’s a 68-year-old woman who doesn’t understand technology, but there’s no proof of malicious intent. Regardless of how much you want to punish her, being shady and stupid is not illegal.

Then the Russia shit REALLY hits the fan.

You’re pretty confident that Michael Flynn is up to something. You know that Trump’s campaign manager is knee-deep in questionable dealings, and that Trump’s lawyers have concerning Russian ties, too. Plus there’s that Russian mob hideout sitting right in Trump Tower you’ve been watching for a while, and maybe, just maybe, there’s something going on with Rosneftand the Russian oil industry—just a few of the reasons why you’ve been casually spying on Trump-related things for years.

And then there’s Vladimir Putin, a famously vicious spymaster with a raging hate-boner against America in general, and the Clintons in particular.

You’re also damn sure that DNC-server-hacker Guccifer 2.0 is Russian, though you’re having a hard time figuring out whether he’s acting alone or on behalf of the FSB and/or Russian government. (although you also know that Russian espionage tactics are intentionally designed to be duplicitous and cast layers of aspersions back around upon themselves in order to leave everyone triple- and quadruple-guessing themselves. Questionable links is what the Russians do, and they’re really really good at it.)

That’s when you learn that Russia is intentionally spreading false propaganda about Attorney General Loretta Lynch’s involvement in the Clinton email investigation — which is nearing its conclusion.

And for which you still really don’t have any proof of malicious intent, which would probably be needed (though not 100% required, I guess) to prosecute.

Even though you also know that a good 1/3 of the country is clamoring for Clinton’s public lynching, with their torches and pitchforks ready to go.

To make matters worse, Bill Clinton and Loretta Lynch just got caught canoodling on an airport runway.

People are already asking questions about this — and they don’t even know yet that you know that the Russians were spreading Fake News about Loretta Lynch’s collusion in the email investigation anyway.

Damn those Russian spies are good. And you, James Comey? You’re fucked. The Russian propaganda game just forced you into a Catch-22. You have to make a choice, but your choices—and available information—are painfully limited. Meanwhile, the clock is still ticking…

Choice #1: Tell the American public, in the middle of one of the most hostile elections in US history, that Russia has meddled in the process.

You can try to explain that you’re still looking into it and that it may or may not have something to do with Trump’s business dealings, or else maybe just people on his campaign team, you’re not sure yet. But the damage would already be done. This would undermine all remaining public faith in the American Democratic process—and you yourself would be to blame. The anti-Clinton animosity would reach a fever pitch, especially when they found out that you were going to recommend against her prosecution for completely unrelated reasons.

From there, the conspiracy theories of Obama’s secret evil Deep State agenda would spiral even further out of control. Between the religious Right (who really love the Russians) and the recent resurgence of militant white supremacist groups infiltrating law enforcement, this would likely push the country on the edge of a second Civil War.

So much for that carefully-cultivated image of objectivity!

Choice #2: Publicly announce the end of the Clinton investigation—with a lengthy preamble caveat to make it clear how much you hate her—while continuing to investigate Russian interference in secret.

People will accuse you of Clintonian collusion, of course, but sometimes you have to take one for the team. Clinton supporters will breath a sigh of relief, while the rabid Clinton-hating conspiracy theorists will continue being rabid Clinton-hating conspiracy theorists. But at least this way you can keep the illusion of American democracy intact, and let the people believe they’re living in a fair and neutral electoral process in a totally free country full of equal opportunity for all.

This is the least worst option. So you take it, and hope for the best.

Unfortunately, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and your decision leads straight down.

Because just before Election Day, you receive news that your agents have found another stash of missing Clinton emails. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

This looks bad. You know this looks bad. Again, you also know that you have a lot of Trumpers in the Bureau, and that if you don’t do anything, they’re going to leak the information anyway. You could wait until you’ve actually gone through this new trove of evidence before making an announcement about it, but that could look really bad—especially if Clinton wins the election, which is looking more and more likely every day.

But your duty is to the public, and to the Constitution, so you bite the bullet and decide to write a letter about this recent discovery. A letter which pretty much decides the fate of the election…even though it turned out there was nothing new to investigate after all.

Oops?

But it all works out in the end, Trump gets elected, you casually mention the Russia thing in public, and everyone lives happily ever after. … Right?

Except for the other 20 members of the Trump cabinet who have lied under oath about Russian communications. Except for the alleged Donald Trump pee tape (which is almost certainly untrue, but still hilarious, none of which discounts the other revelations in that dossier). Except for all that Trump emolument stuff which may-or-may-not tie back to that whole Rosneft thing. Et cetera, et cetera.

Either way, you’re still James Comey, and you’re still doing your job as FBI Director, still investigating Russia’s involvement in the whole election process, and still under the impression that you are acting in the best interests of the American people, because that’s your job. So you don’t even mind it when Trump tries to nudge you into dropping the investigation. Or, again, when he throws a giant public tantrum about “Obama” spying on him, when you know—as well as the rest of the intelligence community—that you are literally spying on everyone in America at any given point in time, just to be safe, and that the rules on unmasking incidental surveillance have always been kinda-wishy-washy. (Except in this case, that system is working exactly as it was intended to all along.)

You don’t bother squealing on Trump for trying to obstruct your investigation because it wasn’t really that bad, and would cause an even bigger headache to report to the Department of Justice, making an even bigger enemy out of the vengeful, unhinged bully the White House.

Then he fires you. He doesn’t directly interfere with the process of justice, of course; but you know that he meant to send a message, because you know that he’s a wildly vindictive man with a malicious sense of loyalty.

But at least now the gloves are off.

To be clear: none of this is meant to excuse Comey’s actions, or anything else the professional liars in the intelligence community have recently said or done.

I’ve always viewed the intelligence community as kind of a necessary evil, who tend to do a lot of explicitly bad things for supposedly-good reasons. This is also true of law enforcement—and the FBI fits right in the center of that Venn diagram, and their history has always been shady.

The only point I hope to make is that no matter how conniving, insidious, or righteous they might seem, even high-ranking government officials are still generally people, and susceptible to the same failings as the rest of us.

(Again, except for Demon-Baby-Trump itself.)

There’s a reason that we have an FBI, of course. Just as there’s a reason for the checks-and-balances of the three government branches, and also an independent press, as well as laws to protect whistleblowers that we repeatedly ignore because we don’t think people deserve to know the truth. But the end of the day, we tend to forget that all of these organizations are run by actual human people who are prone to unconscious biases and errors in judgement. And that’s a serious problem.

The Trumpservative media would have you believe that every single member of the DNC and “Mainstream Media” are working directly together, in collusion with Comey, to take down the Trump administration with completely made-up lies about Russia. But all they can do about it is to mock anyone who isn’t anti-anti-Trump rather than grappling with the very real, and very human complications of this entire issue.

Meanwhile, a large swath of the Left is suddenly head-over-heels about shady government bureaucracy and surveillance, which is, erm, not a good look. (Remember, kids: the FBI and CIA are literally paid to lie to you.)

But like a lot of things in this messed up, crazy world, the truth lies somewhere in the middle, in an endless sea of complicated nuance.

James Comey is not “The Hero of the Resistance.” Nor is he the enemy of freedom.

More likely, James Comey is a human being whose former job involved some things that were good, and some things that were bad, and who found himself faced with some difficult decisions that made it even harder for him to stay objective in an increasingly partisan world.

Comey made some bad decisions. The alternatives were even worse.

If you were in the same situation, you probably would have made the same decisions, too. That doesn’t make it right, and doesn’t make it wrong—but it does make it human.