#though for house it's a monumental feat to say something and mean it

[thankstothe]

Pathetic

[chasingshadowsblog]

"I've seen suffering in the darkness. Yet I have seen beauty thrive in the most fragile of places." - History, Culture and Identity in Cartoon Saloon's Irish Mythology Trilogy

Written accounts of Irish history and culture only begin to appear from the 5th century onwards and what came before we are left to piece together from archaeological remains whose meanings and motivations we can only guess at. What is clear, though, is that during that broad stretch of time between the Early Mesolithic and Late Iron Age, a distinctly Irish identity had been established and cultivated through by the craftsmen, artists, hunters, foragers, farmers and warriors that populated the country through their housing, weaponry, metalworks and stone monuments. The development of the Christian church throughout the Early Medieval period brought its own beauty to the art and architecture of the country, but also adapted its culture to suit the needs of an integrating religion and sites and ceremonies of pagan worship were amalgamated into the Christian calendar. Following this were Viking raids, Anglo-Norman settlement, English conquest, plantation, oppression, rebellion, famine and civil war. From the Early Medieval period to the present day Ireland has experienced an almost constant shift in leadership and identity with little time in between for the dust to settle. Culturally, a "Celtic Revival" in the late 19th and early 20th centuries sought to re-invigorate the arts and history of Celtic Ireland (a broad, problematic concept in itself) as an expression of nationalism and to bolster a distinctly Irish artistic and literary identity. All of this is to say that wading through Ireland's history of social upheaval, religious and political conflict, and loss and confusion of identity is no mean feat. To take those threads and conjure up original stories for modern audiences, embracing the suffering and celebrating the beauty, is impressive. To do it three times is witchcraft.

In their films depicting Irish history, culture and mythology, animation studio Cartoon Saloon have approached their stories with a respect for the past, both fact and fiction. By evoking the artwork, legends and real history of Ireland's past and combining it with their own fresh, unique visual style, Cartoon Saloon brings some much needed authenticity and vibrancy to the depiction of Ireland in mainstream culture. Absent are the twee figures of backwards island folk or the commercialised idolatry of a St. Patrick's Day parade. What we get instead is something more personal, recognisable on the surface to every child and adult who learned about Fionn, the Fianna and fairy circles in primary school and with nuggets of information and visual cues for explorers of Ireland's broader history.

"I can't tell you which parts of this story are true and which parts are shrouded by the mists." - The Secret of Kells and the line between history and mythology

Set roughly in the 9th century AD The Secret of Kells is the earliest depiction of Irish culture in the trilogy. This period saw the introduction of Christianity and the eventual integration of the religion among the native Irish, a relatively smooth transition when compared to later events as noted by historian Jo Kerrigan: "And so the people of Ireland combined the new ways with the old…not bothering too much that the names had changed." Although the main character, Brendan, comes from a Christian monastery and carries those beliefs, The Secret of Kells does well to capture this balance between a new religion and old beliefs with the inclusion of Aisling and Crom Cruach, and without dismissing them as a childish or archaic. "Pagans. Crom worshippers. It is with the strength of our walls that they will come to trust the strength of our faith." The threat of Viking raids is what spurs Abbot Ceallach's desire to build a wall around his monastery, but, underlying his actions is another aspect of a monk's work - converting the natives. In The Secret of Kells the abbot's wall not only protects them from invaders but cuts them off from the forest beyond - the domain of shape-shifters, wild animals and pagan temples, a world that Brendan can only glimpse through a crack in the wall. A staple of the entire trilogy is this depiction of wilderness in some form and its association with Ireland's symbolic wilderness and pagan ancestry. When Brendan enters the forest for the first time it is dark and frightening until Aisling, an ethereal Sídhe figure who can shape-shift into a wolf, shows him how to navigate it. Brendan's fear is eliminated and Aisling quickly becomes his friend, each amused and fascinated by the other.

Hidden throughout Brendan's trek in the forest are old, moss covered ogham stones and stone circles, allusions to native practices, but deeper in, the colour palette changes from bright greens and natural browns to a wash of dark greys and black when Brendan stumbles across a temple to Crom Cruach (a deity who, in Irish mythology, is eventually destroyed by St. Patrick). Aisling tries to warn him away, "It is the cave of the Dark One," but Brendan dismisses her worries, "The abbot says that's all pagan nonsense, there's no such thing as Crom Cruach." At the sounding of the deity's name, black tendrils emit from the cave and pull on Aisling as she stops them reaching Brendan. Later, Brendan returns to the cave to steal Crom's eye - a magnifying crystal that will help Brendan and Brother Aidan with their illumination. In a beautifully animated sequence Brendan battles Crom Cruach in his cave by trapping him in a chalk circle and stealing his eye. Crom Cruach is depicted as a never-ending snake (in a geometric pattern reminscent of both pre-Christian art and the knotwork of Christian manuscripts) possibly in reference to the 'snakes' (demons) banished from Ireland by St. Patrick. What's most fascinating about this sequence is that Brendan experiences it at all. Although the experience is supernatural it is never implied as anything other than real. Brendan is a committed monk in training who will spend his life in service to the monastery and creating the Book of Kells; even after meeting Aisling and battling Crom Cruach he never questions his faith or his elders and when he returns to the monastery with the eye no one disputes the story of how he came by it, "You entered one of the Dark One's caves?" At this time, at the edge of a growing monastery and with a direct reference to the abbot's desire to convert the natives, there is still space for pagan ideas to exist. Whenever Brendan is punished by Abbot Ceallach it is for disobedience not a lack of faith. Similarly, Aisling using Pangur Bán's spirit to free Brendan has an effect on the real world. There's an argument to be made that this is a film and anything can happen, but for problems to be solved by magic, the way Aisling frees Brendan, firm world-building rules must be established; in this world, 9th century Ireland, spaces exist in which otherworldly figures reside and actions beyond the mortal realm occur and these spaces exist alongside this film's version of civilisation, the monastery.

"I have lived through all the ages, through the eyes of salmon, deer and wolf." As an animated feature, there is a lot the film can tell us through visuals alone, and The Secret of Kells does a wonderful job capturing an Ireland in transition. The prologue opens with a close-up image of the Eye of Crom with abstract shapes swimming around it, followed by a glimpse of Aisling hiding in a tree as she narrates over these images in an eery whisper. Following these we see a salmon, deer and wolf, three animals important to Irish mythology, identity and history; the salmon, related to The Salmon of Knowledge, represents mythology, the deer is the national animal of Ireland, and wolves (in the world of Cartoon Saloon) represent its wildernes and history (the elimination of the wolf population became more active in Ireland during times of English occupancy, a theme that is explored more deeply in Wolfwalkers). Even the waves crashing around Iona as Brother Aidan escapes morph into wolves, futhering their symbolism as something wild and dangerous, yet they are never associated with the Viking raiders; the wilderness is as equally affected by change as the people are. The monastery is littered with Iron Age motifs existing alongside Early Christian imagery. Spiral motifs occur in trees and plants, in the ropes that bind the wall's scaffolding together, and circular, semi-circular and zig-zag shapes continue to appear with knot-work patterns and religious figures - even the snowflakes during the raid are strands of knot-work. The monastery itself is accurate to the period with its round tower, beehive shaped structures (called clochán) and the town growing around it, while outside its walls Brendan crosses a stone circle. We even see a game of hurling, the ultimate unifying bridge between pagan and modern Ireland. The walls of the abbot's cell are covered in his own drawings of plans for the monastery's construction. These are exquisitely detailed and clearly a plan for the future but drawn in a style that cannot escape the past; zig-zags, spirals, circles, semi-circles, dots, triangles, sun and star motifs and something that looks like an alignment chart. The style is evocative of the insular La Tène that preceded the arrival of the monks in Ireland; a combination of abstract and geometric, seemingly random, but clearly symbolising something greater.

"You must bring the book to the people." In their last interaction as children Aisling helps Brendan recover the pages of his manuscript as he flees the Vikings. In this gesture Aisling aids Brendan on his religious journey - during the montage later on she even guides him home. Faith never comes between these two, their relationship is one of mutual curiosity and sharing their differences. In Irish mythology, female figures (particularly shape-shifting ones) are often symbolic of Ireland itself and to have the support of these figures is, for kings and heroes, a mark of validation. At this time, these two worlds still live alongside each other and Aisling is allowed to support Brendan's work as a monk while maintaining her own natural way of life. Although Brendan's final journey home shows the spread of Christianity across the country we get one final image of Aisling, changed to her human form in a flash of lightning, that shows us she hasn't disappeared just yet. Brendan, now an adult, returns to Kells and although Abbot Ceallach is old and sick, the monastery stands strong and Brendan brings with him the completed Book of Kells, ready to continue the abbot's work.

"This wild land must be civilised" - Wolfwalkers and the taming of Ireland

Set in 1650, Wolfwalkers occurs roughly 800 years after The Secret of Kells and presents a vastly different universe. The monks' Christianisation of the natives was a far more gentle affair and one founded in a desire to educate people. Ireland under the Lord Ruler (a stand-in for Oliver Cromwell) is a world of service, punishment and fear. By chopping down trees and employing hunters to cull the wolf population the Lord Ruler is attempting to 'tame' the countryside and, most importantly, the people themselves. References to "the old king" and "revolt in the south" place us, historically and politically, in the Cromwellian Conquest, when Cromwell was sent to Ireland to quell uprisings against the newly established English Commonwealth. Heavy stuff and this is a simplification of a period of major conflict in Ireland but Wolfwalkers impresses on us the feeling of living under the thumb of an active oppressor on a much smaller, more personal scale. The Lord Ruler wants the people of Kilkenny afraid and complacent so that they support his efforts to cull the wolves and cut down their forests. Although the wolves pose no threat to the city, people have been made to fear them, resilting in the loss of their connection to the forest outside the town walls. Any reference to a world ouside of the current mode of conduct is cause for immediate punishment and suppression. Even Bill and Robyn, loyal English citizens, are punished. When one of the woodcutters talks of "pagan nonsense" he is confined to the stocks and Robyn is forced to work as a maid in the castle when she does the same. When Bill fails to cull the wolf population (and control his own daughter) he is stripped of his rank as hunter and forced into the role of soldier, robbed of the little freedom he had.

"This once wild creature is now tamed, obedient, a mere faithful servant." Although this line is spoken in reference to Moll, held captive in a cage in her wolf form, it is the human characters who suffer the most from this ideology - even the nameless background characters are confined to the walls of the city. What comes to mind when hearing this line is Robyn in her maid's uniform, once lively and imaginative, now returning home with lines under her eyes after a long day of hard, monotonous work, and Bill, shackled at the neck and forced to march behind the Lord Ruler's horse ("we must do what the Lord Ruler commands"). Although Moll is held captive too, it is in the form of a humongous wolf; she is locked away in the Long Hall for fear of the danger she represents because the Lord Ruler is aware of how poweful she is and so he must keep her locked up to show the people of Kilkenny just how much control he can wield, quelling any potential notions of power they might have held in themselves. In the case of Moll, Robyn and Bill, each time they are held captive by the Lord Ruler their captured bodies submit to the wolf form to escape: Moll uses its strength to break free of her chains, Robyn leaves behind her human body to launch an attack against the soldiers with the rest of the pack, and Bill, who had no idea what being bitten by Moll would do to him, submits to a primal instinct within him to protect his daughter and attacks the Lord Ruler. The Wolfwalkers are able to draw on this power but the people left behind in Kilkenny have no such escape.

"What cannot be tamed, must be destroyed." The ending of Wolfwalkers is bittersweet. Robyn, Médb and their parents are safe after defeating the Lord Ruler and his soldiers and ride off, not quite into the sunset, but onto horizons new. "All is well," Bill and Robyn tell each other and the family appear content, but, before now, leaving the forest was not on the agenda; leaving the forest meant retreating from a threat, as Moll desperately wanted Médb to do, and this is still the case. Médb wanted to save the forest, but, after everything that's happened, the family are no longer safe on the borders of the town. Robyn, Médb, Bill and Moll all save each other but they can't save their home and their retreat from Kilkenny is just that - a retreat. The Lord Ruler may have been killed but that doesn't mean the end of his conquest. Historically, this period saw Ireland amalgamated into the Commonwealth and Irish Catholic landowners ousted by English colonists, as well as a high level of deforestation and the elimination of the wolf population. By having the family leave their home, together and with a bright sky and grassy hills ahead of them, Wolfwalkers' coda balances the narrative conventions of a story by giving the viewers their satisfying ending without sanistising the history it's based on.

"Remember me in your stories and in your songs" - Song of the Sea and loss:

If Wolfwalkers is the taming of Ireland then Song of the Sea is Ireland tamed. Set roughly in the 1980s it is the closest depiction of a modern Ireland in Cartoon Saloon's ouevre. In contrast to The Secret of Kells and Wolfwalkers, which represented Ireland's native identity in the forest, here it takes the form of (drumroll) the sea, but while those other films depicted the battle between the wilderness and civilisation Song of the Sea depicts its defeat. The last of the Sídhe live in hiding in a rath disguised as the centre of a roundabout and use a sewage system to get around. In their diminshed forms, Lug, Mossy and Spud also resemble more closely what we might think of as 'fairies' in Ireland today, not the imposing figures of mischief and chaos the Sídhe really are in mythology. Still, Lug, Spud and Mossy wear torcs, brooches and earrings of gold and strewn about their home are ogham stones and hurls; in a nice marriage of modern and ancient tradition, they play the bodhrán, fiddle and banjo, singing a version of the Irish language song 'Dúlamán'. Only in this one pocket in the middle of the city do different aspects of traditional Irish culture survive.

All throughout Song of the Sea we see iconography of modern Ireland. Conor drinks a pint of Guinness (unlabelled but unmistakable), the front of the pub he sits in is decorated in proto-typical Irish pub fashion. On the wall in Granny's house sits proudly a picture of Jesus with the Sacred Heart lamp as she warbles along to the classic Irish children's song, 'Báidín Fheilimí'. Ben and Saoirse take refuge in a shrine to a holy well with a rag tree outside that is bursting with religious iconography as well as a toy sheep. Symbols that are as much a part of the national identity as those pre-historic and mythological ones. There are also references to the assimilation of pop culture outside of Ireland in a Lyle's Golden Syrup tin, the Rolling Stones poster on Conor's old bedroom door and Ben's 3-D glasses and cape, an emulation of a superhero costume. These images are, ultimately, harmless but have overtaken their native counterparts. Although we see statues of the Sídhe in the background, these are not shrines but detritus, and they lie forgotten, covered in plants and moss, in the company of bags of rubbish and old televisions. The diminishing of one era of Ireland's history to make way for a newer more powerful and modern identity is just one kind of loss that is portrayed in Song of the Sea, but each character experiences their own version throughout. The loss of Bronach that has affected Ben and Conor; the potential loss of Saoirse as she grows sicker; the loss of Mac Lir that drove Macha to such despair she literally bottled her emotions and those of others until they turned to stone. All of this comes to a climax at the end of the film when these tragedies are laid bare. As in Wolfwalkers the greater connotations of this theme are presented on a smaller scale: Ben and Conor's pain by the loss of Bronach.

Ben and Conor are representative of the human world and so suffer her absence more visibly than Saoirse who approaches her mother's world with curiosity and ease. In contrast, Ben, although he misses Bronach, rejects the sea (her home and symbolic identity) and his sister, a physical as well as spiritual reminder of what's been taken away from him. He turns his back on his past as much as he mourns its loss. We see it less obviously in Conor who wallows in his own memories and grief and tunes out Ben's references to his mother "It's as though I've been asleep all these years. I'm so sorry." Ben's grief is more expressive compared to the inwardly focused Conor and even towards the end of the film when Ben is trying to help Saoirse, Conor brushes over his insistence that only her selkie coat can save her. It's only when Saoirse is finally wearing the coat and wakes up from her sickness that he finally engages with Ben on the subject of Bronach, "She's a selkie, isn't she? Like Mam." "Yeah." (Which looks like a weak conversation written down but it's the happy smile on his face and the emotion in his voice that give the single word weight). "Please don't take her from us." During the film's final sequence, when Saoirse sings her song and wakens the sleeping Sídhe, Bronach returns but only to take Saoirse away. With tears in her eyes she begins to lead Saoirse along until Ben and Conor stop her, not forcefully but pleadingly, "she's all we have." All they have is Saoirse, all they have is a thread connecting them to Bronach's world and their memories of her.

"All of my kind must leave tonight…" As the Sídhe are wakened by Saoirse's song we watch them rise joyfully to form a glowing processional in the sky as they make the journey across the sea to their home. This scene is so beautifully animated and so filled with a sense of magic and wonder that we are charmed into believing this is a good thing. The Sídhe are returned to their noble forms and going to their home "across the sea"; they fill the sky with a warm, mystical light, but they are taking that light and their magic with them. As Bronach quotes in the film's prologue, "Come away, o human child, to the waters and the wild, with a fairy, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand." This is a world that can no longer bear the force of two identities. Unlike The Secret of Kells where Brendan and Aisling were allowed to live alongside each other without compromising their beliefs or ways of living, Bronach, a spiritual being, is forced to leave, while Ben and Conor have no choice but to stay and Saoirse, who walks both worlds, is made to choose between them. Although this is a happy ending it is still being depicted on a personal level. On a grander scale, the country has lost something that isn't coming back and this is depicted as a relief for the ones leaving it behind. On the other hand, Saoirse's decision to remain shows that, in small pockets of the country, the magic remains.

It is fitting that Song of the Sea, as a representation of modern Ireland, draws on loss; Ireland has been experiencing loss on a grand scale for centuries. Although the march of progress is mostly positive, in some cases it has altered our respect and interest in the past. Today there is a nihilism attached to Irish heritage; the spirituality that is associated with airy fairy hippies dancing naked in a moonlit field; the language that is almost universally despised by every secondary student forced to grapple with the Tuiseal Ginideach; its disappearing and continually exploited ecological landscapes; traditions and tales that grow more twee and archaic with every tourist bus that passes by; the preservation of archaeological sites in frequent battle with the progress of industry. In the interest of leaving behind the worst of our past we are at risk of losing the best. The writer Manchán Mangan suggests that this desire to forget lies in the pain we feel when we consider our history. Some, like Conor, try to push all reference to this pain out of their lives, others, like Ben, divert their pain into misplaced anger. Mangan cites the Famine as a source of generational pain and its effect today on our use of the language, but really it can be attached to many events and periods of time, "English was the future; Irish would only bring suffering and death." This is a sentiment that carries through to this day; despite encouragement from schools, local councils and the government, Irish remains a least favourite subject for most people who dismiss it as unuseful for success in the wider world. By proxy, anything to do with the notion of "Irish", the language, history and culture, is old-fashioned (suffering and death) while success and the future lie outside of the country. Mangan goes on to suggest that only by confronting the pain of our past can we unlock an ability in ourselves to engage more fully with our identity, "We might stop blaming our failure to learn on teachers, or the education system, or Government policy, and realise that we have no difficulty learning any other subject…" Ben and Conor are given the opportunity to say goodbye to Bronach before she leaves, allowing them to carry on with their memories of her and the last strand of their connection to her as represented by Saoirse. More and more people today are looking to Ireland's past, ecology and language for whatever it is they need or want to find. It isn't necessary to convert to paganism and live on the shores of the Connemara coastline to achieve this connection, but actively disengaging from your past can only hurt more than it can help. In their respective stories Brendan does not compromise his beliefs but still builds a friendship with Aisling, while Robyn and Bill integrate fully into Médb and Moll's world. There is no right way to engage with this side of our history and identity, but in contrast to Ben and Conor, Brendan and Robyn have balanced and fulfilling relationships with their native counterparts - the threats to their world come from outside sources. Ben and Conor were stuck in their pain over Bronach's loss and it is only after getting to see her one last time that helped them to move on and heal. Conor tells Bronach that he still loves her, he will carry his love and memories of her forever; Ben lets Saoirse into his life and is able to move past his grief and fears of the sea. Here, the threat of loss and destruction in modern Ireland comes from within, and can only be treated by engaging with the past - its rich heritage and tragic history - and moving on with all of the wisdom and experience it provides.

[writingwithcolor]

Jurassic period alien interacting with key cultures and historical figures in Middle East & Asia throughout history

@ketchupmaster400​ said:

Hello, so my question is for a character I’ve been working on for quite a while but wasn’t sure about a few things. So basically at the beginning of the universe there was this for less being made up of dark matter and dark energy. Long story short it ends up on earth during the Jurassic Period. It has the ability to adapt and assimilate into other life animals except it’s hair is always black and it’s skin is always white and it’s eyes are always red. It lives like this going from animal to animal until it finally becomes human and gains true sentience and self awareness. As a human it lives within the Middle East and Asia wondering around trying to figure out its purpose and meaning. So what I initially wanted to do with it was have small interactions with the dark matter human and other native humans that kinda helped push humanity into the direction it is now. For example, Mehndhi came about when the dark matter human was drawing on their skin because it felt insecure about having such white skin compared to other people. And ancient Indians saw it and thought it was cool so they adopted it and developed it into Mehndi. Minor and small interactions though early history leading to grander events. Like they would be protecting Jerusalem and it’s people agains the Crusaders later on. I also had the idea of the the dark matter human later on interacting with the prophets Jesus Christ and Muhammad. With Jesus they couldn’t understand why he would sacrifice himself even though the people weren’t deserving. And then Jesus taught them that you have to put other before yourself and protecting people is life’s greatest reward. And then with the prophet Muhammad, I had the idea that their interaction was a simple conversation that mirrors the one he had with the angel Jibril, that lead to the principles of Islam. Now with these ideas I understand the great importance of how not to convey Islam and I’ve been doing reasearch, but I am white and I can understand how that may look trying to write about a different religion than my own. So I guess ultimate my question is, is this ok to do? Is it ok to have an alien creature interact with religious people and historical events as important as they were? Like I said I would try to be as accurate and as respectable as possible but I know that Islam can be a touchy subject and the last thing I would want is to disrespect anyone. The main reason I wanted the dark matter being in the Middle East was because I wanted to do something different because so much has been done with European and American stuff I wanted to explore the eastern side of the world because it’s very beau and very rich with so many cultures that I want to try and represent. I’m sorry for the long post but I wanted you guys to fully understand what my idea was. Thank you for your time and hope you stay safe.

Disclaimer:

The consensus from the moderators was that the proposed character and story is disrespectful from multiple cultural perspectives. However, we can’t ignore the reality that this is a commonly deployed trope in many popular science fiction/ thriller narratives. Stories that seek to take religious descriptions of events at face value from an areligious perspective particularly favor this approach. Thus, we have two responses:

Where we explain why we don’t believe this should be attempted.

Where we accept the possibility of our advice being ignored.

1) No - Why You Shouldn’t Do This:

Hi! I’ll give you the short answer first, and then the extended one.

Short answer: no, this is not okay.

Extended answer. I’ll divide it into three parts.

1) Prophet Muhammad as a character:

Almost every aspect of Islam, particularly Allah (and the Qur’an), the Prophet(s) and the companions at the time of Muhammad ﷺ, are strictly kept within the boundaries of real life/reality. I’ll assume this comes from a good place, and I can understand that from one side, but seriously, just avoid it. It is extremely disrespectful and something that is not even up to debate for Muslims to do, let alone for non-Muslims. Using Prophet Muhammad as a character will only bring you problems. There is no issue with mentioning the Prophet during his lifetime when talking about his attributes, personality, sayings or teachings, but in no way, we introduce fictional aspects in a domain that Muslims worked, and still work, hard to keep free from any doubtful event or incident. Let’s call it a closed period: we don’t add anything that was not actually there.

Reiterating then, don’t do this. There is a good reason why Muslims don’t have any pictures of Prophet Muhammad. We know nothing besides what history conveyed from him. 

After this being said, there is another factor you missed – Jesus is also an important figure in Islam and his story from the Islamic perspective differs (a lot) from that of the Christian perspective. And given what you said in your ask, you would be taking the Christian narrative of Jesus. If it was okay to use Prophet Muhammad as a character (reminder: it’s not) and you have had your dark matter human interacting with the biblical Jesus, it will result in a complete mess; you would be conflating two religions.

2) Crusaders and Jerusalem:

You said this dark matter human will be defending Jerusalem against the Crusaders. At first, there is really no problem with this. However, ask yourself: is this interaction a result of your character meeting with both Jesus and Prophet Muhammed? If yes, please refer to the previous point. If not, or even if you just want to maintain this part of the story, your dark matter human can interact with the important historical figures of the time. For example, if you want a Muslim in your story, you can use Salah-Ad-Din Al-Ayoubi (Saladin in the latinized version) that took back Jerusalem during the Third Crusade. Particularly, this crusade has plenty of potential characters. 

Also, featuring Muslim characters post Prophet Muhammad and his companions’ time, is completely fine, just do a thorough research.

 3) Middle Eastern/South Asian settings and Orientalism:

The last point I want to remark is with the setting you chose for your story. Many times, when we explore the SWANA or South Asian regions it’s done through an orientalist lens. Nobody is really safe from falling into orientalism, not even the people from those regions. My suggestion is educating yourself in what orientalism is and how it’s still prevalent in today’s narrative. Research orientalism in entertainment, history... and every other area you can think of. Edward Said coined this term for the first time in history, so he is a good start. There are multiple articles online that touch this subject too. For further information, I defer to middle eastern mods. 

- Asmaa

Racism and Pseudo-Archaeology:

A gigantic, unequivocal and absolute no to all of it, lmao. 

I will stick to the bit about the proposed origin of mehendi in your WIP, it’s the arc I feel I’m qualified to speak on, Asmaa has pretty much touched upon the religious and orientalism complications. 

Let me throw out one more word: pseudoarchaeology. That is, taking the cultural/spiritual/historical legacies of ancient civilizations, primarily when it involves people of colour, and crediting said legacies to be the handiwork of not just your average Outsider/White Saviour but aliens. I’ll need you to think carefully about this: why is it that in so much of media and literature pertaining to the so-called “conspiracy theories” dealing with any kind of extraterrestrial life, it’s always Non-Western civilizations like the Aztec, the ancient Egyptians, the Harappans etc who are targeted? Why is it that the achievements of the non West are so unbelievable that it’s more feasible to construct an idea of non-human, magical beings from another planet who just conveniently swooped in to build our monuments and teach us how to dress and what to believe in? If the answer makes you uncomfortable, it’s because it should: denying the Non-West agency of their own feats is not an innocent exercise in sci-fi worldbuilding, it comes loaded with implications of racial superiority and condescension towards the intellect and prowess of Non-European cultures. 

Now, turning to specifics:

Contrary to what Sarah J. Maas might believe- mehendi designs are neither mundane, purely aesthetic tattoos nor can they be co-opted by random Western fantasy characters. While henna has existed as an art form in various cultures, I’m limiting my answer to the Indian context, (specifying since you mention ancient India). Mehendi is considered one of the tenets of the Solah Shringar- sixteen ceremonial adornments for Hindu brides, one for each phase of the moon, as sanctioned by the Vedic texts. The shade of the mehendi is a signifier for the strength of the matrimonial bond: the darker the former, the stronger the latter. Each of the adornments carries significant cosmological/religious symbolism for Hindus. To put it bluntly, when you claim this to be an invention of the aliens, you are basically taking a very sacred cultural and artistic motif of our religion and going “Well actually….extraterrestrials taught them all this.”

In terms of Ayurveda (Traditional holistic South Asian medicine)  , mehendi was used for its medicinal properties. It works as a cooling agent on the skin and helps to alleviate stress, particularly for the bride-to-be. Not really nice to think that aliens lent us the secrets of Ayurvedic science (pseudoarchaeology all over again). 

I’m just not feeling this arc at all. The closest possible alternative I could see to this is the ancient Indian characters incorporating some specific stylistic motifs in their mehendi in acknowledgement to this entity, in the same vein of characters incorporating motifs of tribute into their armour or house insignia, but even so, I’m not sure how well that would play out. If you do go ahead with this idea, I cannot affirm that it will not receive backlash.

-Mimi

These articles might help:

 Pseudoarchaeology and the Racism Behind Ancient Aliens

A History of Indian Henna (this studies mehendi origins mostly with reference to Mughal history)

Solah Shringar

2) Not Yes, But If Ignoring the Above:

I will be the dissenting voice of “Not No, But Here Are The Big Caveats.” Given that there is no way to make the story you want to tell palatable to certain interpretations of Islam and Christianity, here is my advice if the above arguments did not sufficiently deter you.

1. Admiration ≠ Research: It is not enough to just admire cultures for their richness and beauty. You need to actually do the research and learn about them to determine if the story you want to tell is a good fit for the values and principles these cultures prioritize. You need to understand the significance of historical figures and events to understand the issues with attributing the genesis of certain cultural accomplishments to an otherworldly influence. 1.

2. Give Less Offense When Possible and Think Empathetically: You should try to imagine the mindsets of those you will offend and think about to what degree you can soften or ameliorate certain aspects of your plot, the creature’s characteristics, and the creature’s interactions with historical figures to make your narrative more compatible. There is no point pretending that much of areligious science fiction is incompatible with monotheist, particularly non-henotheistic, religious interpretations as well as the cultural items and rituals derived from those religious interpretations. One can’t take “There is no god, just a lonely alien” and make that compatible with “There is god, and only in this particular circumstance.” Thus:

As stated above by Asmaa and Mimi, there is no escaping the reality the story you propose is offensive to some. Expect their outcry to be directed towards you. Can you tolerate that?

Think about how you would feel if someone made a story where key components of your interpretation of reality are singled out as false. How does this make you feel? Are you comfortable doing that to others?

3. Is Pseudoarchaeology Appropriate Here?: Mimi makes a good point about the racial biases of pseudoarchaeology. Pseudoarchaeology is a particular weakness of Western-centric atheist sci-fi. Your proposed story is the equivalent of a vaguely non-descript Maya/Aztec/Egyptian pyramid or Hindu/ Buddhist-esque statue being the source for a Resident Evil bio weapon/ Predator nest/ Assassin’s Creed Isu relic.

Is this how you wish to draw attention to these cultures you admire? While there is no denying their ubiquity in pop-culture, such plots trivialize broad swathes of non-white history and diminish the accomplishments of associated ethnic groups. The series listed above all lean heavily into these tropes either because the authors couldn’t bother to figure out something more creative or because they are intentionally telling a story the audience isn’t supposed to take seriously.*

More importantly, I detect a lot of sincerity in your ask, so I imagine such trivialization runs counter to your expressed desire to depict Eastern cultures in a positive and accurate manner.

4. Freedom to Write ≠ Freedom from Consequence: Once again, as a reminder, it’s not our job to reassure you as to whether or not what you are proposing is ok. Asmaa and Mimi have put a lot of effort into explaining who you will offend and why.  We are here to provide context, but the person who bears the ultimate responsibility for how you choose to shape this narrative, particularly if you share this story with a wide audience, is you. Speaking as one writer to another, I personally do not have a strong opinion one way or the other, but I think it is important to be face reality head-on.

- Marika.

* This is likely why the AC series always includes that disclaimer stating the games are a product of a multicultural, inter-religious team and why they undermine Western cultures and Western religious interpretations as often (if not moreso) than those for their non-Western counterparts.

Note: Most WWC asks see ~ 5 hours of work from moderators before they go live. Even then, this ask took an unusually long amount of time in terms of research, emotional labor and discussion. If you found this ask (and others) useful, please consider tipping the moderators (link here), Asmaa (coming eventually) and Mimi (here). I also like money - Marika.

[collecting-stories]

Dear Diary - JJ Maybank

Request: Hi!! I have a fluffy fic request if u dont mind - JJ and y/n are best friends, but y/n has a huge crush on him and she writes abt it in her diary a lot. One day JJ accidentally sees a page where she is rambling abt him, and he's very happy cos he loves her too, but never told her anything as he was afraid of a possible rejection. So he starts giving her massive hints re: his feelings and then they eventually confess their love to each other. ❤

Request: can I have one with JJ please? Where the reader is in love with JJ but thinking he is in love with Kie or someone else. JJ loves the reader but is to scared to telling her. Can you make this with angst and fluffy? Thank you ❤️❤️

Outer Banks Masterlist

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

The first and only time that you had worked up the courage to tell JJ that you had a crush on him you were fourteen. Just finished ninth grade, a little shier than the rest of your friends, excited about the summer, and harboring a monumental crush on your best friend. You had hoped, stupidly, that he liked you back and had eagerly pulled him aside during a party to tell him that you liked him.  

“Well?” And when he didn’t answer you back after a minute, just looking back over his shoulder to your friend group, to Kiara, you started to get nervous. This had been all wrong.  

“I just, don’t think I like you like that.” JJ replied, looking back at you, eyes apologetic, “Sorry, I think we’re awesome friends.”

“Yeah, friends.” You nodded, “that’s fine.”

“I just-” he glanced at Kiara again, laughing at something John B was saying.  

“It’s okay, seriously, it’s good.” You promised, knowing full well that you were lying to him. It wasn’t okay and you were slowly realizing that the ache you felt from not telling him was not worse than the absolute heartbreak you felt now, standing there knowing that he didn’t like you. That you were just a friend and that’s all you ever would be.  

Crushes are peculiar things though and you no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t shake yours. JJ was impossible to avoid, even if you had truly wanted to, but you did what you could to lessen the amount of time you spent with him. That first summer after you told him it was like he was everywhere you went. Like the universe was constantly reminding you of your failed attempt at love, putting JJ in your way no matter what you were doing. At a party, surfing with Pope, at your house, at the Chateau, it was like he was always around. The only option you saw for yourself was to distance yourself from the pogues too.  

And you did, because it worked. Staying away helped ease the heartache. Polite hellos and the occasional fishing trip with Pope or John B, you kept your distance from JJ and Kiara by proxy, terrified that you would hear something you didn’t want to if you stayed close. But even after three years and purposeful distance your crush didn’t lessen.  

The only thing that seemed to ease your mind was journaling. You’d been keeping journals for as long as you could remember, documenting moments in time that you thought you wanted to look back on someday. Good moments like parties and every time JJ said a single syllable to you and bad times, like how you knew he didn’t like you and you were positive he liked Kiara.  

The bell above the door of the smoothie shop you worked at rang as JJ and Pope walked in and you pushed your journal away from you before they could get a glimpse. “Hey stranger,” JJ grinned as he walked over, leaning against the counter.  

You could feel your heart beat pick up at the close proximity and caught the knowing smile that Pope gave you over JJ’s shoulder. “Hey,”

“I feel like I never see you.” He said, eyeing the board, “can I get a blue mango smoothie?”

“We just saw each other on Friday.” You offered, moving away from him to make the smoothie he asked for. He’d talk his way out of paying for it until either you or Pope fronted the bill, something you were used to when he did come around.  

Every couple of weeks, for a least the last year and half when JJ realized that you and he seemed to be drifting apart, he started dropping in at your work, looking for you. Sometimes you saw him before he saw you, ducking into the back and getting a co-worker to wait on him. But sometimes, like today, it was slow and you were the only one in the shop.  

“Barely, I offered you a beer and then I didn’t see you for the rest of the night.”

“Oh, I guess,” you shrugged, “I was talking to some guy from school.”

“What about?”

“Uh...none of your business.” You replied.

Pope laughed at your back and forth, grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator by the counter, “I hate to ditch but I promised my dad I’d run groceries for him. Don’t let him talk you into paying for that!”  

“I pay for my drinks!” JJ called as Pope backed out of the store, waving at you. “I pay for my drinks.” He repeated, turning back to face you.  

“Okay.”

“So I was thinking,” he started to say, cut off by the whirring of the blender. You glanced back and frowned at him, shrugging about the noise before turning back. You were hoping he would leave once he’d gotten the smoothie, drawn away by something else. When the blender cut off finally and you took it out of it’s holder JJ continued on, seemingly unphased, “I was thinking you haven’t been out on the boat with us in a while.”

“I guess not,” you had steered clear of any group activities since you told him you liked him. An incredible feat considering you were turning eighteen soon and you’d been fourteen then. “I work a lot though.”

“Take a day off.”  

“I’ll try.” You offered, passing the smoothie across the counter to him. JJ reached out for it, hand brushing yours and smiling like he knew what his smile did to you. “Maybe saturday...if you guys are going.” It didn’t take much to wear you down.

“Saturday’s good.” He nodded, taking a sip, “hey-”

“You forgot your wallet.”

“No, I had my wallet...but it was in Pope’s pocket. Cause we switched shorts earlier, cause his got a stain on them and he didn’t want to wear those to wor-”

“Are you trying to sell me a story right now?” You laughed, “we may not hang out all the time J but I’ve known you long enough, I can tell you’re lying.”

“I’ve fooled you once or twice.”

“Name a time.” You laughed, punching in the employee discount for the smoothie before swiping your own credit card.  

JJ bit down on his bottom lip, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you, more serious than the playful nature of the conversation called for, as if he was thinking about something he’d said before. Finally, he shook his head, smiling and tapping the counter, “I’ll see you on Saturday.”

You were right, JJ knew he couldn’t lie to you but that didn’t mean that he had never tried. He had lied to you once, in the seventeen years that the two of you were friends, and actually pulled it off. And he’d regretted it ever since.  

-

As promised, because you lacked the ability to resist JJ, you showed up to the Chateau in the morning on Saturday. He was already out on the jetty, throwing fishing gear in the Pogue, just in case.  

“Does that cooler have person food or fish food?” You called, walking up to him. You handed you backpack to him and let him help you on board. When you stepped down he didn’t move away, crowding your space and looking down at you. You looked away quickly, though you didn’t miss the way he licked his lips as you skirted passed him.  

“Neither,” JJ finally said, popping the top up so you could look inside, “it’s all beer baby.”

You laughed, shaking your head at him. “I shouldn’t be surprised I guess. Where’s everyone else?”

“Pope and John B have work and Kie said she’s busy...sorry.”

“That’s okay, we can hang out.” You replied, shrugging, trying to calm your nerves as you stepped over some reels to sit down.  

“Exactly.” JJ agreed.  

In complete honesty he had texted John B after seeing you in the smoothie shop, asking if he could take the boat out on Saturday and, if asked, John B could pretend that he was super busy. He hadn’t really put anymore planning into this then that, despite Kiara telling him that he should. The last thing JJ wanted was to make you feel cornered or worse, to have you find out that he knew that you still liked him.  

It was an accident, really. A rather happy one, on his end. He’d been at a party with Pope when he noticed your backpack abandoned by the pool. He recognized the pins on the front and went over to grab it, finding a notebook beneath it that had your name on the inside with homemade stickers all over the front.  

“What are you doing?” Pope had whispered, leaning passed his best friend to see what JJ was looking at. Pope had seen you with your journal enough times to know exactly what it was. “Put that back.”

“Why? It’s just a notebook...” he replied, voice drifting off as he flipped through the pages, landing on one from the day before. In the dim light of the torches that lined the pool area JJ had caught sight of his name in your handwriting and stopped to read the page. He knew, technically, that it wasn’t a good idea for him to be reading something that you clearly didn’t intend to ever have anyone read, an invasion of privacy, he was sure Kiara would say.

“JJ!” Pope reached around him and grabbed the notebook out of his hand, slapping it closed and shoving it back into your backpack, “dude, don’t read that.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He shook his head, not saying out loud what he had just read. He’d seen it though, that you still liked him. Despite ninth grade and the one great lie that JJ told you. Despite the distance you had manufactured between you and him. You still liked him and JJ was determined to let you know that he liked you too.

He knew that he couldn’t just come out and say it though. How would that go? Him confessing that he read your diary and knew you liked him and guess what it was the incentive he needed because he liked you too but he was so worried about fucking things up that he just insisted on being friends. No, that would never work. You’d be pissed that he had read something he was never meant to. So he let Pope return your backpack and he started a long game of hints. Blatant hints that he was interested, or so he thought but you didn’t seem to realize. You were oblivious that every time he stopped in the smoothie shop or sought you out at parties or invited you to hang out that he was trying to tell you that he liked you.  

So he tried the more direct approach. An afternoon on the boat, just the two of you. But that wasn’t working either cause he was listening to you talk about some dumb podcast series your dad was obsessed with and how he would play it top volume throughout the house.  

“And the guy said-”

“Oh my god!” JJ groaned. He’d tried sitting close and touching your back and telling you that you looked nice and holding your hand when you stepped on board and you were with him, alone, on the boat, for gods sake.  

“What’s the matter?” You asked, a little startled at his sudden outburst.

“You. This.” JJ practically shouted, standing up on the boat suddenly and making it sway a little. “Not...what I mean is...I know I shouldn’t have but I read your diary thing and I know you still like me and I like you.”

“You read my diary? When?”

“At that party like last month,” He said, “did you hear me? I said I like you?”

“I heard you say you read my diary! JJ, that’s my personal thoughts and feelings, I can’t believe you read that!” You were comprehending one part of the conversation at a time and your brain had settled on this. That he had invaded your privacy.

“I didn’t mean too! I opened it and saw my name!”

“You should’ve closed it!”

“Well I didn’t!” He raised his voice to match yours, both of you almost shouting at each other on a boat in the middle of the marsh.

“Oh and what? You read it and thought ‘how pathetic she still likes me’ and now you’ve done all this?”

“Are you kidding me? You think I can even plan something that far in advance? I tried like 12 other ways of telling you I like you! And what are you talking about...I’m telling you I like you!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well tough shit cause I do. And I know you like me too cause I read it!” He insisted.  

You crossed your arms and looked away from him for a moment, a deep set frown as you thought about what he said. He liked you. “Like...like me, like me?” You asked slowly, looking back at him.

“Yeah.” He replied, shoulders drooping as he relaxed.  

“Well I like you too.”

“I know.”

“JJ!” You groaned.  

He bit his lower lip as he sat down next to you on the bench, facing you. “So...we both like each other?” He said, grinning.  

“It would appear so.” You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling as you twisted to face him. “This doesn’t mean free smoothies though, you owe me like...20 bucks, at least.”

“We’re gonna need to negotiate these terms.”  

-

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[a-lil-perspective]

The Bad Batch and Axe/Knife Throwing

A/N: Uhhh I’ve had this in my drafts for weeks. I don’t actually know what this is. Just funky bro stuff that spiraled into like 2.5k words because I just don’t know when to stop, do I. The working title for this was “Bullshit and Bullseyes”, if that puts anything into perspective (I nearly made that the actual title haha). Anyway. Enjoy?

Technically, no; they didn’t need to spend credits on booking the space. By all accounts, there’s nothing wrong with chucking weapons against the Havoc Marauder’s hull. You wouldn’t believe the damage it’s withstood over the years.

Nevertheless, its walls had been taking quite the beating lately (honestly how many times has it actually been said “no weapons in the house”?) and quite frankly, Hunter was getting sick of grousing about the fact.

But when you’ve been cooped up in the vacuum of space for days as the Bad Batch has, you become acutely aware of the perpetual sensation of losing your mind—and of the stagnant air beginning to fester.

Let’s put it this way: Intelligence work is not kind to four Super Commandos, who’d just as soon wrangle a herd of Gundarks than allow anymore strategic analysis to keep them huddled around a comm system for days on end with no intermission in sight. It can’t be stressed enough the way this work was far, far beneath them. They’d just as soon tell High Command to get on with the invasion already (where their skill sets actually applied) and that if they want Clone Force 99’s help, they had best find a better way to hold their attention, because “tapping into enemy comm channels” ain’t worth a damn.

But, until then: there were other things that would do the trick.

Back within the planet’s gravitational pull once again, the Bad Batch prioritized their short timeframe of respite by not actually participating in the act of respite at all, instead seeking out the nearest weapons range. It felt something like freedom upon discovery.

The axe throwing establishment was practically empty when they arrived, which was the driving force in their eagerness, having booked the last session of the night. More room to work.

And, no one to tell you you can’t bring your own arsenal.

Hunter removed the strap of his weighty knife bag from his shoulder and set it down as the boys settled in their designated lane. While Wrecker and Crosshair dove for the bag like deprived womp rats, Tech had more gracefully found a spot on the nearest bench and planted himself to it, tapping away at the little box atop his vambrace. Predictable.

“Don’t even give me that look, Hunter,” Tech didn’t even look up, already privy to the quizzical gaze while fixated on his slew of technology. “You knew good and well I would be taking notes and collecting data during this session for the purpose of enhancing our overall performance going forward.”

As if he hadn’t been taking an infinite amount of notes the past five days.

“How ‘bout you take some notes on how to have fun,” Crosshair mumbled through the toothpick he anchored to the corner of his lip (Hunter always felt nervous when he worked out or trained with that thing in, just waiting for the day he finally chokes). The sniper didn’t bother looking back at Tech as he rummaged through Hunter’s bag in search of knives he deemed fit. He grinned wickedly at a particular set of five, all of them airy and tapered and perfect for his nimble fingers to sidle around. They were similar in size, if only a few inches wider, to the darts he usually threw in his quarters. He considered them with a sleight of hand, quickly piecing together an accurate projection of air velocity and the weapons’ overall weight.

Crosshair would make his mark. He always did.

It further came as no surprise that the Sergeant excelled in his turns from the get-go. He wasted no time in nailing bullseye after bullseye with a variety of weapons big and small. It was comical, the way Tech would make sounds of marvel and adjust his recording lens accordingly when Hunter would nail a pair of axes with a backwards throw or something of dramatic flair.

And Wrecker, oh, Wrecker.

Let’s say his turn was cut rather short—as were the rest of his brothers—when his very first throw, bearing as much care a demolition expert could muster, drove straight through the target in its entirety and brought the entire structure down wall-to-board. Hunter shuddered, grimacing instinctively at the harsh clang of colliding metals and wood that ended in a timbering heap.

Wrecker merely flashed a sheepish smile.

Hunter bit back his frustrated sigh, but the one expelling behind him was unmistakable. He whirled around to find the sensation to be correct, and that the expression marring the Devaronian’s features was unsightly.

Great. The owner of the establishment.

“I’ll pay for that,” Hunter offered immediately, gesturing awkwardly to the ghastly pile of materials. It was an auto-pilot response, really; Hunter was used to cleaning up after his rowdy bunch by now.

“Got that right,” the Devaronian rumbled, cracking his brooding knuckles as a statement that seemed more mindless than anything; he must’ve realized it foolish to get into it with four Super Clones. He turned around and stalked off, but not before grumbling something about the Clones being “mindless rank weeds” and “no better than droids”.

Wrecker must not have heard thank the Maker, otherwise the entire building could’ve been brought down on their heads in nothing short of an emotional outburst. Crosshair simply threw a crude gesture to the Devaronian’s retreating backside. It was either that or the knife in his hand.

“Cross, put your finger down dammit, we’re trying not to cause trouble here,” Hunter hissed. “You really wanna piss off a Dev?”

“You really wanna piss off a Crosshair?” Wrecker interjected with a wicked chuckle, always at the ready to tango with Crosshair and trouble.

He had a point, though.

Crosshair made a deep scoffing noise in his chest and simply turned his attention back to the dilapidated target. The sniper with no fear. Or so he’d like everyone to believe.

“Sorry, Sarge,” Wrecker rubbed at the back of his thick neck, having gone back to anxiously surveying the damage.

“Let’s just switch lanes,” Hunter countered coolly, helping Tech gather up their weaponry and move over one. It’s not like the owner would let him (or his pocket) forget, so there was no use worrying about it.

With a fresh target and a fresh turn at the ready, Wrecker eagerly began to ask for a re-do with the axes he skewered with moments ago only to be let down—gently, of course. Hunter wasn’t a mean brother, for fierfek’s sake.

He felt a bit guilty over limiting Wrecker’s turns but honestly, what was he thinking, bringing them to a place like this? It’s too... normal for Commandos—whatever ‘normal’ is. They would’ve been better off back on the Marauder.

No they wouldn’t have.

Maybe that’s why Hunter willingly ventured out on a weekend evening in the Coruscanti Districts for that sense of normality for he and his brothers; as if it could actually be found in the bustle of city life and whatever resided within.

It’s not that he wanted them to fit in, per se—Hunter can speak for the four of them in that they’re secure in their abilities and standings. But it’s as if he wanted something... grounding. In the middle of a war. Certainly a foreign term to both soldiers and citizens alike.

Grounding. Something to give the boys a sense of fulfillment and a taste of youth, even if only for the night. No expectations, no methods. Just Serotonin and sibling rivalry. Fulfillment.

Wrecker was certainly feeling fulfilled over the knives he opted to throw instead, much lighter and more controlled than the axe—which was a shame, really; he was very good at them. You haven’t quite lived until you’ve seen Wrecker at full capacity in his brute strength. The axes were just an inkling of his potential. Despite the fact that the majority of knives completely disappeared in his wide expanse of palm, he could still stick them with deadly force. Tech especially made relevance of the fact, insisting he show Wrecker a recap of his feats later.

When he wasn’t recording and plugging in data for the other throwers, Tech went a few rounds with Hunter’s smallest knives: quick and sleek and agile, much like the goggled member himself. The preference of axe or knife was divvied between the group: axe’s were more Hunter and Wrecker’s thing while knives were more Tech and Crosshair’s.

It took a bit of encouragement for Tech to actually complete his turn, as he was more concerned with the preliminaries and technicalities instead of the actual throwing. He’d stand there for what felt like several minutes, considering and trying to incorporate the use of his tech until Crosshair—how dare he—cut through his concentration with a sharp demand to “Just. Throw.”

It was rather unfortunate that there was only one target available to four people wanting to use it simultaneously. It seemed the members of the elite Commando squad still hadn’t mastered the art of patiently waiting their turn.

Hunter couldn’t help but find the hilarity in that Tech managed to land several of the knives as ‘butt sticks’: handle side in. He chuckled to himself. Only Tech.

The engineer claimed the act was wholly intentional. Hunter thought his witty brother was just trying to excuse a simple over-rotation. Tech had the aptitude for speed under his belt, but sometimes he had trouble controlling his speed. But if you thought that hindered Tech’s ingenuity or prowess in the slightest, you were sorely mistaken.

It’s times like these Hunter felt that familiar swell of pride in his chest as he relish his brothers’ unique array of strengths, weaknesses, and opportunes. All of it played a monumental part. The Sergeant in him couldn’t ask for a more proficient squad. The brother in him couldn’t ask for more unique siblings.

In no time, all four men had each accumulated their own sheen of sweat, the byproduct of a solid hour’s workout—no, two hours (Hunter should know by the way he grudgingly dumped another handful of credits into the Devaronian’s on the hour), their allotment extended all because the bros refused to be done, reduced to acting like petulant children because of.

Speaking of petulant.

“Who’s in the lead now, Tech?” Crosshair asked through a lingering pant, breaking from his turn as he took a seat next to the human scoreboard. He accepted the cool rag Tech handed him with a curt nod and slung it over the back of his neck to soak up the sweat, rolling his toned shoulders and shaking away the thought of potentially having to break from the rifle tomorrow because of how much he overdid it with the knives. Sore shoulders made for shit shots.

Tech chewed his lip and shot a single, timid glance up to Cross, who suddenly realized that maybe the gifted rag rapidly warming behind his neck was actually just an act of grooming for the disappointing news to come.

Tech cleared his throat. “In the current overall standing, it appears that Wrecker takes the lead, with Hunter a very close second, me of course making the ranks, and you being last—”

“Aw hell no,” Crosshair yanked the rag off and threw it to his feet as he pulled the toothpick out from between his now grit teeth, jabbing it around the room in emphasis. “I’ve easily got the best aim around here, I ain’t the one who destroyed an entire target and I didn’t miss one damn time—”

“It is not about missing, Cross; there are many factors to consider in the overall performance,” Tech answered matter-of-factly, with maybe the slightest hint of sympathy (more like irritation) laced within.

“And that includes humility,” Hunter chimed in, crossing his arms.

Wrecker and his lack of knowledge on appropriate social cues left him cheering over his victory, and Hunter forced himself to swallow the smile tugging at his lips. Few things in life filled him as much as Wrecker’s youthful exuberance. It was infectious.

He gave a light shove to the solid mass of man. “That means you too, Wreck.”

“Bullshit...” Crosshair sulked, numbingly processing his loss. He found himself leaning into Tech’s supportive pat on the back, suddenly too tired to care about his dwindling dignity or even any of his prior winnings in the past. He’ll forever be consigned to his dangerous competitive streak and that’s that.

“You’re just a sore loser!” Wrecker was grinning wide again, all teeth and triumphant. Crosshair scowled further and yes, he was actually pouting up from his spot on the bench thank you very much. Blackmail him later.

“The only thing that’s gonna be sore is your ass when I shove my foot up it.”

“Hey.” Hunter’s cue to intervene. “Settle it down. We had a good run tonight, blew off some steam, got a nice workout and stretched the legs. Let’s head back home, yeah?”

Hunter received murmurs of agreement save for Crosshair, who responded with silence, which was his answer.

The Bad Batch gathered their things and headed out, with Hunter paying the owner for the property damage on the way (reaching up to smack Wrecker in the back of the head just for good measure), and the alien made no attempts at subtlety in his relief over the way the chaotic bunch were finally departing. Apparently, the Bad Batch showcased some of the more poorer examples of decent clientele.

Funny that one might assume ‘decent’ and ‘Coruscant’ actually go together.

As they emerged back into the flow of the planet-wide city, the near-midnight breeze quickly catching in all of the sweat spots, Wrecker stopped in his tracks, having been eyeing a dejected Crosshair on the way.

“Hunter?”

“Yeah, vod?”

A timid pause. “Can we get ice-cream? I think Cross here could use some. With sprinkles and a starcherry on top, just how he likes it.” Wrecker scooped up the lanky brother in question, who squawked in protest. “And a nice, squishy Wrecker hug.” He pet Crosshair’s head. “That always helps him feel much better about me winning.”

[tiesandtea]

Mr. Lazy – fanzine interview with Alan Fisher, December 2004

intrepid suede globetrotters elina and sirje conducted this interview with alan fisher, the man about whom songs like "lazy", "high rising", "beautiful loser" and, according to the man himself, "the most of the others as well" have been written. (editor's note: not to suggest that alcohol played any part in this q&a session, but it did take place in alan's local. oh, and in other locations in the uk, plus morocco & finland, in both oral & written forms. anyway, surely worth all the so-called trouble.) no animals, be they cats or terrapins, were harmed during this interview, but a considerable amount of wine bottles did get destroyed.

how long have you known brett? where did you grow up?

i have known brett since i was 16/17 – near on 20 years now. i grew up in sussex, near haywards heath.

how does it feel that so many of brett’s lyrics are about you? (did you ever get the feeling that brett was just kind of observing you or waiting around for you to do something flamboyant so that he could write about it?)

it’s very flattering to know that some lyrics are about me. however i was never aware of brett observing me purposely to get lyrics or ideas for songs. it’s funny because there are so many songs that are very personal to me, and you think some part of the song is about you, and they are not. over the years many friends who have been in close contact with brett and the music think that songs are about them, because of various lyrical content. i think brett has ability to take elements from friends’ lives or chapters and create a story blended together, a fusion of characters in one song. i remember when i heard “the big time” and the last line – “now we’re in the big time and you’re in the way” i was extremely put out, i took it very personally. i thought it referred to me, but luckily it didn’t. however i’m pleased to say that my favourite song has to be “lazy”. the original version i think went like this – “here they come with their make up on as lovely as the birds come and see them” which i think is very beautiful. which changed to “here they come gone 7 am bla bla bla”, which was about being up all night, then putting on make up so as to hide the effects of being on a bender, and going down to off-license to buy cornflakes and bottles of red wine.

what was the best experience traveling with suede? (what happened in las vegas?)

difficult question, as i’ve had many amazing experiences on tour with suede. two very contrasting escapades were one journey in japan, and one on the west coast of america. brett and myself had the fortunate experience of visiting a buddhist temple in japan called the “moss gardens”. we visited a temple that was so beautiful and peaceful, and the entire gardens were immersed in moss with beautiful ponds and waterfalls. we sat in the temple and wrote a mantra admist buddhist chanting, which i believe influenced the song “introducing the band”. the other experience was a trip to la, san francisco and las vegas. i seem to remember i hadn’t been to bed for a few days, and when i was there i didn’t sleep much for various reasons. we stayed at a friend’s house in beverly hills called michiko, a house of pure opulence, with plenty of alcohol and other fineries. i seem to remember that towards the end (in vegas) brett wouldn’t let me sleep – just more alcohol. and i think that when i went to bed brett checked to make sure i was alive.

what will/do you miss the most about suede?

the thing i miss the most about suede is being around when a great song is created. i’d come home and brett would say “i’ve got it.”, some missing song on the album and consequently we would stay up night after night listening to the same song over and over – the poor neighbours.

at what part of his career was brett at his happiest?

when he was writing happy songs. actually i don’t think brett ever made happy songs. only joking! i don’t know when brett was actually the happiest. i think maybe when the band first started and the first album came out, that’s when he realised his dreams were coming true.

has brett being famous ever bothered you?

brett being famous has never bothered me; in fact it’s been quite a relief; it’s taken the limelight away from me.

fame can and has certainly changed many people who obtain it. how do you think it's affected brett over the years? has it affected your friendship?

i don’t think fame has changed brett’s fundamental characteristics, obviously it has shaped his life aspects like walking down the street, or having a drink in pub. i think living with me for so long has definitely fucked him up.

is there a lot of divergence between brett's public persona and the man underneath it all?

not really. he’s the same complex, passionate and artistic character at home and on stage, i don’t know about the bedroom though!!

how were the new band members really welcomed?

some dreadful, unmentionable initiation ceremonies.

was brett & bernard getting back together a surprise for you? how do you like the new material? how about brett’s solo material?

not really; they had a magic chemistry together that never really fulfilled its potential. and the new stuff is absolutely great! wait and see!!

what's all this about brett meditating? it was mentioned in the love & poison book.

i haven’t actually read love & poison, which is extremely lame of me, eventually i will. however, i think brett has some interest in meditating, maybe from visiting japan’s buddhist temples and being influenced by their way of living, zen and all that.

is brett good at pub quizzes?

brett, i could imagine, is very good at pub quizzes if he entered them. they have a quiz at our local pub, i think brett and mat osman entered once, and came a very admirable second place, which is no mean feat, because it’s a very professional affair in that establishment.

have there been times when brett did something you wish he hadn't? musical decisions or anything.

i can’t think of anything that resembles a mistake or regret in terms of musical direction. over the years, artists are faced with monumental decisions to make in terms of artistic development; single releases; band commitment and general themes for the forthcoming albums. however, i think brett has the ability to listen to other people’s opinions as well as his own, to come up with the best viable decision. considering the turbulent times of drug taking and various band members coming and going, i don’t think he’s done too badly.

how posh is brett?

how posh is brett – what a strange question – in fact the hardest one i’ve ever been asked! – not at all. crikey, well for somebody that came from a council house and bought second hand records/clothes. he now drinks tea at 4 o’clock in proper bone china tea cups – doesn’t get any posher than that. oh! and he has a butler called jessica rabbit.

does he watch sports on tv?

well it has to be football, brett hates posh sports like cricket & rugby (un)like me. he is very obsessive over the england football team, ipswich and manchester united (because that’s my team, and i always cry when they lose).

what's brett's best quality?

brett’s best quality is having good taste in friends and good taste in music, i.e., suede.

and his worst?

i can’t think of his worst qualities, but i remember the worst thing living with him, he would always become too comfortable on the sofa which would mean i would have to rewind the suede demos and go out and get another bottle of wine from the off-license.

we're sorry this is all about suede/brett... when we start an alan fanzine we’ll interview you about yourself... ok?

ok.

tell us a secret

my favourite colour is black.

how much do suede lie in the interviews? (if you read them)

i’m too busy to read suede interviews, i’ve got my own press cuttings to examine.

what do you think brett would have become without suede?

i’m sure it would have only been with some musical compaction. however, our living arrangements would have resembled something out of “the servant”.

what about you? how much has suede affected you?

suede were the most important thing in my life. as my girlfriend just put it a moment ago whilst i was writing this, it’s like going out with three people: her, me and suede. as i tell her, it could have been worse: i could have been friends with ronan keating.

do you love us? what do you think of suede fans in general? a lovely bunch on whole, or have you had some harrowing experiences with obsessed loonies?

well, i’m a suede fan myself, so i would have to say they are great. obsessed loonies? i am one; i have been stalking brett for 20 years, but he doesn’t realise.

there are lots of mentions of yours and brett's drug use in l&p. is this an accurate characterization of the state of affairs or did it get glammed up a bit for press?

it’s all a myth, i once smoked a joint with brett, it was really far out man! oh, and i snorted some glue at a dinner party once, it was so chic.

tell us something about suede that we don't know.

they are a figment of your imagination!!

tell us something about brett that we don't know.

i know something extremely juicy, real top gossip. but you’re going to have to wait to see whether he meets my blackmail demands.

if you were an animal, what kind of animal would he be? what kind of animal would brett be?

brett refers to me as an electrocuted rabbit, something similar to the mad hatter in alice in wonderland. i think brett would be a very feline cat.

speaking of cats, they tend to go missing, don’t they?

we had a cat called meisk – when brett was on tour it went missing. when i found it on the street, i thought it had a cold because it had a funny meow – it turned out to be the wrong cat. i remember brett was extremely pissed off. we had another cat called sphinx that was an incredibly lively character, it had a long run up – then produced its claws and wham!!

have you ever been arrested?

yes! on several occasions, on suspicion of being sinister and bad influence on society.

dave thompson’s yet-to-be-published suede-book, an armchair guide to suede, includes this: 

"‘young men’ developed out of lyrics written for a joke band, the bruisers, that anderson, his flatmate alan and a hairdresser friend named gary hatched one evening;"

can you tell us anything more about this?

after one crazy night early in the morning we had this inspiration to form a band based on idea of national front skinheads with the title song “british bulldog”. brett and gary were both very amusing and inventive with songs like “santa ain’t a wanker” etc.

besides that, have you ever been musically inclined or in a band yourself?

after hearing brett playing an instrument called the melodica, something like a mouth organ with a pipe attached to it, waking me every morning, it put me off music for life.

what other music are you into besides suede?

sigue sigue sputnik and mozart.

have you and brett ever had a fist fight? have you ever fought over who does the shopping or cleans the toilet or whose dirty plates are in the sink?

we have never had a fist fight in 20 years. however, we once had a duel at sunrise over who was the vainest.

that’s it then. say something nice. or mean. whatever you like. thanks!

stop asking me questions about brett, and more about myself!

Source: Pornographic & Tragic, the official Suede fanzine, issue 2 (December 2004).

[badger-writes]

Star Wars OC Ship Week 2021 - “for light and love”

6 - Milestones (First Kiss)

The Jedi Temple, as a general rule, was always humming with activity. As the sun set overhead and the light of faraway stars illuminated the night, the Temple’s diurnal residents would pass into sleep, and their nocturnal fellows would wake. Thus did most days on Coruscant pass for the Jedi - but there came times, scant minutes and hours between the changing of its custodians, where the harmonious bustling which characterized the domain of the Jedi fell silent, and the whole complex itself seemed to fall into a kind of hollow slumber.

It was within one of these slices of pristine, unshared time that Kelto Lem found himself drawn to the meditation hall which housed the Kyber Arch.

Why, he could not say - he had not seen the Arch for many years, not since he was a youngling. He respected its significance, internalized its meaning, but it had never held any special or personal gravity for himself. It had always been too much of an open space, he’d thought, most of the time with too many people there to properly meditate - and it was difficult to focus properly sitting at the foot of a monument to Jedi lost.

So what was he doing here now, at this early hour? Why had he been struck with the compulsion to visit it when all others were asleep? He stood at the door to its hall and puzzled over the answers, grappling with uncertainty.

Was it the work of the Force? Had it brought him here? Had he ... lost his way, somehow? Committed some minor sin of ingratitude or dismissal to the price for peace the Light had paid? Wandered astray from the path in some other matter? And was this some test, then - a chance for the penitent adrift to find absolution?

Was it because of his feelings for Sskeer?

Belatedly, Kelto realized there was someone beside him. Someone tall, and stocky, and looking at him with an expression somewhere between ‘mildly cross’ and ‘quietly concerned’.

“Healer Lem,” Sskeer said, by way of greeting.

“Oh,” said Kelto, turning. “Hello.” Speak of the devil, he thought.

“You’re up early,” the Trandoshan noted.

“Oh… yeah. Couldn’t get to sleep.” He shrugs, looking off to one side. “Happens.”

Sskeer hummed. “Do you often go this far from your chambers on nights like this?”

“I dunno,” the Rodian shrugged again. “Do you?”

The Guardian cocked a brow. The corner of his mouth tugged to one side.

“Not often,” he replied.

“I’ll bet,” Kelto mumbled, on account of having nothing better to say.

His eyes were drawn back to the door as though magnetized. He scratched the side of his head, the pom of his topknot bobbling in kind. Having Sskeer here had done nothing to reduce his uncertainty; if anything, now he felt foolish for being here at all.

But Sskeer was looking at the door, too, arms crossed and jaw set.

“It calls to you, too,” he observed finally.

Kelto’s hands found each other hanging at the level of his hips; hesitantly, he clasped one over the other. “Y-you think so?”

“Search your feelings. We are meant to be here.”

“Both of us? Now? ...Together?”

“It is... unusual,” he admitted, voice softening. “But yes. I am certain.”

“But why?”

Sskeer exhaled slowly through his nose. “I don’t know.”

His arms were crossed pretty hard, Kelto noticed - the claws of his fingers digging into the roughspun of his sleeves. His teeth ground slowly, imperceptibly, against each other.

“You nervous, too?” he asked.

“Confronting fear is the destiny of a Jedi.”

“That’s just rhetoric. Isn’t that what you always say? Jedi are supposed to act, right?”

Sskeer gave Kelto a sidelong look. His mouth tugged to the side again in an almost-smile - and stayed there.

“So… let’s go in, I guess.” Kelto shrugged. “After all, it’s only the Kyber Arch. What’s it gonna do, fall on us?”

At that, the Trandoshan chuffed, and stepped forward. “Let’s go find out.”

Within the white chamber behind the door stood the Kyber Arch itself - a vaulting monument to fallen Jedi, a semicircle of dull gray crystal - kyber crystals - thousands of them, reclaimed from the lightsabers of their brethren that had perished in the line of duty. With that knowledge, the grim cost of the peace of the Jedi became apparent; the Arch stood taller than either of them, than any of them. Tall enough to almost touch the atrium windows in the cavernous ceiling of the chamber that let in the day and night. And yet, for their sacrifice, something beautiful had been created - beautiful, and enduring.

An inspiring sight, to be sure - but in the dark of the very early morning, a dark on which the night could just as easily lay claim, the only thing it inspired in Sskeer and Kelto was confusion. They padded across the floor to one side of its base.

“So… we’re here,” Kelto said, mostly to Ssker but also to … the Force, maybe? He didn’t know. “What do we do now?”

“I wish I knew,” Sskeer admitted. His eyes traced the faraway edge of the semicircle, stretching high above them. “This is the first time I have been called in such a way by the Force. I am… unsure how to proceed.”

Kelto’s snout pulled to the side thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed, and joined Sskeer’s in scanning the faraway horizon the Arch cut through the ceiling.

“‘Why can no Jedi cross the Kyber Arch alone?’” he wondered.

“Hm?”

“It’s something my master told me to think about once, but I don’t think I ever cracked it. Have you heard of it before?”

“I have.”

“Maybe it’s like that,” the Rodian speculated. “Maybe we have to - I don’t know, solve it. It’s like a puzzle, or a test.”

Sskeer grunted doubtfully. “I don’t think it’s the kind of question that can be ‘solved’.”

“Well, why not?”

“Consider the question. It suggests that such a feat cannot be performed, and yet we can safely assume that it can, through persistence and the Force.”

“I mean - probably. Yeah, I could climb that. Do you think I could climb that?”

“Whether you can physically perform the task is irrelevant. It is a question without a right answer. Its point is to provoke contemplation, and through introspection, deeper understanding.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt, setting his jaw with a snort. “It’s rhetorical.” 

Kelto stared up at Sskeer, then back up at the Arch. Slowly, his head nodded up and down.

“I think I get it,” he said finally. “If there’s no single right answer, then it follows that there’s potentially hundreds of possible answers, yes?”

“It is a possibility,” Sskeer conceded.

“Okay, so… maybe we solve the test by finding an answer of our own.”

“I already have one.”

“Really?” The Rodian looked up at him slyly. “You mind letting me cheat off your paper, then?”

When Sskeer looked back at him, his face was unexpectedly somber. “I doubt you’d appreciate it..”

“...Oh,” Kelto said, deflating. “Well, okay, then.”

“And regardless, I’m sure it’s something we must discover for ourselves.”

They stood before the Arch in contemplative silence.

“...So how do we, you know… do that?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Sskeer growled. “I’m a Guardian, not a philosopher.”

“Don’t have a roth, big guy. I’m just fishing for ideas.” Kelto rubbed his chin, an act which squished his snout left and right on his face. His eyes traced the arch from its two-meters-wide foot to the tip of its curve one more time, and twice more after that. He was treating it seriously now, Sskeer could tell - and the way his brow was furrowed and his eyes were narrowed, he was apparently searching his feelings intensely.

Then Kelto paced forward and laid a palm against the surface of the monument.

It was only crystal, raw kyber, accumulated and fused together into a single piece. Smooth to the touch, jagged in places where fragments taken for blades of light had been returned to a lattice of their own kind and begun to heal back together. If he had been expecting a breakthrough to occur from mere touch, none was forthcoming.

But that was alright. He’d already had one.

“The answer’s in the question,” Kelto said slowly. “We have to do what it’s asking before we can understand its meaning.”

Sskeer thought for a moment. Then he hrrrred. “That seems logical.”

“Then… what are we waiting for? Let’s climb the Kyber Arch.”

“Were it so easy. With an audience of our peers present, we might be prevented any injury from falling; alone, we take our safety into our own hands.”

But Kelto was already wriggling out of his soft ankle-high boots. “I’ll be fine,” he said, and lifted his bare sole to show off the fine ridges of setae lining the front quarter of his foot. “Rodians are natural climbers. And if I can do it, you can, too!”

Still, Sskeer doubted. “Did you forget the question in your rush for an answer? ‘Why can no Jedi cross the Kyber Arch alone’. Not ‘with a colleague in tow’.”

“I mean - it doesn’t say we have to do it together! You can just go down to the other end and climb up that side. That’ll be fine, right?”

“That depends. Do you think the Force wants us to follow the spirit or the letter of your test?”

“Come on, Sskeer, just--” Kelto took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. When his eyes opened, they fixed Sskeer with an unusual intensity.

“Listen,” he said. “I think you might be right. Maybe the Force wanted us to come down here - both of us, at the same time. But I think I’m right, too, and we’re being put through some kind of trial. Not physically, but spiritually. I think the Force is trying to tell us something, Sskeer, and I think it’s trying to say something about us. Not ‘you and I’, but us.”

Sskeer bristled. “I wouldn’t speak so openly of such a thing,” he muttered. “Even alone.”

“I think we have to! We have to, Sskeer, because right now the Force might be already.” He looked up at the wall of crystal towering before them, running his fingers along its glassy surface. “But we won’t know until we stop dancing around it and listen. That’s all it’s asking us to do right now, Sskeer - not confess, not cut ourselves off, not… throw ourselves into hovertraffic on Level 1313. Just to listen. However we can. 

And if all it wants us to do is listen, then… shouldn’t we at least try?”

Sskeer stared at him. His lips were set in a tight line, and his claws were digging into the meat of his palms. Kelto wasn’t sure he’d heard him at all, until his eyes dipped downward and he began studying the way his toeclaws were sinking into the floormats.

“You realize it is possible we will not like what it has to say,” he said slowly.

“Of course I do.” Kelto trotted back over to stand before him. “And - we probably won’t. We both know we’ve been bending the letter of the Code to the breaking point just by having this, this … this whatever we’ve been doing, no matter what Jora says. But - if this really ends up being the end of the line - “ He gulped. “I’m ready for that conversation if you are.”

If it weren’t for his familiarity with the man, the careful grace contained in that monstrous exterior, Kelto might have missed the tremor in Sskeer’s chest when he breathed, and in his jaw beneath his grinding teeth. He felt a deep pang of empathy - and alongside it, one of guilt. He could only imagine how Sskeer himself must have been feeling.

“It’s cruel,” he finally said, voice thick. “A cruel trick of fate. I knew this moment was coming, and yet - now that I finally find myself here… I am still afraid.”

Kelto smiled gently, and wrapped one of his hands around the Trandoshan’s. “Confronting fear is the destiny of the Jedi.”

Sskeer nodded through a shaky breath. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed once - and all frustration and anxiety exhaled out of him. When he opened his eyes, they were no longer wet.

“I will go to the other end of the Kyber Arch,” he said steadily. “When I reach the summit, I will descend along your path, and you shall do the same along mine. We will climb it apart, yet together - and see if that is enough for the Force to reach us.”

“‘Apart, yet together’. I like that.”

Sskeer squeezed his hand firmly. “Be careful,” he hissed. “Should you fall - “

“You’ll catch me.”

“If I can’t-- If I don’t--”

“We’ll try again.”

The Trandoshan blinked down at the Rodian slowly. Then he chuckled forlornly. “I thought I was supposed to be the brave one of the two of us.”

“I learned from the bravest,” Kelto smiled.

Like most climbs, it got harder the further they went.

Though the Arch began at a width of two meters, it narrowed progressively towards the top, becoming only as wide as ten centimeters along its summit. The higher one climbed, therefore, the less space there would be to position, and the less cracks and outcroppings for handholds. What started as youngling’s play became no small feat of dexterity and concentration.

Kelto, for his part, was correct in his assumption; he did have the easier time of it, overall. The quirk of the Rodian physique which gifted him sticky fingers and feet made adhering to the skin of the Arch much simpler, though not necessarily a sure thing; slips were just as familiar to him as to Sskeer. The Trandoshan, for his part, had to be much more careful; if he were less patient and less respectful, he could have used the thick claws on his fingertipss and toes for crampons, brute-forcing his way up the crystal spine - but that would have been degrading to the memory of those that had gone before him, and dishonorable beyond measure. His test was one of respect as well as perseverance.

They both reached the final leaning crest of the monument at around the same time. By that point, if you leaned around the trunk of the Arch, you could see almost clear to the other side. Kelto did so, and saw Sskeer bear-hugging the Arch at about a similar latitude as himself. He waved encouragingly.

Sskeer saw this and, on account of his arms being otherwise occupied, nodded curtly in response. Then he reached up to probe for another handhold--

And the narrow edge of his sole slipped completely off the slim edge of kyber he’d been using as a perch. Shock overtook him just seconds too long for him to correct; his other foothold failed him, too, and he found himself hanging by one hand over a drop of what must have been two or three stories.

Sskeer knew if he were to recover from this angle, he’d have to dig into the crystal surface with his claws to gain enough leverage to scrabble back to safety; this was impermissible. He also knew that if he did not do so, his strength would eventually fail him and he would fall; this was simply unavoidable. So he did the only logical thing.

He let go.

Don’t do it, Kelto was pleading in his mind - but Sskeer was already falling.

The Rodian did not hesitate. Using one hand and both feet to keep him attached to the surface of the Arch, he lunged toward his friend as far as the limits of his body would allow him to, hurling the Force out through his free fingers.

Sskeer landed safely in an invisible palm, having not even descended a full two yards from the point of his fall. He stared at Kelto, almost dumbstruck - and more than a little alarmed.

Carrying Sskeer back through thin air to the surface of the Arch required diverting most of his attention from maintaining his grip, but Kelto did so gladly. The hand which cradled the Trandoshan through the Force quivered as he lifted it up, up, up- up beyond even the point at which Sskeer had originally fallen, to the level of a less sheer slope. But even as Sskeer closed the distance, his other palm began to slide on the glass of the crystal, and the toes of his feet began to lose their suction completely.

The moment Sskeer found a grip, he clung to it for all he was worth. Seeing that Kelto was sliding too, and beginning to peel away, he stretched out a hand - not quite as far - and gave him a nudge between the shoulderblades, enough to push him back flat against the Arch. Breathing shakily, Kelto recovered his grip, then pushed on.

It was a relief to finally see each other over the rim of the Kyber Arch. At the summit, at least, there was room enough to stand, albeit precariously. They climbed to their feet and walked the final paces to each other.

“We did it,” Kelto panted, grinning, as they picked their way over the last few meters. “S-star’s End, we really did it!”

Sskeer laughed, mopped his brow, and shook his head. “This is only the halfway point.”

“Well, we did the half that matters!”

“I’m sure the Force will see it that way.”

“The Force-- The Force! You-- I thought you were gonna fall--”

“Yes… and after I’d gone through all that worrying for you...” Sskeer laughed again, really laughed, at the irony of it. “Surik’s Blade, Kelto! I’m supposed to catch you!”

“You can still do that,” the healer said, giddily. “Look, I’ll just tip off the edge like this--”

He started to lean. Sskeer grabbed him by the shoulders, corrected his angle, and pulled him in close.

“Please don’t,” he grunted. “There’s a very thick line between bravery and recklessness.”

“W-well, I wouldn’t know,” Kelto said. “I was never really brave before I met you.”

“You were all along. I only helped you discover it. There’s never been a Jedi born that was a coward, Kelto, and if there was, it certainly wasn’t you.”

The Rodian giggled, flushing. “You’re just saying that because I stopped you getting splattered into space waffle batter down there.”

“It had an impact, yes.”

Kelto hummed. Being up here, at the top of the chamber, secure in Sskeer’s arms as they thrilled in their minor victory… it was nice. He wrapped his own arms around the Trandoshan’s waist; they fit there easily, like hand and glove.

“So what’d I help you discover?”

Sskeer gave a rumble. “The view from up here, mainly.”

“Oh, that’s all? No profound personal revelations you’d like to share?”

He thought for a moment. Then he said, “Perhaps one.”

Carefully, Kelto shuffled backwards half a step to look up, still keeping himself and Sskeer locked in their mutual embrace. “What?”

“A new answer.”

“That’s… vague.”

“‘Why can no Jedi cross the Kyber Arch alone’? I thought I had the answer already; you gave me one more. And I think the Force brought us here to show us they can both be true.”

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense - what’s your new answer?”

“No Jedi can cross the Arch alone - because we are never alone.”

Outside, the day finally broke, and the sun streamed in through the atrium windows.

The Kyber Arch’s ‘golden hour’ had finally struck - the point in time at which sunlight streamed through the transparent monument and refracted through the thousands of kyber crystals which made up its body, illuminating them, revealing their many splendorous colors that for most of the cycle lay dormant. A beam of sun became a trickle of hue - and then, in moments, the room filled with vibrant rainbows. The Arch twinkled and shone like a kaleidoscope beneath their bare feet. 

Sskeer and Kelto fell silent, and for a time watched the lights dance throughout the room in quiet amazement.

“It seems we passed,” Sskeer murmured thoughtfully.

Kelto stared up into his eyes, pleasant astonishment written across his face. Then he wrapped his arms around Sskeer’s neck, levered himself up on tiptoes, and kissed him. The Trandoshan wound his own arms around the Rodian’s shoulders and kissed back, just as fervently.

“I love you, Sskeer.”

“And I you, Kelto Lem.”

It was morning again in the High Republic.

[lemondropsssss]

Jaskier spends what feels like an eternity wrapped up in Geralt’s arms. He hadn’t expected the embrace to last so long, but each time he goes to pull away Geralt makes a glorious growling sound and tightens his grip and really, how is Jaskier supposed to argue with that? He feels safe for what he realizes is the first time in a long time. Geralt’s scent hasn’t changed, is still the same leather-sword oil-horse-musk that is somehow intoxicating. So he tucks himself under his Witcher’s chin and just breathes, and to his amazement Geralt lets him- no, wants him , is holding him as if he’s important, and it warms him from the inside out.

“We should get back to the house,” Geralt says eventually, voice rumbling in his chest as he pulls back and looks the scant inch down at him. Jaskier steels himself for whatever pity might await him when he meets his gaze but there is none. Just a kind of calm fondness Jaskier hasn’t seen before. “I don’t like leaving Fiona alone for too long.”

“She’s fourteen, I think she can handle a hot mug on her own by now,” Jaskier mutters, not caring that Geralt can absolutely hear him, but he steps away all the same.

Geralt grunts back, but Jaskier can tell he’s smiling. It’s all in the eyes crinkles, after all. “C’mon, say your goodbyes so we can go.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes but does go give Roach one last pat, reminding her that she is practically perfect in every way and such a good horse and better than Geralt and it’s not as if he actually walks anywhere, unlike some very good horses I could name. Geralt’s smile grows to almost-visible-to-the-naked-eye, but he soon pulls Jaskier away with a muttered, How many times do I have to tell you to stop trying to fuck my horse, and the exasperatedly fond look on his face makes Jaskier’s stomach swoop.

He’s still angry. Still sad. Still doesn’t believe him, is still waiting for the moment Geralt will turn around and leave him alone in the dust like so many times before. It will hurt when he goes, surely, but at least this time Jaskier will be prepared for it. He’s built himself a life outside Geralt, his world won’t come to a screeching halt when he leaves. And maybe if Jaskier proves he can handle himself without his scary Witcher around, said scary Witcher would be more inclined to visit. But he does like this feeling. Walking side by side again, shoulders brushing companionably, how achingly familiar it all is.

The front window is vacant when they pass, and Jaskier assumes Ciri’s gone up to bed courtesy of Bea’s sleepy tea. He’s surprised then to find the teen sat up on the countertop, potato in one hand and paring knife in the other. She has a look of fierce concentration on her face as she works carefully, the tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth. Bea is close by, up to her elbows in flour and wrestling with a shaggy bread dough while still keeping a close eye on both Ciri and the pot bubbling over the hearth; the woman is a master, and Jaskier stops to watch her with a smile on his face.

“Geralt!” While he’d been distracted by the domestic scene, Geralt had come in behind him and was now crossing the room with the softest look Jaskier has ever seen on his face.

“G’morning, cub.” Geralt presses a kiss to her temple, and Jaskier has to stop himself from staring; both at the pet name and the very public display of affection. Public being only two other people of course, but that was still rather public to Geralt of Rivia. Ciri must be used to the attention for she pays it no mind, which confounds him even more. “Julian said you didn’t sleep well. More of the dreams?” He tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear and it’s the thoughtlessness of the motion that stands out to Jaskier.

This is a kind of casual and easy affection he’d only seen- well, that he’d only seen with him. Usually in a liminal time; in a shared bed some fuzzy between awake and sleep, or after the sixth ale of  a long night, pressed together in a dark corner of a tavern. And Geralt would sweep a hand across his, or press their knees together under the table, or curl a protective arm around his waist while they slept. Seeing that affection here, in the bright light of morning is something he wasn’t prepared for, and he takes a seat at the table lest his legs fail him.

Ciri and Geralt are oblivious to his confusion; she’s showing him how her knife skills have improved, and he’s watching her with a kind of fond fascination Jaskier’s never seen before but finds he quite enjoys. He looks up suddenly, their eyes meet, and Geralt’s expression turns to something more Jaskier can’t even begin to place. This man who gives affection freely and without pause is not the Geralt familiar to him.

It isn’t long before Bea finishes setting out a proper morning meal, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a crippling domesticity as they sit down to eat. Their breakfast is porridge with honey and cream, sausages, and the good brown bread that Bea has refused to ever share the recipe for, no matter how much coin Jaskier offers her. She doesn’t sit to eat, which doesn’t surprise him, but she does continue to work on whatever lunch is going into the pot over the hearth.

It’s a good breakfast, and good company. Ciri does wonders towards greasing the conversation, and Geralt says more than a few grunts in passing, which Jaskier considers a monumental feat. But they came to him for a reason and needs must, so Jaskier steers the conversation back towards the business that brought them to his doorstep.

“When you came to me at the University, you said you needed help. What kind? Money, clothes, food?” It’s blunt, but Jaskier would rather know now what the price for this visit will be.

Geralt looks thrown for a moment before he answers. “All of the above. We’re heading North, towards Kaer Morhen. We need,” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the actual asking part of asking for help, “Money, yes, and winter clothes. Another mount. Fiona needs a better disguise; cutting her hair, dye maybe- maybe even for both of us.” He makes a face at that and Jaskier wants to laugh; Geralt always did love his hair. “We stand out, it makes us too easy to track. Nilfguaard is-” He cuts off, worried gaze wavering over Ciri, which she huffs at and continues in his place.

“Nilgfuaard is hunting us. Me, technically. They’ve been tracking me since Cintra. And they’ve killed everyone who’s tried to help me.” She doesn’t meet either of their eyes. “They’ll hurt anyone to get to me. Geralt is taking us to Yspaden to meet Yennefer, and then to Kaer Morhen together where we’ll be safe.” Ciri is somber and serious for a girl her age, and Jaskier notices she tucks her hands into her lap out of view.

His compassion for her is quickly overtaken by the creeping feeling of something cold sliding down his spine. Poor stupid little Julian who never learns, the voice inside him taunts, He has his child, has the great mage herself, what use is a washed up old bard to a Witcher? All he needs from you is money, he said it himself. That’s what this morning was, the idea twists around inside him and it hurts, physically hurts him to think it but he can’t stop, Nothing genuine, just a way to keep poor stupid little Julian on his leash. He doesn’t- couldn’t actually care for you.

“Right well, ah-” Jaskier’s voice is hard to his own ears, so he clears his throat before trying again. “That shouldn't be any trouble. We should ah-” His mouth runs dry and he’s just trying to get through this as quickly as possible so he can flee and maybe hide from his houseguests for a good few hours in the tub. But no, he is a mature and reasonable adult who is pleasant to his houseguests and who does not cry in front of them. Geralt is watching him closely with an odd look on his face, and Jaskier feels uncomfortably seen. “We should armor you too, you’re no use to anyone at all as a Witcher with no armour and only one sword.”

“Of no use to anyone at all?” Geralt rumbles, one annoyed eyebrow raised in Jaskier’s direction.

“The last time I checked you can still bleed, O Great and Mighty Witcher, and that shirt you’re wearing wouldn’t stop a butter knife.” For a moment they sound like they used to, and it doesn’t shatter his heart at all to hear. He clears his throat, trying to force down the hard lump of familiarity threatening to choke him. “We can get you a mount easy enough. I assume you’ll want one more Fiona-sized?” He winks at Ciri and she grins. “That shouldn’t be an issue, I have friends at the horse market who owe me a favor. Or several, as the case may be. As for clothes, we can go today to the seamstress on-”

��Pardon, Master Julian?” It’s Bea, a few paces away from the table. Jaskier knows she wouldn’t interrupt without cause, and gestures for her to continue. “You may want to dress the child down in things that look more travel-worn as to blend in. Fresh made clothes might fit well, but they’ll draw attention off the beaten path. I still have some of my Piotr’s things, I could fit them to her size easy enough. They’re a bit battered, but well made. She’ll need a new cloak though, I don’t think his will be warm enough for where you’re going.”

“Bea, you are a blessing from the Gods,” Jaskier beams, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of that. Of course they shouldn’t buy new things, fresh clothes are like a beacon to bandits on the road. Stupid, stupid Jaskier. “Auntie, do you have anything we can dye Fiona’s hair with?” He sends Ciri a reassuring smile across the table. “Your hair is beautiful, little one, but your Witcher is right; it draws too many eyes to you.”

Bea considers for a moment before she nods. “I’ve got a walnut dye that should do for her, aye.”

“Grand, you see to that, and I’ll go see a man about a horse. Huh. For the first time, possibly ever, I actually mean that.” He’s out of his chair and halfway across the room before he’s stopped by an oh-so familiar growl.

“I’ll go with Julian.”

“No,” He’s saying before he even turns around,  “You’ll stay here with Fiona and get your hair colored.” Geralt looks like he’s about to argue so Jaskier beats him to it. “Or do you not remember that everyone on the continent is looking for you? If you’re not seen by a Nilfguaardian, you’re seen by a spy, or an informant, or some sad random asshole looking to score the reward purse. So you’ll be staying here, and getting your beauty treatment.”

There’s a stunned little look on his face that makes Jaskier more pleased than it should. He leaves them there, sure Bea will keep them on track and out of trouble, and starts the walk down the street towards the horse markets.

Jaskier wraps the heavy knitted scarf- a present from Bea on his last birthday- around his neck to keep out the first chills of autumn, but that does nothing to keep the ice from his heart. It began as a cool pinprick during breakfast, Geralt is taking us to Yspaden to meet Yennefer, and then to Kaer Morhen together where we’ll be safe and has shifted into a sharp spike of Yennefer, Kaer Morhen, safe that he doesn’t know what to do with.

He remembers the first time he’d asked where Geralt went in winter. He’d been twenty-two, or maybe twenty-four, and as with most stories they’d been drunk. He had wanted to invite Geralt back to Oxenfurt with him, but then Geralt had told him of the crumbling Witcher’s fortress, and the brothers he met there each year. He understood, when Geralt said it was the Witchers sanctuary and not a place for troublesome bards; when they were out in the world, Witchers could never relax, never take a deep breath for fear of killing or being killed. Of course they would need a place without humans, without others, where they could be free for a few months a year. Jaskier was never hurt that Geralt did not share that place with him- if anything, he loved that Geralt had somewhere safe and warm to rest his weary bones each year.

And Jaskier is a grown ass man, he will not begrudge a child being allowed to her father’s home but. But Yennefer. Jaskier knows about the sacking, he knows the last mages to set foot in Kaer Morhen were the ones who brought it crumbling down. If Geralt is bringing Yennefer that must mean they’re together. It will be Yennefer Geralt presents to his brothers, Yennefer who will walk the halls, explore the library, spend months curled up with her lover and their child and-

The honey-colored memory of their early morning embrace is souring in his mind; like black ink spilled over the image and corrupting it until there is nothing left but the acrid feel of Geralt’s arms around him and the burning knowledge that he was going to be left behind again. The promise of the morning means nothing now- Geralt will leave him for Yennefer like he always does, and Jaskier will let him like he always does, and the status quo will remain ever stable.

Jaskier should learn to say no when old not-friends show up at his doorstep, he really should.

He quickens his pace- if he hurries the sale, he might be able to convince Filip to take an early lunch and they can get spectacularly drunk in the hayloft like stupid teenagers instead of doing their actual jobs.

-

here are parts one two three four five. and the full story is on ao3 here 

[frizz22]

A story where Sabrina and Ambrose find out about Zelda stealing Leticia, we only got to see Hilda’s reaction I would love to see theirs

COMBO Prompt: One above and also–Sabrina actually calls Zelda mom, and it’s not just at her deathbed. Read on ao3

Notes: Okay, I cheated a little with these, since I had this scene in my You Always Say No fic and it fit so perfectly for both. I changed it up a little, though. Hope you still enjoy!

Also, in this fic it’s customary for a witch to receive a gift from her mother on her dark baptism. Though the aunties didn’t tell Sabrina about this tradition, Zelda still went to lengths to get a family heirloom restored to give to Sabrina; only to have to hold onto it because of debacles. 

Zelda was cooing over Leticia, unable to help herself from fawning over the babe, when a door slammed down below, and she felt the rush of new magic pulsing in the air even floors above.

Turning in surprise, Zelda blinked. “She, she signed?” She murmured incredulously, though the signs were unmistakable.

Despite her confusion, Zelda quickly cast an alarm spell over Leticia—so she’d be alerted if the babe woke—and bent over her trunk to snag a small box out before stashing in her robe pocket.  

She eased the door open and shut it quietly behind her so as to no disturb Leticia and then made for Sabrina’s room. When Hilda didn’t emerge from her room as well, Zelda assumed her sister was already asleep—good, Hilda needed to recover from holding off the Thirteen and Red Angel; she’d expended enormous amounts of energy. There was no need to wake her sister, she’d find out in the morning. 

Besides, Zelda wanted to have this moment alone with her niece. 

Knocking tentatively, Zelda waited. Though she knew Sabrina was in her room, the magic palpable enough it would’ve given away the girl’s location anywhere in the house, she didn’t want to force anything.

After a moment, a quiet, “come in,” filtered through the door. Pushing it open slowly, Zelda took in Sabrina’s new appearance more fully than she’d been able to during her astral projection. Her niece was sitting cross-legged on the bed, already in her pajamas and cuddling her stuffed rabbit.

“Want to talk about it?” Zelda questioned softly, coming to sit next to Sabrina.

Sniffing, Sabrina’s chin trembled. “I signed the Book of the Beast.” She informed her unnecessarily, leaning into Zelda’s side. “Ms. Wardwell said it was the only way to stop the Thirteen and the Red Angel. I had to burn them with Hellfire, like in my vision from the Malum Malus. But I wasn’t strong enough, so I signed. I, I didn’t see any other way to save everyone.”

Zelda froze midway between wrapping her arm around Sabrina comfortingly. Badly wanting to leave right then and strangle Wardwell for coaxing Sabrina out of the safety of Hilda’s protection and into the woods.

Exhaling slowly to rid herself of the red that flooded her vision at the mention of Wardwell, Zelda hugged Sabrina against her. “Oh darling, we were already doing everything possible to protect the town. The coven was safe at the academy and the mortals at Baxter High. We only had to last an hour. It worked.”  

A few tears slipped down Sabrina’s face. “Not everyone was at the school, Auntie Zee. Roz, Susie… Harvey. They were all outside and in danger.”

It was a monumental feat, controlling herself. First Wardwell, and now the Kinkle boy? Zelda squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips together to not curse anything. Why, why was it that whenever something happened Harvey was somehow the inspiration or motivator?

Zelda knew, on some level, it wasn’t his fault her niece was so heedless in her pursuit of her wants, of what she’d deemed was right. But things certainly would have been much easier this past month and a half if Harvey Kinkle had never been part of Sabrina’s life.

“It’s not your job to protect everyone, sweetheart. That is a much too heavy burden to carry, let alone for a teenager. No matter your abilities.” She reached up and tucked some of Sabrina’s hair back. “I am sorry you felt you had to give up so much.” Sabrina just curled further into Zelda’s side. “What were you thinking? Leaving the protection of the school? Of your Aunt Hilda?” She admonished, though they’d all made it out in one piece, it very well could have ended differently.

Pulling back, Sabrina wiped some of her tears away. “I was thinking of what you would have done in my shoes.”

She stared at her niece, dumbfounded. “What?”

“I was just doing what I’ve seen you do all my life. Protect people. It’s not always crazy like summoning Hellfire,” Sabrina smiled sheepishly, “but it’s always been there. The harrowing, the feast, Batibat, the resurrection…” she trailed off, lip quivering at the reminder. “I also understand why you’ve been so keen on following the church’s lead. I felt the Dark Lord’s presence tonight; His true presence, not just a possession. It was chilling, terrifying. He’s really dangerous, Auntie.” Sabrina informed her, pale faced.

Though panic shot through her at the idea of the Dark Lord hovering over Sabrina as she signed, Zelda also felt relief that Sabrina understood where she was coming from. “I know He’s dangerous, Sabrina. Which is why your constant rebellion against Him has given me ulcers.” She half-teased, cupping Sabrina’s cheek for a moment. “I’m glad you finally understand. Though there is something I understand now as well. I was,” she took a deep breath. “I was letting my past experiences cloud how I raised you.

“I was stifling you, trying to force you down a certain path in order to keep you safe. My fears come from a genuine place, as you’ve realized. But my fears stem from more than just knowing the Dark Lord is dangerous, darling. He took something irreplaceable from me and in the process forced me to do something I was strongly against. A part of me broke, Sabrina.” She whispered, explicitly confessing for the first time how damaged she’d been after Edward’s murder; how she’d never really recovered from it fully. And she hated it, hated how the word ‘broke’ stuck in her throat, hated the implications of it, hated that she wasn’t strong enough to glue herself back together sufficiently enough that she was now confessing to her niece. But it needed to be done, she couldn’t continue as she had, holding it in until she’d purged it with whipping. It wasn’t an option anymore; which meant this… talking.

Sabrina dropped her rabbit and lurched forward, wrapping her arms around Zelda fully. The gesture stunned Zelda, and after a moment she brought up a hand to stroke Sabrina’s hair; grateful her girl was staying quiet, as if she sensed that if she spoke Zelda would stop.  

Taking a shaky breath, Zelda continued. “I am relieved you’ve come to understand where I’ve been coming from… but you were right to work to change certain things as well. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

With a vigorous shake of her head, Sabrina pulled back from their embrace but gripped Zelda’s forearm tightly. “No, Auntie Zelda, I’m sorry. A lot of pain could have been avoided if I’d just signed on my birthday.” She dropped her eyes, “you were right, everything has a price.” Sniffing, she lifted her gaze and there was a bit of that old spark in it again. “I’m not sorry for most of it, stopping the harrowing, the Feast of Feasts, helping Susie’s uncle….”  

Zelda restrained herself from pointing out that while her girl had the best of intentions, none of what she’d done had any lasting effect. Yes, the harrowing would stop for a little bit, Prudence and her sisters scared off. But that happened every now and then, but it would pick up again when a new group of witches wanted to hurt others the way they’d been hurt. And Sabrina had saved Prudence from a gruesome fate, certainly, but the Feast wasn’t ended by any means and would continue again the next year. As for Jesse Putnam… well, he was dead now even with their intervention.

But Sabrina’s heart was in the right place, she’d done those things to try and protect people, so Zelda wouldn’t admonish her beyond what she’d already done in the past. She just pressed her lips together and covered Sabrina’s hands with one of hers, squeezing slightly.

Sabrina curled into her side once more, a silence settling between them as they processed the conversation. Carefully, Zelda pulled the necklace out of her robe pocket with the hand not holding Sabrina against her. She was about to hand it over when her niece broke the silence.

“Are we going to talk about where you went? Why you disappeared?” And though there was no accusation in her tone, Zelda couldn’t help but feel they were both thinking if she’d been present tonight Sabrina might not have needed to sign—at the very least she’d never have allowed Sabrina to go off with Wardwell. Not that it mattered now, they couldn’t change the past.

Sliding the necklace back into her pocket, Zelda nodded slowly. Before she could explain, however, a thin wailing cry echoed down the hall, though it soon died down; Leticia likely just falling back to sleep.

Confused, Sabrina stiffened against her. “Was that a baby?!”

“Yes, I—”

“Why didn’t you say you had a baby here?” Sabrina demanded incredulously, pulling away from Zelda to stare at her.

A smile touched Zelda’s lips and she cupped Sabrina’s cheek for a moment. “I wanted to check on you first.”

Her niece softened at that and then remembered herself. “Well, now I want to talk about the baby.” She gestured towards the door, eyebrows raised expectantly as she adjusted her position, facing Zelda completely and tucking one leg underneath her.

Shaking her head affectionately, Zelda shifted on the bed to mirror Sabrina. “Her name is Leticia. She is the first born of Father Blackwood’s twins. That’s what I was going to tell you, why I disappeared earlier.” She clasped her hands in her lap to hide how she was twisting her fingers; anxiety was rolling through her, though why she was so nervous to tell Sabrina about Leticia she wasn’t sure. “I was summoned to the academy; Lady Blackwood had gone into premature labor and I was needed for the delivery. I tried to come back, Sabrina. I did, but—”

Sabrina waved a dismissive hand, “I know, Auntie, I know you wouldn’t have abandoned us. What about the baby?”

Huffing in amusement, Zelda went on to explain. “Lady Blackwood died. Her body under too much stress from her overuse of magic, from her pregnancy induced hysteria, the whole Thirteen and Red Angel situation… it was hardly an ideal time to give birth. She bled too much; I didn’t have my tools… I couldn’t help her. But both babes lived.”

Sagging in relief that the children were alright, Sabrina looked at her sharply then. “But why?” She gestured down to the door again.

“Leticia was born first, a surprise when all signs pointed to twin boys. I decided it was too dangerous for Faustus to claim her as his first born and there was no way to trick the coven into thinking her brother had been born first. You see, there are spells and—” Zelda went to explain but Sabrina headed her off.

“Spells and potions, yeah. I read about them for one of my classes.” Sabrina interrupted her impatiently, “why is Leticia here?”

Picking at the palm of her hand, Zelda swallowed. “I, I took Leticia for her own protection; to hide her and also raise her. The ways of our church can be cruelly archaic, sometimes Sabrina, and Faustus is bound to follow them as a High Priest. I was saving him the hardship of disposing of his child and Leticia by bringing her here.”

Sabrina licked her lips, “so, Leticia, she’ll, she’ll be your daughter?” She asked, voice a little high pitched.

She blinked, surprised this was the point Sabrina was focusing on and not on the fact that she’d taken the girl in the first place. “Well, I, yes. I suppose she will be. In every sense of the word at least.” And Zelda tried to mask how thrilled she was by the notion; especially when she saw how her niece’s face fell a bit.

“Oh, okay…” Sabrina murmured, nodding jerkily and clearing her throat.

Frowning in confusion, Zelda peered at her niece. Unsure why Sabrina seemed more upset by this than having to sign the book. But it wasn’t as if she could give Leticia to someone else, not that she could bear to part with the little girl in any case, so Sabrina would need to come to terms with another child being in the house.

Perhaps, perhaps she thought she was being replaced? Another adopted girl of a High Priest? Zelda had to admit, the parallels were somewhat disconcerting. But Leticia could never replace her girl.

Slowly, Zelda took the necklace back out of her pocket. “I have something for you.” She murmured, gripping the box tightly in her hands where they’d come to rest in her lap once more. “I, I intended to give it to you on your original Dark Baptism, but with everything…” Zelda raised a brow and chuckled slightly, and Sabrina gave her a wry smile in return, though there was still something akin to doubt in her eyes. “Well, anyway,” she handed the box over and waited for Sabrina to open it. “It belonged to my mother.” Zelda explained, as Sabrina admired the necklace, “and her mother before her and so on. It’s been passed down through Spellman women on their Dark Baptism for centuries. And I, I want you to have it.”

Sabrina carefully took the necklace from the box, tears in her eyes. “Your mom gave it to you?” She repeated tremulously.

Humming in the affirmative, Zelda placed a hand on Sabrina’s knee. “Yes, I wore it every day for a very long time. It means quite a lot to me, and I hope you come to value it as well.”

“Are you, are you sure you don’t want to save it for Leticia?” Sabrina whispered, running the chain through her hands and not meeting Zelda’s eye.

Taken aback, Zelda looked at Sabrina baffled. “Why would I save it for Leticia?” She inquired, the thought that Sabrina was trying to graciously reject her gift forcing itself into the forefront of her mind; her heart dropped at the idea.

Sniffing, Sabrina rolled her shoulders, eyes still downcast. “Because she’s your daughter.” Came a thick reply, “she’ll get to call you mom.” Several tears dripped off Sabrina’s nose. “And this is an heirloom that gets passed down from mother to daughter.”

The dark, sinking feeling that was threatening to pull Zelda under dissipated at Sabrina’s words. She wasn’t rejecting the gift, wasn’t rejecting Zelda. She truly thought she was being replaced and didn’t believe the necklace should go to her.

“Oh, my girl.” Zelda murmured, pulling Sabrina back into a tight embrace, her niece’s head tucked under her chin as Sabrina’s arms wound around her and fisted the material of her robe. “I never wanted to, to tell you this before.” She swallowed hard but forced herself to continue. “Because I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable or feel pressured or think I was trying to replace Diana. But I’ve loved you as a daughter. Always. You have always been, and always will be, my daughter.” She was crying now too, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Sabrina buried her face against Zelda’s shoulder. “No matter how many babies you take?” She asked tremulously, the question slightly muffled.

Zelda couldn’t help but laugh a little and hugged Sabrina tighter. “No matter how many babies I adopt.” She clarified, rocking the two of them on the bed gently. “Though I don’t plan on taking in anymore.” Zelda pulled back and framed her niece’s face, wiping the tears away with her thumbs.

A wide smile broke out on Sabrina’s face and she lurched forward and wrapped her arms around Zelda’s neck. “I never thought you were trying to replace Diana. I’m sorry for what I said the other night. You’re my mom in every way that counts…. I love you.” Sabrina murmured, sniffing once more.

Heart soaring at the words, Zelda clung to her girl tightly, and it took a moment for her to respond past the lump of emotions stuck in her throat. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

When Sabrina pulled back a minute later, she was chewing on her lip, suddenly shy. “Will, will you help me put it on?” She asked, already turning around and taking off the necklace Harvey had given her. Beaming, Zelda nodded and took the necklace and looped it around her girl’s neck before fastening it.

When she turned back around and let her hand drop from the pendant, Sabrina look at Zelda. “How does it look?”

“Lovely,” Zelda whispered, fussing with the chain, smoothing out a twist and gently touching a lock of Sabrina’s new platinum hair.

Not missing her aunt’s action, Sabrina’s hand came up to touch her hair as well. “Auntie Zee, does everyone’s hair change when they sign?” She asked, lightly tugging on the strand.

Reaching up and tucking a few stray locks behind Sabrina’s ear, Zelda shook her head. “No. It only happens in rare cases, when someone signs under extreme duress—which might be what happened to you tonight. Or when the witch or warlock signing is especially powerful. My hair did the same.” She reassured, smiling at the memory.

“Really?” Sabrina straightened and looked at her excitedly, “what did your hair look like before?” Her brow furrowed, as though she were trying to imagine her aunt with anything other than her fierce red locks.

Shifting on the bed to get more comfortable, Zelda huffed a little in amusement. “It was dark brown, like your father’s. We were so close in age and looked so alike people mistook us for twins at times. Thomas, Ambrose’s father, he had blonde hair like Hilda. Well, clearly Ambrose took after his mother, lucky for him; Thomas wasn’t much of a looker.”

“Auntie!” Sabrina playfully scolded, but she was smiling again. “But you had brown hair?” She asked, touching Zelda’s hair briefly before letting her hand fall.

Zelda nodded, “yes, and when I signed, it lightened and took on a reddish color. I was delighted, naturally, not only because of what the color change indicated about my powers, but also because I felt red hair fit my personality so much better.” She winked and Sabrina shook her head in amusement.

Sobering for a moment, Sabrina tugged at the ends of her own her. “So, it lasts forever then? The color change.”

Pressing her lips together, Zelda sighed. “Mine did, though I am not sure about others in general. It is not a common phenomenon and little research has been done on the topic. If you dislike this color, there are potions and spells we can use.” She offered, seeing Sabrina was self-conscious about the new look. “But that is something we can explore later. We should both be in bed.” Zelda arched a brow and stood. “Night darling, damned dreams.” She kissed the top of Sabrina’s head and made for the door.

“Night, Auntie Zee, thank you for everything. Love you.” Sabrina smiled at her and crawled under the covers.

Trying to contain herself, Zelda smiled back. “Love you too,” she breathed, switching off the light and closing the door behind her. Once out in the hall, Zelda had to lean against the wall, attempting to stem the fresh flow of tears making their way down her cheeks; though these were from joy.

Sabrina loved her.

Her reaction to the statement was over the top, on some level she knew this. Of course, Sabrina loved her, they were family. But to hear her girl say it, after so many years of conflict, after the gap between seemed to have been stretching endlessly for so long… it was something else. And then, then Sabrina had said Zelda was like a mother to her in every way that mattered.

Emotions clogged Zelda’s throat at the recent memory, and she covered her mouth to hide the wide, teary smile on her face. Her girl, her girl…. Sniffing, Zelda collected herself and made for her bedroom. 

~~~

She woke the next morning to a crying babe. Rubbing the grogginess from her eyes, Zelda changed Leticia’s diaper before casting a quick spell to dress for the day and fix her hair. It was a late start for her, though she suspected it would be one for most of Greendale given how late they’d all stayed up because of the impending crises of the fake storm, the Thirteen and the Red Angel.

Just as she was about to go downstairs to feed Leticia, a knock sounded on her door. Surprised anyone else was up, Zelda opened the door and found her nephew standing there, looking a little anxious.

“I meant to come find you last night, after witching hour. But I was tethered to the academy, I—” Ambrose fell silent, having noticed the small bundle in her arms. “That’s a baby.” He remarked, eyes darting back and forth between her face and Leticia in confusion.

“Come,” she smiled, leading the way down the hall and past the closed doors of Sabrina and Hilda’s rooms—they were still asleep; understandably, given the magic they’d used the night before. Once in the kitchen, Zelda prepped a bottle for Leticia and explained to Ambrose what happened after she’d been summoned away from Baxter High the night before.

When the bottle was ready, Ambrose stood and took it from her and then he took Leticia as well, carefully balancing the babe as he started to feed her. “Eat, auntie,” he instructed when she blinked at him. “I already had breakfast.” He grinned and turned his attention back to Leticia; cooing at her and saying ridiculous things as he sat down in his usual spot.  

Zelda did her best to hold back her tears at the interaction and busied herself with making tea and toast to hide her sudden surge of emotions. Once her food was ready, Zelda settled across the table from Ambrose, sipping on tea and munching on slightly burnt toast while chatting amicably. When both she and Leticia finished eating, Ambrose burped the babe, stood, rounded the table and handed Leticia back. He smiled tenderly at them as Zelda adjusted her arms to better accommodate Leticia who was snuggling into her chest.

Touching her arm, Ambrose waited until Zelda lifted her eyes to him to speak. “If you need anything, anything, let me know.” He insisted, eyes imploring her to not take this on alone.

She nodded. “Of course, darling,” Zelda murmured, reaching up and cupping his cheek briefly before patting it; emotions welling up again. Heaven, one would think she was the who’d given birth with how hormonal she was acting…. Though it was nice to have so many positive emotions swirling through her for once.

“You deserve this,” Ambrose stated quietly, catching her hand as she pulled away and squeezing it. “To have a child of your own,” he elaborated at her confused expression. “And she deserves a mom like you.” With that, Ambrose kissed the top of Zelda’s head and retreated from the room before she could react other than more tears brimming in her eyes.

Perhaps, she thought as she blinked back the tears, perhaps her feeling that things were looking up for the Spellman family wasn’t wrong, just mistimed. A little early. Because surely her heart couldn’t get any fuller.

[heartbeatan]

No Expectations (Chapter 1)

Return to Table of Contents.

Return to Taehyung Fanfictions.

Return to Masterlist.

Chapter 1

You weren’t quite sure you had heard Taehyung’s words clearly so you couldn’t help but stare blankly back at him as your brain tried to process the declaration. You couldn’t have possibly heard what you thought you heard. It didn’t make any sense.

It had been three years since you met Jae, who you thought was the love of your life; 18 months since you two had gotten married; 15 months since you got pregnant; 6 months since you had your baby; 4 months since you were diagnosed with postpartum depression; and, 12 weeks since your husband walked out on you.

Walked out was putting it lightly. He ran and you didn’t even hear the starter pistol. One day, after he refused, once again, to join you on your routine check-up with the pediatrician, you returned home to find him waiting for you with a short stack of documents. Legal documents. One executing a divorce; one signing over his parental rights; and, another agreeing to transfer you enough money to buy out his portion of the mortgage and four years worth of his son’s college tuition – an impressive feat given that the man barely lasted a year in any job and wouldn’t have the job he was in now if it wasn’t for you who had been editorializing his resume and sending it out to prospective employers. Since you also managed the household expenses, you weren’t sure how he had managed to secretly shell away so much money, or if he had perhaps come by it by some other means. Regardless, it was a monumental enough sum that proved he wanted nothing to do with you or with his child and that he was willing to put himself on skid row in order to get out of it. Perhaps, if you had a clearer head, you would have refused to sign the agreement and at least taken it to a lawyer. The amount was a lot for him in the short term, but it certainly wasn’t enough to account for everything he legally would have owed you and your son for. However, you were so furious, hurt, and offended that you signed your name then and there and swore that he’d never be allowed to recant if he ever wanted to have a relationship with Woori. Unphased, he left, with his copy of the documents, a single suitcase which couldn’t have possibly accounted for everything he owned but again, his desire to leave meant he was fine with abandoning his non-essential belongings… except for the Play Station.

In hindsight, perhaps you should have seen the signs, but you had been so focused on preparing to bring a life into the world that his late nights, passive aggressive undertones and general disinterest in you or your impending offspring went unnoticed. Perhaps you chose not to notice. Perhaps you rationalized that his attitude would change once he finally laid eyes on his child, and he and your relationship would return to some level of normalcy. But that sadly wasn’t the case.

Instead, he became even more distant and more unavailable. You blamed yourself for causing the rift and took pity on him that he had to put up with you, on top of work and the stresses of being a new parent. You thought daily if you could just hold on and just survive a little bit longer then everything would be fine. You would become the woman he fell in love with, you would shower him with all the passion and affection you once did, and life would become blissful once again. He didn’t hold on though. You found out days after he left that he had moved in with his new girlfriend, so chances were he hadn’t been fighting for your marriage for a long time.  

After the anger had passed and you began to accept your new life as a single mother, you came face-to-face with the reality that you were lonely. You had moved to this city for work without intention of staying, but, after you met Jae you decided making a life with him was worth living permanently 10,000 kilometres away from your family and close friends. Most of your friends here were through Jae’s friends so you felt especially awkward to hang out with them, nonetheless risk Jae finding out you were a mess without him.

The only people you had really remained in contact with were Jae’s parents. They were disappointed and embarrassed by how their son treated you and how he could abandon their grandson; last you heard they had only started speaking to him recently. Mostly they desperately wanted to have a relationship with Woori and you were happy to allow that – they weren’t the culprits after all. You were pretty sure they were also the ones dropping grocery gift cards in your mailbox – a God send since between Jae leaving and your maternity pay, the household income had been cut so heavily. Despite them making you feel welcome, it still wasn’t a perfect support system; they were still Jae’s parents after all.

You were tired, broke, alone, poorly nourished on takeout food, and the house and yard was a mess. You still hadn’t lost the baby weight which made you feel like a failure and also made you say “what’s the point” to your regular personal hygiene routine. The more and more you sunk deeper into your lonely and dark routine of “just survive” the more and more anxious you became and the more you isolated yourself from the world.

That’s why when Kim Taehyung, one of Jae’s childhood best friends, arrived out-of-the blue at your door, you were trying your best to keep him occupied in the kitchen; it was a means to keep him away from the shambled living room, your form hidden behind the kitchen island, and a way to send him the message that he wasn’t to stay too long.

Nonetheless, you offered him some water and you two chatted for a while about the news, weather, and friend gossip – of course avoiding the topic of Jae. It was nice to have an adult conversation again and you were finding his company to lift your spirits. But why was he here? Taehyung definitely knew Jae didn’t live there anymore, and he had never stopped into see just you before – you were never that close. When you mustered up the courage to ask why he had come, his answer hit you like an anvil.

“Sorry,” you shook your head. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

“I’m in love with you,” he replied awkwardly as if he wasn’t sure of the answer; perhaps his insecurity is what made you misunderstand him the first time – or that fact that this news came out of absolutely nowhere.

“I--- are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Oh… since when?”

“Since basically the beginning,” he replied as if he was answering a question about how long he’s been able to ride a bike.

“Oh…” you couldn’t believe you were having this conversation so casually. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do with this information. You certainly weren’t in love with him and you certainly weren’t ready to start dating again. But you liked Taehyung and wanted to let him down as gently as possible. Before you could formulate how to do that, he stopped you.

“Listen, before you say anything, I have no expectations. I didn’t come here to ask you to be my girlfriend. I know you’ve got way more important things than dating on your mind right now, I just…” he paused to collect his thoughts before he continued. “I just know a little bit about how difficult a time this can be for you. My sister went through the same thing and I saw how she struggled – and she still had a full-time husband at home.” You realize then that Taehyung was referring to your postpartum. “I also know you don’t have any family here and that you haven’t seen the women in a while. It’s difficult to feel alone…”

A crash interrupted Taehyung’s monologue as Woori chucked his toy car off the highchair and onto the floor. Unphased, Taehyung picked it up and cooed at Woori before returning it. Of all “the men” in your group, Taehyung had always been the best with children, despite not having any of his own. The scene made you smile a little.

“Anyway,” he continued as Woori began smashing his car against the tray again, “I worry about you and I just couldn’t let you go on thinking that you were alone and unloved. So, I came here because… I wanted you to know that… I love you.”

He shrugged his shoulders. His last statement made your chest tighten and tears threaten to form in your eyes. Even though you knew the love he was talking about was more than the kind of love you were looking for, it was true that it was something you didn’t even know you desperately needed to hear. Someone was on your side through all this.

“I’m not the only one, you know. The girls are all worried about you,’ he continued. “You should call them. They’re your friends too. None of us see Jae that much anymore anyway.”

The mention of his name instantly brought a bad taste to your mouth. Anger may have passed, but it had been replaced by disgust. The only saving grace was that it was coming out of the mouth of one of Jae’s best friends who had just declared his love for you…

“I also have something else,” Taehyung straightened his shoulders and spoke confidently. “I want to help you. Anything you need… cut the lawn, some fix it stuff around the house, babysitting… whatever. I’m at your service. Like I said, I have no expectations, I’m not trying to swindle you into anything, I just want to help.”

The statement instantly made you giddy. Taehyung was a good worker and the prospect of having help to complete all the projects and chores Jae “never got to” made you instantly feel as if a weight had been lifted off your shoulders.

Jae. That name came up again.

“I really appreciate the offer, Taehyung, but I can’t accept that. Does Jae know about…” you began but were uncomfortable finishing the sentence. What would Jae think if he knew Taehyung was in love with you? “What would Jae think about you around here all the time. I can’t come between you two like that.”

With a sigh, he responded. “You don’t need to worry about that. I don’t think Jae and I are friends anymore.”

“Did something happen between you?” you asked.

He shook his head no. “Nothing specific. I think the thing is he and I are really only friends today because we’ve been friends since we were kids. We are different people now. I don’t think nostalgia is enough anymore. So, don’t worry, you weren't what came between us.”

Even though you knew Jae didn’t deserve to have a friend as good as Taehyung, you still felt a sense of sadness for him at the loss. You wondered how the rest of the group felt about him. Perhaps Jae wasn’t doing that much better than you were; the thought was satisfying.

“I’m sorry anyway. Losing a friend is still tough,” you said softly. Taehyung shrugged his shoulders and the two of you sat in silence for a few moments.

“Anyway,” he broke first. “Like I said, I want to help. No expectations I’m just here if you need me.”

“Thank-you, Taehyung, I really appreciate it.”

“So, what are we doing today? Put me to work.”

You were a bit shocked. When he said he wanted to help you didn’t expect him to jump in so immediately. “Oh, no, no Taehyung, you don’t have to do anything. I’m fine really! I’ll call you if something comes up!”

“Would you really call though?” he raised his eyebrow.

You couldn’t lie. “Nooo…” you replied sheepishly.

“Well then, now is my only chance. If you’re not going to do it for yourself at least do it for me once. What were you planning on doing today?”

You paused for a bit as you considered whether or how you should shuffle him out of your house. But, despite the odd and somewhat uncomfortable declaration of love, the thought of having a work horse for the day became all to attractive and in a weak moment you answered.

“Well… I was thinking about weeding the gardens…”

“Done,” he interrupted you before you could recant.

“You really don’t need to do this. It’s a lot of work!”

“Don’t worry about it. I like to keep busy.”

“Well, Woori is going to sleep soon so at least let me help you,” you bargained.

“Nope. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it and you worry about yourselves. Why don’t you take a nap too, I’m sure you haven’t gotten much sleep lately?”

You almost scoffed at the idea. “A nap? I don’t know that life,” you quipped. Taehyung’s face pulled in amusement.

“I’ll show you a whole new world, Y/N, where adults take naps sometimes because they need one.” You too smiled at his banter. He stood up and headed towards the door to get to work. Once again, the guilt of having an acquaintance doing free manual labour for you washed over.

“Taehyung…” you called after him. He turned around to face you. “Are you sure about this?”

“Positive,” he smiled. “Don’t worry. I want to be here. No expectations.”

“At least let me make you dinner? The least I could do is feed you… Don’t say no,” you finished sternly when you saw him open his mouth to protest. He shut his mouth and smiled.

“Sure,” he said before he exited and headed off towards the backyard shed.

The smash of Woori’s car hitting the floor knocked you out of your stupor.

Did that really just happen? You asked yourself. Did Kim Taehyung, one of Jae’s best friends really confess his love for you and is now kneeling in your flower bed?

It was true. You peered out the back window to confirm it. There he was bent over the patch of grassy dirt that currently resembled the unmanicured side of the highway rather than a garden. A small pile of waste had already begun to pile up at his side.

Woori began to fuss. Like clockwork he was ready for his meal and a big afternoon nap, so you tried to put any thoughts of what was happening outside away until he was taken care of and fast asleep. For the first time in a while you felt a sense of relief.

Forty minutes later, Woori was fast asleep. You had walked out to bring Taehyung some lawn waste disposal bags and some water. You were preparing to help him out but he shuffled you away and back into the house insisting you couldn’t bribe him with water. Back in the house, however, you couldn’t sit still. Something about having Taehyung’s energy around the property had made you restless, and you felt a motivation you hadn’t felt in a while to do something. You started out with the overdue laundry, and while the wash machine did its job, you moved onto wiping down the kitchen surfaces and sweeping the floors.

Normally you would have thrown the washed clothes in the dryer, but today, in the spirit of accomplishing more, you decided to hang out a load on the clothesline as well. Taehyung waved to you from the distance and you waved back. It was nice. Just the way you had always imagined yourself and Jae to be like on a sunny chore filled Saturday. You pushed the thought aside as you headed back into the house. Today you didn’t need to waste time thinking about him. Today you were feeling motivated. Today you thought was the day you’d be able to get everything done you had been pushing off. You could wake up tomorrow as if you had pressed a reset button. The thought alone was a huge weight off your shoulders.

A while later, exhausted, you decided to take a shower before Woori woke up. For, yet another, first time in a while, you actually enjoyed showering. There was no stress that Woori would need you or that it had to be over quickly so you could try to tackle another task you’d never get to anyway. You took your time and even used the near expired luxury shower items that used to be apart of your beauty routine.

Out of the shower, you felt relax and your body was a little sore from all the things you accomplished so far that morning, but the pain was satisfying; it was the ache of achievement. You decided to lay down for just a minute before you powered on through the afternoon.

You opened your eyes to the sound of Woori’s car hitting the floor. You snapped up in bed upset at yourself for leaving it in his crib. That’s when you noticed the room had darkened slightly. You must’ve fallen asleep. You were sure you had because you hadn’t felt this rejuvenated in months. You jumped out of bed and pulled your robe tight around you as you headed off in the direction of Woori’s room.

When you entered the hall, you heard his little laugh, but it wasn’t coming from the direction of the nursery. You followed the sound and when you entered the kitchen you found Woori sitting happily in his highchair and Taehyung seated in front of him playing.

“Hey! Sorry if we scared you!” he said noticing the astonishment on your face. “I came in an he was crying so when you didn’t wake up, I brought him out here. I figured you probably needed the sleep.”

“Shoot!” you exclaimed. “I didn’t even mean to fall asleep, so I didn’t bring the monitor with me!” you felt complete embarrassment. Taehyung must be thinking you’re a terrible mother. How could you not wake up when your child was crying? “When did he wake up?”

“Maybe ten minutes ago?”

“What time is it?”

“Quarter after five.”

“Oh my god, I slept that long!” your voice raised an octave.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t be taking naps, there is so much to do around here; I’ll never catch up; I can’t…” your pitch raised again as the anxiety that greeted you each day had come back for a visit. Woori let out a little whimper and his face contorted as he sensed something was wrong.

You began listing off everything you had wanted to accomplish that afternoon. You moved frantically around the kitchen, not sure of which direction you needed to be heading in and soon enough your eyes began to sting.

Taehyung stood up and clasped his hands around your shoulders. “Hey, hey,” he said soothingly. “It’s ok. A lot got done today, there’s no need to beat yourself up.”

You looked up to the ceiling and tried to blink away the tears. “I’m terrible at this, Taehyung,” you sobbed. “I don’t know what I’m doing, I can’t keep up. They’re going to take my son away.” The flood gates opened; another first. You hadn’t ever let anyone see how terrified you were by your new situation, but somehow here in front of someone you hardly knew, it all came falling out.

“Hey, no one is going to take your son away. You are doing a wonderful job. Look,” he encouraged you to look at Woori. “He’s happy, he’s healthy, he’s loved. You are doing a great job.”

“I’m just so overwhelmed,” you covered your face with your hands. “I never expected to be doing this all alone.”

“Look at me,” he pulled at your hands. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here to help, remember? Anything you need. No expectations.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” you sniffed.

“You didn’t ask, I offered. I want to. Please let me.” He didn’t look at you as if you were crazy, nor that he pitied you. He looked at you with empathy and it felt genuine. It felt safe and warm. What you really wanted to do at that moment was nestle into his chest and ask him to hug you; not in a romantic way - in a way that you needed to feel a friend, or a family member show you affection. You didn’t though. His declaration of love still hung in the back of your thoughts and even though he said he had “no expectations” you didn’t want to flirt with them. To your own surprise though, you nodded your head yes. Yes, he offered to help you, and yes, you were going to take him up on that offer.

“Good,” he smiled. “Woori and I are good out here for a bit. How about I start making dinner?”

“I said I’d cook.”

“I can do it,” he gave you a quick look up and down. “Go ahead and do whatever else you need to do.”

You weren’t sure what he was referring to, until you followed where his eyes had darted and realized that you were still in your bathrobe. Even though nothing had accidentally been exposed, you self-consciously tugged the neckline a little to be sure. That’s when…

“Oh, shit!” you made Taehyung jump a little. “I have laundry on the line!”

“Do you want me to go get it?”

“No,” you replied. “Nooo,” you replied again when you remembered you had your granny panties and nursing bras hanging out there.

Taehyung chuckled as you did. “I figured. Laundry is a private business. Now get out of here. We’re fine.”

A short time later, the three of you were seated around the kitchen table eating dinner. You were impressed Taehyung had managed to actually pull something that resembled a meal out of your cupboards.

I really need to go grocery shopping, you thought to yourself, but the instant you did you felt the anxiety swell at the prospect of braving crowds alone with an infant.

“Huh?” you asked. Taehyung had said something that knocked you out of your thoughts.

“I asked if you wanted to go for a walk,” he said again.

“Oh? Where are we going?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “No where in particular. Just around the neighbourhood. I like to walk after eating, it makes me feel better.”

“I don’t know. Woori usually gets a little fussy around this time.”

“We won’t go far then. Let’s do it. We could all probably use the fresh air.”

You considered saying “no” but after everything he had done for you today, and since you didn’t end up the chef of the night as promised, the least you could do was entertain a walk around the block.

Taehyung had been right. You did need the fresh air. The mucky part of spring was ending and the world was beginning to warm up and turn green again. Woori was perfect the whole time. He cooed and awed at the big, bright world around him; in fact it made you feel a little guilty that you kept him and yourself so cooped up all the time. He needed to be stimulated and you needed to start engaging with the world again. Having Taehyung around was nice too. You had someone to speak to and not just about how you were doing, but about the small things that you didn’t realize you missed talking about.

“I think I should do this every night. This is nice,” you thought out loud. Taehyung smiled.

“Anytime you want a walking buddy just give me a call.” A small silence fell upon you both. Not an uncomfortable one. But out of your fit before dinner, when in a weak moment you agreed to let him help you, you were unsure once again if you were comfortable doing that. Taehyung picked up on the mood shift. “Sooo… you have a lot of free space now that the weeds are gone. Are you planning on planting anything new?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. I always envied people who had beautiful gardens, but I don’t know if I could keep up with one.”

“Well, we can find some plants that don’t need a lot of maintenance. How about I’ll pick you up tomorrow and we can go check out the big greenhouse? We can take a look, maybe pick some stuff up and we can plant them when we get back.”

The thought was lovely, but once again the idea of braving a Sunday crowd made you panic.

“Don’t ask me again if I’m sure. I’m sure,” Taehyung jumped in anticipating you’d try to get out of your new agreement.

“It’s not that, I’m just worried about taking Woori out. If he has a fussy day – I just don’t know if I can concentrate on him and shopping. I’m still haunted by the first time I took him to get groceries.”

“I’m going to be with you the whole time. Between the two of us we’ll manage. If he gets too much then one of us can take him outside or we can just leave and try again another day. No big deal.”

No big deal. How could three small words near relieve you of all your trepidation. He was right. No big deal. And he would be there with you. It wouldn’t be like before with a baby developing a fever while you try to muscle your way through a long line at the cash. You would have help if you needed it.

“Yeah, OK. Let’s do it,” you finally responded.

“Yeah?” he sounded almost surprised.

“Yes… if you’re sure you want to waste your Sunday, of course.”

“What do I have to do to get you to stop that?” he laughed. You laughed too. It may be unconventional, but whatever was happening between the two of you now you were realizing might not be such a bad thing. Friends help friends when they need them; and the one thing you really needed right now was a friend.

[renegade-skywalker]

I haven’t really been as involved in fandom stuff or posting on here as much as I usually do/would like to (other than reblogging here and there while I try not to burn out at work) but I had this idea that my exile, Eden, and her brother Aiden rekindle their twin Force bond after running into each other on Korriban (sort of... Aiden/Erebus is still playing sides...) and decide to Force Skype and I randomly began writing it so this the result of that... *releases wild head canon into the internet*

---    

          “It’s… weird,” she said, her voice humming, even in his mind, “Seeing you here. Seeing you there.”

              Eden was alone in a bunk, and a cushy one at that, Erebus noted. The room was large enough to house a desk, a small dining table with two place settings, and a double bed on the far side of the wall, a sliver of closet visible beside the bed from where he could see her. In his minds’ eye, Eden was the sole focus, the rest of the room a bit faded and blurry, but clear enough for him to make out the bunk’s contents. She even had a small porthole, its window ablaze with the white-blue of hyperspace in the space of wall beside the dining table. She had several datapads stored there haphazardly, a stylus and a discarded robe, and not to mention the bed was a total mess.

              “Still judging my living habits, I see,” she smiled, almost appearing comfortable. “You’re as proper as always.”

              It felt so strange, speaking to her like this, seeing her like this. They had only touched on something like this when they were younger, exchanging quick messages telepathically during their lessons, occasionally sending each other snippets of thought, flashes of images to supplement their mental notes, making fun of or complaining about Master Vrook all the while. But now… he could see all of her, and feel her too, her quiet calm and soothing energy, more in-tune with herself than she’d ever been…

              “An organized mess, as can be expected,” he replied after a moment too long, “Doesn’t look so unusual, huh?”

              Eden shook her head, almost happy at the sameness of it, and Erebus smiled, too. Same. It did feel as it had before, when they were young, when they were close, when they were all each other had.

              “Have you… ever done this before?” Eden asked, unsure of what to do with her hands, though it looked like she wanted to reach out and touch him, to test the realness of it, as if to enter his room through whatever window they’d opened in a rift of the Force, through the eye of the needle they’d threaded through space and time.

              “Not quite,” he admitted, almost laughing with mirth at the very idea, “This is… I mean, this is rather incredible.”

              He could go on for ages. It seemed such a feat, to reach across space to speak to one another in each others’ minds yet also in the flesh somehow, as if they were both granted a glimpse of the other by merely willing it to be so.

              “You’ve seen quite a bit, so I’m guessing that’s a lot coming from you,” Eden said, almost a question but also most certainly not. She knew what he studied, had perused his notes, examined his life’s work. She’d seen the inside of his ship and the things he’d stored there. “I think… I think I understand it now, and… I’m sorry I never-“

              She cut herself off, her eyes almost glassy.

              “Did you see the rest of the Academy?” she asked again, blinking away tears, her curiosity still clear on her face, “Or did you-? I don’t know, I guess Korriban isn’t exactly new to you, is it?”

              Erebus wanted to laugh but he didn’t. The idea was genuinely funny, though not in the sense that he was laughing at her, just the idea… but a lump in his throat stopped him, forced him to take a breath before answering.

              “I’d studied there, yes,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, “But… it’s been a while.”

              “I would imagine,” Eden breathed a laugh now, though not with amusement, “I couldn’t believe some of what we’d found, what I saw in the records, the archives. It’s a wonder any of it is still there. After everything, and I just… I don’t know.”

              Eden shook her head, looking away, wringing her hands in her lap. He could feel it again – Eden’s emotions, waves of feeling lapping at the very edges of his consciousness, as if their life forces were pools rippling awfully close in an endless, cosmic pool – and he couldn’t help but ask.

              “What is it?” he asked, though he almost knew what it was, sensing the guilt suddenly teeming off of her, replacing the calm that was there only moments ago.

              “I… I think I get it now,” she said after a moment, returning her gaze to him as she finished her sentence, “It never interested me then, but…”

              “Things have changed,” he said, sensing her thoughts and speaking them freely, “So now you know why I-“

              “You were the perfect student for Atris,” Eden laughed, though this time there was genuine amusement in her voice, in her face, her eyes lighting up as she sighed before continuing, “I couldn’t have cared less, at least not at the time, and still she chose to fixate on me, she wanted to tutor me, when she had the perfect student right in front of her.”

              Erebus said nothing, Atris’ rejection still a fresh hurt, even after all these years. And yet-

              “But I think I understand your side of things, as well,” Erebus admitted, holding his sister’s gaze, “I felt it. Kavar’s approval, or lack thereof. Even when you surpassed his skills and beyond. What. A fucking. Fool.”

              Anger rippled at the base of his chest, yet he could tell Eden felt it too, either in remembering her own hurts or in realizing they were both scorned as students, yet had failed to confide in each other, all because the Council forced them apart.

              “We should have been friends,” Eden said, her voice heavy, “We should have been friends.”

              “Council be damned, at least we can agree on that.”

              “Damned, indeed,” Eden agreed darkly.  “But the Sith…”

              Erebus felt Eden’s thoughts, images flashing before his eyes as she ruminated, her thoughts not yet forming adequate words – the Sith ruins, the Academy, the remnants of the tombs, but also Alek, and Revan and everything that predicated Erebus’ training, his true calling, his-

              “It’s fascinating,” Eden admitted, her words quick as if she were afraid of who may overhear her and judge her for it, “Everything. The Sith may have caused so much death, created it even, but the things they’ve discovered, the things they built-“

              Erebus knew Eden did not mean their monuments or their temples, but the devices he studied, the tools the Sith had discovered to harness the Force and explore it, the very things that fueled his work and his interest.

              “It’s a wonder what the selfishness can accomplish when dedicated to their own self-preservation,” he said, “Cowards, the lot of them.”

              He watched Eden, a smile flitting over her face in amusement at the truth in his statement, before he added, “Myself included.”

              She didn’t correct him, though her shock at his honesty was apparent. He wasn’t sure if it was as clearly written on her face so much as it was felt, his intuition sure of her feeling as soon as he’d said it. She agreed, but she also didn’t. And she couldn’t explain why.

              “We don’t have to unpack all that now,” he assured, trying to make light of his words and change the subject, “But… I like that we can talk like this, now, even if-“

              “Even if we should have been allowed to, decades ago?” Eden finished for him. “Imagine what we could have done if the Council hadn’t-?”

              “A lot of things,” he rejoined before she could finish her thought, “And not just limited to us.”

              “You can say that again.”

              Once, Erebus would have disagreed. When he was Aiden, he believed the Jedi could do no wrong - he had to believe that. Otherwise, everything he knew to be true about the universe was incorrect. He imagined Atris was still living by that ideology, making excuses in order to keep herself sane every step of the way, and losing a piece of herself every time she stubbornly forced the pieces to fit.

              “You can say that again, too,” Eden said, sensing his thoughts, sensing Atris on the tip of his proverbial tongue, “Not sure if you knew, but I caught up with our old teacher not too long ago.”

              “Oh?” Erebus asked, though in reality he didn’t want to hear the details, at least not yet. There was so much he still wanted to know about Eden – not just about what had happened, but how she was doing, he it felt to be void of the Force, exempt from its pervasive nature, and how she managed to keep it all together despite everything that happened to her years ago, in the years since then, and even in the days and weeks prior to the here and now. But he also wanted none of those things… he just wanted to be with her, like they used to be when they were kids, exploring the universe and experiencing everything together, their thoughts and feelings an ever-growing mesh threading itself together stitch by stitch with every shared experience.

              “A story for another day,” she said, and at that Erebus smiled. Another day. She wanted to do this again. She still wasn’t sure if she should trust him, he could feel it, though to be fair Erebus wasn’t sure if she should trust him either. But she could also tell it was a sore subject, and would not press the matter. Oh, how far we’ve come, sister.

              Oh how far, indeed, Eden replied with a smile, a genuine one, allowing herself to feel the expression in full, despite how used to she was to dispelling it, willing away her happiness in lieu of fear and uncertainty. Not to say that there was nothing unsure about Erebus, though there was something familiar about their talking, something safe. In the way that it feels to be with family, true family. Where that feeling of unspoken togetherness, cohabitation without need for speaking was similar and safe and sound and felt the same, always the same.

              Eden nodded, as if sensing his thoughts, and said, “It’s nice to see you again, Aiden.”

              And with that, Erebus faded away, though not completely, melding into Aiden and folding in on himself again, feeling both his old and new self into one, as if being reborn but not quite. More like… feeling awake for the first time. Truly alive. Aware and awake and wide-eyed and ready to soak the world in.

              “You too, Ede.”

[courteternal-rp]

→ general details

name ; draco forester

age ; appears 35 || actually 150

gender & sexuality ; cismale, heterosexual

race ; high fae

do they hold a position or title? ; Lord of the Night Court, the Defender of Velaris

loyalty ; the night court

face claim ; joel kinnaman

→ in depth

→ aesthetics

the solitude of the ocean, dissatisfaction in your life, the keen senses of a hunter, piercing eyes, moonlight peeking through the shadows, protecting their kin, not being much of a people person, weapons and armor resting against the bark of a tree while you swim, hands covered in stardust, values simplicity, cursing under your breath, soul binding bargains

→ headcanons

one. draco has made a point to return to the village he grew up every couple of months ( and if he is unable to, he sends someone he trusts in his stead ). he’ll spend about a week there - sleeping in his old room while he stays with his parents. he’ll help them out around the house, and ensure the village has remained safe in his absence before returning to his duties in Velaris or elsewhere within the Night Court. He’s made it quite well known that anyone from his old life is more then welcome to come directly to him with any issues.

two. draco has made several binding deals throughout his existence - each marked upon his body like a black inked tattoo. the first was to his younger sister - it spreads over his fingers and up his right forearm. the second was with his elder brother - it wraps around his bicep and up over his right shoulder. the two are clearly separated - to denote the slight difference in wording, and with whom the bargain was made, but there are tendrils that almost seem to move, making the deals appear to be intertwining. both have to do with the protection of their court.

three. regardless of where he is, draco almost always has two or three weapons strapped to him (though not always visible). it’s a habit he has yet to shake - but after spending nearly three quarters of a century seemingly powerless, he refuses to go anywhere unarmed. he’s incredibly meticulous about them too - unless there is any major defect, he maintains their care. each cleaning and sharpening are done by his own hand with a stone gifted to him by the man who raised him.

→ powers

Powers. Darkness. Winnowing. Misting (when overly emotional).

Explanation. Draco was raised among lesser fae, and for most of his youth believed himself to be powerless. It was the threat to his small village by a High Fae that caused him to explode in darkness - and that seemed to be enough to break the dam on his powers entirely.

In all likelihood, Draco would have been a threat to himself and others had he not accompanied the Former High Lord (his biological father) and learned control.

Draco has mostly reached his full potential when it comes to magical ability. Because he is the son of a High Lord, he had a bit more potential to grow when it came to his powers, but he trained quite extensively - first with his father, and then both of his siblings, meaning he’s just about reached his peak.

The man is quite skilled when it comes to the use of his abilities and obtained a large range (likely due to his relation to the former High Lord). While he can winnow several people and make a handful of jumps before it begins to take a toll, it isn’t a strong suit, nor is it something he utilizes outside of his siblings, the people who raised him, or the Night Courts inner circle.

His strong suits come with the manipulation of darkness that seems to bleed from the High Lord of Night’s bloodline, and within his ability to mist. Bending the darkness to his will, Draco has gained the ability to become the thing that goes bump in the night. Wielding the ability to remove sight from his opponent, he often utilizes it the way the Summer Court fae might water. Though not a physical presence, he’s learned to shape it into arrow heads or small birds that might attack from the heavens, a sword that never breaks, or a shield.

While capable of misting, it typically is a feat that takes a fair amount of concentration - considerably using his power source (depending on size and number of items/people he is misting). It proves far easier when there is strong emotion involved.

→ personality

positives. observant, protective, efficient, intelligent

negatives. troubled, cruel, fearless, stubborn

explanation. draco knew from a young age that he wasn’t truly related to his parents, but he likes to believe most of his personality comes from the people who raised him, and not the man who would later appear in his life when his abilities first manifested.

in his youth, he was raised by a pair of lesser fae. though he considered them strong in matters of the heart, neither held the capability of truly protecting themselves - leaving the role for him to easily slip into. it was a position that carried over to the rest of his village, and while several would offer open commentary, many only turned to him when it came to dire matters. draco is naturally quiet and observant - and only when he believes his opinion needs to be heard does he dare speak.

after being taken under the wing of his birth father and training his powers, his exterior hardened. it became evident there would be no familial love between the pair, so he turned himself into the perfect soldier and son - if only to make their time together lessen. he became a fearless warrior who didn’t recognize when to say no. it’s a face he continues to put on when it comes to his time in the Hewn City, the protection of Velaris and the Night Court’s people.

→ biography

As a monumental storm rocked the Night Court, a woman brought her babe into the world - alone and surrounded by nothing but thick woods. Cradled against his mother's breast, the child was wrapped in a cloak as dark as the night sky, and with tear stained eyes, the faceless woman left the crying babe on the steps of strangers. Tied about his wrist was a small piece of paper declaring his name as Draco.

Found hours later, he was brought into the home and cared for by a couple of lesser fae who had for years failed to conceive a child of their own. In their eyes, he was a blessing from the Gods - a gift which they refused to turn away. Raised as their own, Draco grew up content and asking for little. Assisting on their small farm and making daily trips into the village, he became ingrained into the life his parents had set up for him. But as he grew and the physical differences between he and his parents became all the more apparent, there was no denying that they held no blood relation.

Though he wouldn’t admit it, it was those differences that pushed him into action. While his parents and others within their village were content with allowing themselves to bow to those deemed better then them, Draco refused. On several occasions when High Fae passed through, he was laid out flat on his ass for defying them - the threat always looming that next time they might not be so forgiving - but his bravery earned him the reputation as the defender of their small village.

Every three weeks, the small village would host a market - each farmer and craftsmen gathering their items together in stalls to exchange in trade. Half way from the house, Draco had turned back to snag the coin purse they had forgotten, knowing full well they still owed several individuals from the previous event. Having sent both parents ahead, he arrived at the small marketplace to find several High Fae had arrived in his absence. Their leader was looming over his father - who was sporting a nasty bruise and split lip. Coins forgotten, Draco saw red.

It came unpredictably. A once seemingly ordinary man threatening to split the world in two with darkness. The ground shook as the sky bleed with the black of night ; there and gone in a flash. Many shielded their eyes from the sudden blinding sun, but it was the quiet whimpering that caused the bristling excitement to morph into silence. Having crossed the small village center, Draco Forester stood before a now cowering High Fae, darkness coiling around him like a second skin. Muttered words were exchanged before the High Fae and his entourage scurried away - whimpering apologies and swearing to never harm anyone beneath the High Lord’s families protection again.

Though Draco brushed aside the comment regarding his lineage, it seemed many in the village did not. Looks that had once held familiarity were now laced with praise or idolization. He was toward his breaking point and readying to confront his parents about his true parentage when the High Lord of Night appeared at their front door. With a strikingly similar resemblance to a man he’d never met, Draco had quietly stepped aside as his parents ushered their High Lord inside. Being dutiful hosts, the couple graciously doted on the man up until the moment he revealed why he was there. Amethyst eyes had turned on him and declared Draco a bastard - his bastard.

As it had weeks previously, darkness exploded into the world - snuffing out the fire lit in the hearth and causing a surprised shriek to emit from his mother. A rumbled laugh had filled the room and after a moment, the darkness subsided - though the rage that had bubbled beneath his skin was now apparent. Gritting his teeth, Draco had demanded the man leave - claiming no shared blood between them.

Despite the fact that the High Lord was visibly irritated at the demand to leave, he did just that - with the promise to return the following morning for an answer on whether or not he would willingly go with him. Disappearing in a twirl of darkness, Draco was left in silence with his parents, knowing full well he had no true say in the decision. The evening was spent arguing, but when the first light of dawn touched the village and the High Lord returned, Draco went with him willingly. Barely allowed the time to bid his parents goodbye, the world around him vanished into darkness and he was deposited into a new world.

Unknowing of how to connect to the man who had not known of his existence (nor did he seem to care about anything that might be personally troubling him), Draco fell to the conclusion that the sooner he learned to appease his so called father, the sooner he could get away from him. But despite his best efforts to ignore the mans toxic personality, the explosiveness that seemed to trigger the darkness pouring from his skin was undeniably a trait gained from his father. They were family - whether or not he liked it.

Spending the next several years training, Draco had not been capable of returning home until Vesper had his third and final child - this time a little girl. With the eyes of his biological father elsewhere, he slipped away in the dead of night to visit his parents. Though a short trip, it seemed to lift some of the weight from his shoulders, and the anger he’d once felt for them eased. Returning to the palace above the Hewn City with a clear head and lighter heart, Draco fell into the role of older brother.

Though not entirely aware of the arguments that transpired behind closed doors, he wasn’t ignorant. Spoken to in the early hours one morning, Draco swore to keep the location of his sister and her mother Ciel a secret when they fled to the mountains. While he would have liked to offer a consistent presence within his younger siblings life, his duties were quickly shifted elsewhere. Training’s once again began - though this time longer and more brutal (as if his father wished to truly punish someone for his lack of control in the situation).

There came a day when he bested his father in physical combat - and it was only the increased ability of a High Lord that seemed to force Draco to the ground, unable to get up once more. It was then he was officially called son ( not bastard ), and it was then he entered into his first binding bargain. Sworn to secrecy, he was introduced to Velaris.

Years later, when his biological father lay on his deathbed, he apologized for their years apart, and later for his inability to spend the time to grow close to his son. But the regret seemed to deepen as he declared Draco the official Defender of Velaris and asked that he continue his duties despite the fact that he might feel drawn to protect his siblings. History would repeat itself, he claimed, and war would eventually befall them once more.

Though each of the siblings parted to continue their duties in different sections of the Night Court, Draco made it a point to continue to check in with both of his siblings (partially in defiance to his fathers request and partially for his own sanity). It wasn’t until Hybern’s General appeared on the shores of Prythian and began attempting to romance the courts that he began to seriously think upon what his father had said upon his deathbed. Quick to caution his elder half brother against the woman ( and refusing anyone from Hybern knowledge nor entry into his city ), he made a point to be around when she visited (not wanting to draw a lick of attention to his absence and the hidden city).

When the Wall fell, Velaris was thrown into lockdown. Darkness had rippled across his skin and torn through the city. Those he’d taken in as friends were set loose to prowl the streets and protect the city at all costs. Even when it became evident that Hybern had retreated, it took him nearly a week to winnow to the side of his siblings. With his elder brothers powers bound and his Court undoubtedly vulnerable, Draco is out for blood and willing to do anything to ensure his family and Court are safe.

[wishingforatypewriter]

Between Us (Chapter 2)

It was the evening after graduation, and despite the monumental nature of the occasion, there were no parties to be had; there was no time. Yoshino Yuki, the 92nd generation’s chief party planner, had jetted off to Germany mere hours after the ceremony. Ibusaki Shun and Sakaki Ryoko had taken a bullet train to Osaka to sign their lease soon after, and everybody else was packing, shipping, leaving.

Nakiri Alice reclined on a beach chair as she watched Ryo, Akira, and an assortment of rent-a-hunks packing two moving vans with approximately one third of her worldly belongings. She had really managed to carve out a little haven for herself in this mansion that had always been more Erina’s than hers.

She smiled when she saw the third seat—former third seat now—walking towards her. “You’re such a good friend, offering to help me out like this.”

“I did no such thing,” Akira said with a scowl. “You said you wanted to have a drink and say goodbye—”

“And we will,” she promised, “but it would be irresponsible not to pack when Ryo-kun and I are leaving tomorrow, right?”

He gave her a tired look, one imbued with the knowledge that arguing with her would only serve to stress him further. “Anyway, where are the rest of the shipping labels?”

“No clue,” Alice replied. “You’ll have to ask Hishoko. She’s the one who’s been dealing with the companies for me.”

“And what have you been doing?”

“Only planning to open the hottest new restaurant Europe has seen since the launch of the original Shino’s.”

“What are you talking about? Wasn’t Shino’s a failure in the beginning—”

“An insignificant detail,” she said, waving him off. “Anyway, would you mind grabbing those labels so the rest of my things actually make it back to Copenhagen?”

Akira sighed as all the pieces fell into place. “You asked her for the wrong amount on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Now why would I do something like that?” Alice asked, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s not like two of my closest friends are being completely irrational and avoiding each other when they could just be normal about the situation.”

It was at that moment precisely when he decided that he’d rather just get the labels from Arato than be subjected to another of Alice’s breaking-up-with-her-was-stupid-and-now-you’ll-die-alone lectures.

The walk down the labyrinthine halls of the Nakiri mansion was a feat of muscle memory. He had done it too many times in the dead of night back in the days when Arato was keeping their relationship a secret from Nakiri Erina.

When he reached her suite of rooms, he found the door already open. Arato was on her knees in front of a vintage travel trunk, trying to keep it closed with all her might. Akira stood there for a moment, just leaned against the doorframe and memorized her—from the short hair beginning to slip from her high ponytail to the ink and tea tree smell that always clung to her skin.

Hisako heaved a deep sigh, her shoulders looking heavy with the weight of it. “I knew it was you,” she said, even before she turned around. “You have a louder stare than anyone I’ve ever known.”  

He couldn’t stop himself from smirking. She always got extra blunt when she was tired. “Need help?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, and then he held down the top of the trunk so she could finally snap the gold clasps into place. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he told her, both meaning it and not. Soon ‘anytime’ would no longer be feasible.

Hisako’s lips twitched into a weak smile.  “Why are you here in the first place?”

“Alice ran out of shipping labels and—”

“I asked her a million times if she needed more than what she took! Honestly!” She went over to the file cabinet and pulled out a manila envelope holding all their friend would need and more. “Give her these, and then tell her we’re on speaking terms again so she’ll stop hounding us.”

“Thanks, Arato,” he said.

“Wait.” It was almost like she heard the exit in his voice. Hisako turned on her heel and went into her walk-in closet, the one that housed books and herbs and relatively little by way of clothing. She came back out holding a glass jar filled with one of her signature tea blends. “This is for Professor Shiomi. I remember she really liked this one.”

“She did,” he confirmed, glancing down at the tumeric and ginger green tea blend. “Jun had something for you too, a book I think. Text me your address in Switzerland and I’ll mail it to you.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’ll just get it from you in Tokyo,” she replied. “I’m not leaving right away. I’m going to take some university courses online—nutrition, public health—before I start work in the summer.”

“So you’ll be around?”

“Yeah, for a few weeks,” she said, her eyes dusky with the ghost of an invitation as she rubbed at the nape of her neck.

Akira thought of how easy it would be to kiss her then, to descend back into old habits—discard pragmatism and high-mindedness and a few articles of clothing. But he soon returned to his senses, and made up his mind to leave his ex-girlfriend in peace.

And then she kissed him.

----

“And then I kissed him,” Hisako said with a sigh, holding out her wineglass for Ikumi to refill with pinot noir.

“Hisako!” Erina shrieked. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” the pink haired girl admitted, burying her face in one of Ikumi’s velvety couch cushions. “He wasn’t either. This is the precise reason why we’d been avoiding each other since the breakup, but because of Alice and her constant meddling we—”

“Didn’t stop at kissing, did ya?” Ikumi asked with a cheshire-cat grin. “You did get here kinda late, Arato.”

Erina watched in fascination as her best friend’s face flushed maraschino cherry red. While she did have some inkling after walking in on them making out in the copy room, Hisako was always extremely tight-lipped about how far things went between her and Hayama-kun.

“We enjoyed ourselves,” Hisako said after clearing her throat, and Erina knew that was all she would tell them. “At any rate, where’s that pizza you said was coming?”

Just then the doorbell rang.

“It’s open, babe!” Ikumi shouted without moving an inch from the couch.

“How are you, amore?” Takumi asked as he entered, carrying three pizzas in Trattoria Aldini boxes. Isami and Yukihira came in after him, bearing spirits and mixers.

Erina smiled a bit as she watched Takumi and Ikumi share a chaste kiss. Must be nice.

“Yo Nakiri! You want a drink?” Yukihira asked when he spotted her.

Erina shook her head, holding up her glass of wine. “I’m all set,” she said before shifting her gaze to the pizzas. “Which one did you make?”

“Chorizo and chili,” he said. “I’ll go grab you one.”

“What are you even doing here?” Erina asked when he returned to her. “You better not be leaving Tadokoro-san to do all the packing by herself.”

“She’s seeing Yoshino off at the airport,” he explained. “I’m gonna go pick her up in an hour.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re still sober,” Erina replied with a smirk. “When are you two leaving?”

“Two weeks. We’re gonna visit her family out in Tohoku before we go.”

“Ah,” Erina said as something grew cold within her. “Try not to let them know how much of an idiot you are. They must be worried enough already about her moving all the way to New York City.”

Souma grinned at her. “You know, when I talked to pops he said the same thing.”

They shared a laugh at this, and then wordlessly Erina stood and headed out to the balcony, and wordlessly he followed.

“Lot of stars out tonight,” he noted.

Erina smirked. “Do they still look like salmon roe to you?”

“You’re really never gonna let that go?”

“Nope,” she said, giggling. “You know, even though you’re somewhat successful now, you’ll always be a fool to me.”

“Thanks, Nakiri.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I know,” he replied. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t always so tough on me.”

The world around her grew opaque as she was pinned beneath his golden-eyed stare. The tension of words unspoken gripped at her like a tangible thing.

“O-obviously,” Erina stammered once she could find her voice again. “If allowed to rest on our laurels, even people like us would become complacent. It’d be embarrassing for me to have lost to my seat to a chef who stagnated, so it’s not something you have to thank me for.”

Souma grinned at her. “You say that, but—”

“But what, Yukihira-kun?” she asked, flipping her hair back indignantly.

“But you never tried to take the first seat back. I always figured you would.”

Erina managed to give an unbothered shrug despite the rapid beating of her heart. “By that point, I had other things on my mind.”

“Career stuff?”

“What else is there?” she asked, and he gave her a look that let her know he agreed on some subterranean level. “My only goal is to stand at the pinnacle of the gourmet world.”

“Get there quick, Nakiri, so I can come knock you down.”

Erina scoffed. “You can try.”

“I will. But in the meantime, I’ve got something for you.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a monogrammed leather passport holder. Erina could tell from the look of it that it was a little more expensive than he could afford.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it in her hands, her god tongue heavy with a different set of words.

An alarm went off on Souma’s phone just then. “Shit! I’m late to pick up Tadokoro.”

Erina shook her head. “You better go get her, then.”

“See you around, Nakiri! The next time we run into each other, I’ll be much stronger than this.”

“You better be,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “or else I’ll use you as a dishrag.”

“It’s a promise,” he told her, and then he was gone.

Erina waited for a few minutes and then went back into the living room and poured herself another glass of wine.

[hellyeahomeland]

“Useful Idiot” | Directed by Nelson McCormick

The first stop on Yevgeny’s BMW-sponsored trip through the mid-Atlantic is the airport hanger. This scene gave Gail “Long Time Coming” vibes and it gave Sara “Super Powers” vibes. People on this show sure do fly private a lot!

It’s here where the Yevgeny/Carrie parallels start. Committed to the mission, willing to leave behind Simone (with whom just a few minutes ago he was daydreaming about a month-long sex-filled getaway) but not willing to leave behind “his guy.” There are many echoes not only of late-season four Carrie, unwilling to leave Islamabad before she can find Quinn, but also of all seasons Carrie. Yevgeny is the most evenly-matched adversary Carrie has ever known (although, ironically, she’s never actually met him), created in her own image of “mission over man.” And this episode gives a laundry list of reasons why.  At the end of the scene, he says, “I can’t!”--a familiar refrain to all of us who have followed Carrie’s journey.

Sara had a slight panic attack when she saw this moment. One of the most disturbing moments of “A False Glimmer” (and there are many) was Carrie digging her fingernails into her palm in the hospital chapel. Here she is, doing it again, underlining the similarities between the situation she found herself in at the end of season five with Quinn, and the one she stands in now with Dante.

Dante’s BMW Journey continues. Look at how focused he is. He is all about the 10 and 2, ain’t he? Real talk, you can really tell a lot about a person by the way he drives.

While Carrie and Yevgeny are evenly matched and remarkably similar, their approaches to dealing with Dante couldn’t be more different. Let’s start with body language. Carrie stands over Dante, looking down at him, just after he’s woken up. She is incredulous and forceful and passionate. She practically wills him into flipping.

Oishk. First, Carrie, please find a hobby that is not this. You just sociopathically lied to the dude you POISONED and now you’re smiling in your car about it??? Girl, please. Also, the music that played over this was stripped-down, season one-era Homeland theme. You know the one. This is like the old school Carrie smile so I guess it fits.

(Sara would also like to point out that she was right on Sunday about Carrie smiling meaning that everything was about to go to shit.)

(Sara would additionally like to point out that, removed from context, Carrie certainly does look like a little button here, doesn’t she?)

This goob is also smiling like it’s 75 degrees outside for the first time in six months. Saul and Carrie, please find NEW HOBBIES. Preferably separate ones.

We will hand it to Saul. We didn’t think he’d be able to create a Power Point presentation on such short notice and with such neatly organized graphics. He even did a gradient background! We call BS on Wellington not being labeled a “UI,” but everything else looks pretty nice. (Wasn’t O’Keefe a UI, too?)

So many facial expressions this episode! Here is Max looking from Carrie (on his left) to Sandy (on his right), who are sparring about whether to use the burn code. Some men just know when to keep their mouths shut.

The set decoration of Paley’s office is really something. We spy:

Not one but two American flags

Possibly a Dilbert cartoon on the bottom right corner of his bookshelf?

A Washington monument replica

A bust of someone

A set of bullhorns

A cowboy hat

The decoration here is verging on caricature, but we also don’t doubt that Paley wants everyone who walks into his office to know he is a ~maverick.

Ok, so we skipped forward from Yevgeny’s BMW road trip (we don’t have much to say except homeboy should invest in a Bluetooth). We want to note how similarly he’s dressed to Carrie here, again really underlining the parallels the show is drawing between them. He’s got the black coat, leather jacket, dark pants, and boots. This is the Official Carrie Mathison Uniform. He’s also got the “surreptitiously looking around corners” look down pat so we’d say he’s well on his way.

We touched on this a bit on the podcast, but the scene as Carrie is leaving Maggie and Bill’s house is filmed with a handheld camera (after being steady when she arrives home). The ensuing shakiness here amplifies the instability of the situation and seems to precipitate Carrie’s loss of a grip on reality.

While we’re at it, we’ve also been thinking about the stained glass in Maggie’s entryway. Gail is convinced it’s intentional, a kind of marker of the sanctity of that household and just how much Carrie has disrupted order there.

Hop sighting!

Is this the moment Yevgeny decides to shoot Clayton? Look at the calculation going on there behind the scenes. The plot of this season has been successful in a lot of ways, but Costa Ronin deserves all kinds of credit for bringing Yevgeny to life in such vivid, dynamic, unpredictable detail.

In an episode in which Carrie is shown later with blood on her hands, it should come as no surprise that her foil wipes blood on his own. The “hands dirty” motif has weaved itself throughout many seasons of the show. Back in season two, Dar accused Saul of not wanting to get his own hands messy; he’d rather have others do his bidding. Carrie, meanwhile, try as she might, can’t help but get her hands dirty. And here we have Yevgeny, practically volunteering for the task.

After once again sneaking into a locked ward in the hospital (sometimes our most powerful enemies are hidden in plain sight; Yevgeny--and Russia IRL--has proven that to be just the case this season), Yevgeny takes a seat in Dante’s room. His posture and demeanor here is identical to how he’s been several other times this season, whether it was with Ivan or Simone’s lawyer. He’s casual, (now clean) hands folded demurely in front of him, feet out in front. He wants you to know he’s got nothing to hide. Contrast this of course with the way Carrie approaches Dante earlier in the episode. She was hovering, loud, and lying. Yevgeny is calm, quiet, and completely honest.

Sara’s note here was “if we are talking Carrie/Yevgeny parallels, he does what we all thought Carrie might have done at the end of ‘A False Glimmer’ by smothering Quinn.” Gail’s response was “WHOA, mind blown.”

The last three minutes of the episode play like a nauseating horror movie. This shot of Franny ushers in that feeling. Seriously, this is creepy as hell. Actors looking directly into the camera make us deeply uncomfortable.

Can’t get much more literal than this. She runs the stop sign, of course, but its message is blaring nonetheless. It’s what the audience is feeling and what everyone around Carrie has been trying to tell her since the season started.

There were a few shots in this sequence of Carrie squinting her eyes at the blaring sun. We’re not sure if this is a reference to Quinn’s light, her “beacon,” but in an episode that evoked his memory in more ways than one (and the fact that we hear those words at the beginning of every episode), it’s hard to feel like it was completely coincidental.

The sound editing during the sequence of Carrie walking through the hospital is impossible to capture visually, but we just want to note it anyway. It was impeccable. We hear the din of the crowd at Brody’s hanging slowly build, then her cries as she climbs the fence. While the flashbacks move to Aayan, we can still hear those crowds. And then the hail of bullets come in. It was unsettling (to say the least), but technically remarkable. They really throw you into Carrie’s head here, and the cacophony of her own memories replaying in her head is such an integral part of that.

That sensory immersion is visual, too, though. Once Carrie’s flashbacks start, she walks through hard, vivid overhead light (contrast with the shot above, right before the flashbacks start). This is remarkably similar to the lighting we saw in “Marine One” when Brody was in the bunker. Then, it was meant to evoke the stress and instability of the situation, and it accomplishes a similar feat here.

….And, here’s the blood on the hands. Interestingly, our focus here is mostly on Carrie’s face, as she stares directly into the camera (again, gosh, that’s so unsettling). Contrasted to Yevgeny, whose bloody hands took up the entire frame, it’s almost easy to miss. Then again, maybe that’s the entire point.

The episode ends, of course, with another sequence that also belongs in a horror movie. The slow push onto Carrie, backed up against the wall. The shaky cam, rendering her face blurry and unfocused. And her screams, sharp and high-pitched and seared into your memory, eventually indistinguishable from the flatline of Dante’s pulse.

[minijenn]

Universe Falls Preview 3

K, last one you’re gonna get so I figured I’d share some vignettes from this chapter that may or may not appear in this order (they probably won’t I’m writing these grossly out of order tbh). But anyway, here are three of the six of these that are gonna be in this chapter. Enjoy!

“Eva-cuate! Eva-cuate!”

“An evacuation, huh?” Vidalia paused, her paintbrush lifting off the canvas she had been working on as she heard the distant, but still distinct alarm blare out from town. “We’ve had pretty much everything else in this town, but I don’t think we’ve ever had one of those... Aw, well.” The artist shrugged, rising from her stool as she brushed her apron off before heading over to the stairs. “Boys, get down here! We gotta go!”

Vidalia found herself waiting at least five minutes for either of her sons to come down, but all the same, she knew she wouldn’t have to ask twice. And sure enough, Sour Cream happened to wander down first, his hands shoved into his pockets and his headphones on as he nodded his head to the beat he was listening to.

“Sour Cream,” Vidalia began, though her son didn’t hear her as he instead headed for the kitchen, still lost in his music. “Sour Cream,” the artist tried again, coming to stand beside the fridge as he opened it. “Sour Cream!” Vidalia finally managed to get his attention by lifting one side of his earphones up, startling him quite a bit, though he was quick to revert to his usual cool manner.

“Oh, hey, Mom,” Sour Cream said as he pulled a soda out of the fridge. “What’s up?”

“You hear that?” Vidalia asked, pausing to allow the ongoing evacuation alarm to be heard. “It means its time for us to go.”

“Wait, you mean the whole ‘evacuation’ thing?” Sour Cream asked, using air quotes to punctuate his point. “Yeah, Tambry already texted me about it. But I didn’t think we had to, you know, actually leave.”

“Uh, that’s sorta the whole point of an evacuation, son,” Vidalia remarked, crossing her arms. “To get people to leave.”

“But I was gonna rave to the weird hand in the sky later!” Sour Cream protested with a frown. “That thing’s totally sick. It’s already inspired me to mix out a ton of new beats and-”

“Well, you can mix them all out in the car on the way to the hotel.”

“It won’t be the same…” Sour Cream pouted softly, though he quickly got over it. “Hey, what about Yellowtail? Isn’t he supposed to get back from that fishing trip of his tomorrow? What’s he gonna think of us just running off like this?”

“I’ll be sure to call him once we’re settled in for the night,” Vidalia assured as she watched her son start to head back upstairs to gather his things. “And Sour Cream, would it kill you to call him ‘dad’ for once?”

“Meh,” Sour Cream simply shrugged dryly as he disappeared into his room as his mother called out to him one last time.

“Hey, while you’re up there, tell Onion to-” Vidalia found herself cut off as she suddenly felt her smock rustle a bit behind her. The artist grinned as she turned to find her younger son tucked underneath it, playing an unspoken game of hide-and-seek until his mother unveiled him. “Boo! Found ya!” Vidalia chuckled, pulling her smock aside. As was usual, Onion said nothing and his expression was unchanged, even as his mother rustled his hair. “You ready to deal with a weird alien hand in the sky?”

In response to this, Onion simply pulled a baseball bat out of nowhere, a small scowl forming on his face as he tapped its end into his free hand. “No, not like that,” Vidalia shook her head, laughing once more as she took the weapon away from her young son as she hoisted him up into her arms. “We’re gonna take a… bit of less hands-on approach, ironically enough. Still, if we ever need to take on a burglar or a little league team, we’ll keep that plan in mind.”

“Eva-cuate! Eva-cuate!”

Pacifica’s eyes were wide as she placed a hand against the large library window, her usual aristocratic confidence replaced with genuine, unnerved fear. Northwest Manor was far enough away from town itself that the mayor’s evacuation call could only barely be heard, but it was discernable nonetheless. The massive hand, however, was easily visible from the mansion as its alien, metallic surface began to paint the once-sunset skies a sickly shade of dull green. The heiress hadn’t the faintest clue about what any of this meant or just how dangerous it might be, but she figured it was likely a pretty big deal if Mayor Dewey had gone to all the trouble for calling for a complete evacuation of Gravity Falls.

It wasn’t very long, however, before Pacifica found her thoughts being interrupted by her parents, both of whom burst into the otherwise empty library and neither of whom were very pleased to find her there.

“Oh, Pacifica, there you are!” Priscilla exclaimed with little in her tone that sounded like genuine relief. “What do you think you’re doing in here?”

“I-I was just looking at… at that…” Pacifica replied almost hesitantly, pointing to the hand ship out the window, which almost seemed to be pointing right back at her. “You know, the giant green hand in the sky? The one that really looks like it’s getting closer by the minute?”

“Yes, Pacifica, we’re all well aware of the ‘hand’,” Preston remarked rather dryly, rolling his eyes. “But, of course, it’s none of our concern. Now, come along. It’s time to bunker down inside the panic room until all this nonsense blows over.”

“Wait, what?” Pacifica frowned as she rose to stand from her window seat. “We’re not going to evacuate like everyone else?”

“‘Everyone else’ doesn’t have the luxury of a steel-doored, double-enforced panic room like we do,” Preston assured coldly. “And besides, it’s not like we can very well just leave and risk losing our mansion, our factory, our titan’s ore mine, every piece of the proud Northwest empire that stands here in Gravity Falls! That would be absurd!”

“But Mayor Dewey said-”

“Mayor Dewey can barely even be considered competent in the midst of this catastrophe, what with him entrusting the safety of the town with those unkempt Crystal Gems instead of actually taking charge of things himself for a change.”

“Ugh,” Priscilla spoke up, mirroring her husband’s disgust for the Gems. “They’re so tacky.”

“But…” Pacifica began, still conflicted with her parents’ rather ill-advised plan to stay as she looked back to the hand ship again. “Shouldn’t we-”

“Pacifica,” Preston cut her off once more, making it clear that he was starting to lose his patience. “We are going to the panic room, whether you want to go or not. And I’m only going to tell you to come along one more time…” he trailed off rather grimly, reaching his hand into his suit pocket, almost as if he was fishing around for something inside. Pacifica took in a soft, almost inaudible gasp at this, panic washing over her expression for just a split second before she quickly complied.

“R-right,” she nodded tersely, hurrying over to the other side of the room to meet them. “I… I’m coming…”

Both of the parental Northwests merely nodded their stoic approval at this, not sparing another glance to their daughter as she fell in step behind them. However, before they left the library entirely, she did happen to take one last glance over her shoulder at the approaching hand, her dread and fear towards whatever it was just as present in her mind as it was before.

But at the same time, for as weird and alarming as it all was, Pacifica couldn’t help but let her mind wander to the ones she knew usually followed right behind such alarming weirdness: the Pines twins and the youngest Crystal Gem. She couldn’t profess to really knowing Dipper, Mabel, or Steven that well, but from what she saw during the fiasco they all went through at the mini-golf course, she had gained the realization that they were well equipped to handle whatever oddities this town had to throw at them, no matter how daunting or deadly they might be.

Still, Pacifica couldn’t help but wonder, maybe even worry, if even they were up to the task of dealing with something as frightening or as bewildering as this.

“Eva-cuate! Eva-cuate!”

Wendy was standing outside her house when she first heard the alarm, but she largely ignored it as she instead tensely spun the handle of her axe in her hand, glaring up at the approaching hand ship all the while. While she didn’t know exactly what it was (to be fair, no one really seemed to), she was able to guess from its alien appearance that it was likely Gem-related, but given the sudden apparent call for a full-town evacuation, it probably wasn’t anything friendly. Still, the cashier could really care less for the evacuation order in the first place, knowing that simply running and hiding from such a potentially monumental threat was nothing short of pathetic and cowardly. Even if she had no idea what was really coming, Wendy wanted to stay and defend her home from it, no matter how daunting it might be.

A feat that would have been much more feasible if she didn’t have her father and brothers to contend with.

“Wendy!” Manly Dan shouted, bursting out of the house just as boisterously as ever. “Get in here and help me round up your brothers! We gotta hightail it outta here before that hand pokes us all into a bunch of flannel-wearing pulps!”

“I’m not going,” Wendy said, her tone stern as she refused to even turn to face her father.

“What did you just say?” Dan asked, narrowing his eyes as his temper started to rise.

“I said, I’m not going, Dad,” the cashier gripped her axe tighter, her glare deepening as she kept her focus on the hand ship. “I’m gonna stay here and help fight that… that thing off before it can destroy Gravity Falls, or worse!”

“No, you’re not!” the lumberjack practically roared, infuriated upon hearing his daughter even entertain such a dangerous thought. “You’re gonna get in the car with me and your brothers, and we’re all gonna hit the road with everyone else, and you’re not gonna stay here all by yourself!”

“Yes, I am!” Wendy protested, finally glaring over her shoulder at him. “And if you were really as ‘manly’ as everybody says you are, then you’d stay and fight too instead of running away like you did when Mom died!”

Dan sucked in a sharp, angry breath upon hearing this, but instead of hotly reaming his daughter out for this as he normally would have, the lumberjack somehow managed to control his infamously uncontrollable temper for a change. “Wendy,” he began, his tone even enough, even if his expression was set in a scowl, albeit a somewhat softer one. “Wendy, listen to me,” the lumberjack insisted firmer as he grabbed his daughter by the shoulder, ignoring her upset, frustrated glare as he turned her around to face him. “I may have taught you to be a fighter, but even I know there are some fights you just can’t win. And this is one of them fights. Now I’m not about to lose you like I lost-” Dan trailed off, clenching his large fists tightly as he glanced away, almost as if he was trying to fight back tears, an odd sight for such a burly, intimidating man.

“Look,” he started over, nodding back towards the house. Wendy’s intense scowl lightened a bit as she noticed all three of her brothers peeking out of the doorframe, quietly watching the unfolding exchange with both interest and concern. “You know you’re the only thing still keepin’ this ragtag group of lumberjacks and lumberjuniors together. We depend on you, just like we did your… your mom. So you gotta come along with us and book it outta here until this whole ‘evacuation’ thing is done. After all, without you, we’d be like a tree without roots: ready to topple over without even takin’ a swing.”

“You know I never get your weird lumberjack analogies, Dad,” Wendy remarked, finally cracking a small, bittersweet smile as she shook her head. “But… I think I get this one…” She looked to her brothers once more, all of them meeting her gaze just as pleadingly as her own father was. And as much as she didn’t want to abandon her home for the sake of fear and panic, she knew that she couldn’t very well abandon her family either, especially not now. Or for that matter, ever. “Ok…” Wendy sighed relentingly, strapping her axe back into its hoister on her belt before pulling her father into a tight embrace, her brothers not hesitating to run out of the house to join in on the family hug. “I’ll go.”

[lepidopterane]

long post, storytime

The Revenge of the Last

           Nobody knew why the most recent taxes were paid in coins with this tenuous, almost snakelike dragon on the back. But the Baron Grubberton was happy to see his serfs push the large mass of coins into the vault. That was enough to buy him a new plot of land, a fleet of carriages for his daughter Lydia, or even his own in-house theater! Maybe he would let the serfs have a role, but everyone knew their place in his kingdom and he did not want to give anyone such dangerous ideas. Besides, there were more important things to do, and he would rather keep such brainspace empty of the various dramatic logistics, for they would tire his simple mind.

           He had just finished a moonlight malt ale in his first dream when there was a disheartening THUD! The Baron shot upright, but the room was just as it had been at any time, for no treasure chest was upturned, no gilded easel collapsed, no jewel-encrusted bookcase fell. Sighing in relief, he gently and slowly lowered his body back into bed when the THUD! happened again. Again, the Baron squinted into the dark. Nothing was out of place or in pieces, but there could be the chance this was a burglar was attempting to ransack his vault and this was a distraction, right? In the still darkness, he waited. Third time’s the charm, he thought as he gingerly grasped the dagger under his pillow. So when the third THUD! reached his ears, he was ready. It had seemed to come from the floor below, the vault room. Slipping the dagger into the sleeve of his robe, he swiftly rushed to the night guards he hired and worriedly reprimanded them in a hushed tone, then returned to his room. To his surprise, he heard no more of the THUD! for the rest of the night.  

           The second night proved to be much harder to sleep through, however. Many times the THUD! came. Many times the Baron scampered down the stairs in a frenzy to whisper-shout at the guards. Many times the guards claimed they had never heard such noises. Many times the Baron questioned instincts he had trusted for decades.

           The third night, he found out that earmuffs only intensified the constant THUD! Restless, the Baron lurched out of bed, into the corridor, down the winding staircase, and through a hidden door into an empty vault room. He called out into the dimly lit space, but the air carried back only gloom, tense and silent. Tentatively, he solved the intricate puzzle on the front. As the last silver tile slid into place, the large door opened with a steady, automated rhythm.

           His eyes met the beast’s, whom he recognized as the dragon of the coin: impossibly tendrily, snaking around the pure gold relics snatched by the Baron in previous escapades, scales metallic in golds, silvers, coppers, and bronzes. And it was furious.

           “What d-do you w-want?” asked the Baron. “W-Who–or w-what are y-you?” The dragon rearranged himself, and grinned with teeth sharper and bigger than knives.

           “I am the Last,” roared the dragon. “When people have nothing more to give yet must pay a price, no matter how taxing, they go and find me. In their lockboxes, in their purses, in their socks, I am there. And I will restore the balance of pay, for that is why I have been summoned!”

           “B-b-but–that’s j-just the w-way th-things are. I h-have n-no n-need to ch-change th-that,” the Baron sputtered in response. Rapidly, the Last coiled himself around the mortal and gently pressed a talon to his throat. “Is that so? Then. I suppose you have no need for sleep,” he said, moving closer, “or your life.” His breath smelled coppery and moldy, like currency that had gone out of style centuries ago.

           “So w-what do y-you w-want m-me to d-do?” asked the cowering Baron. The Last uncoiled himself to the roost he made in the vault. “You have one moon to restore balance amongst your people. When the moon vanishes, so might everything else.” With that, the dragon collapsed into his coins with a puff of golden dust and a familiar resounding THUD!

             From there, the Baron learned to make peace with denial. It relieved him to hear his servants whispering of his “madness” or hear his friends appreciate what they considered “a fairy tale of a most occult encounter!” The story gave him more edge, gave him a chance to reinvent himself and his wardrobe to be darker in spirit. Even when he brought in a local mystic to verify his experience and boost his new persona, it was dismissed because it was claimed that the Last was “a myth that barely survived from an age that barely survived.” A good story, a dream was all the Baron needed to climb further on his social ladder.

           Time passed, and soon his daughter Lydia was to attend her first ball. Her father ordered her army of ladies-in-waiting to make her look very much (but not quite) like a goddess, and she was gleaming and beaming by the time it was time to step into the carriage.

           The Baron had already absorbed a few books and more than a few glasses of fine wine when he realized how late Lydia was staying out. Whatever, he thought. She is most likely having a jolly good time, and I do not blame her. I remember my own youth of charming clandestine capers under the waning crescent, and I want her to have that, even if the crescent is gone. He closed his eyes and relived his memories.

           The Baron was broken from reverie by the clip-clop of hooves in the distance. The Baron looked at the clock. It was one, or the witching hour, as he would say in his fitting persona. That must be Lydia! He clambered to his feet and went out to receive his daughter in the front of his manor. Yet something was not right about this arrival, and he felt it in the air…

           It was the carriage. There were serious scratches and dents in it, as if there was some trouble getting home. Nothing a new carriage could not fix, the Baron thought. Eventually, it rolled up to his house, empty in person but not in meaning. The driver pulled to a stop and descended from his stoop, tears streaming down his face. He could not meet his master’s gaze, but gestured to the cabin. “Sir–your daughter, I could not explain, but it–it just reached in, and took her. I could try to tell you how it happened, but I know you would not believe me. No one would. No one ever does…”

           However, the Baron did. As the driver was talking, he looked at the scratches. They were deep and long, denting and almost cutting through the wood of the car. That was not the thing that caught his attention, though. It was the dust around the scratches. In golds, in silvers, in coppers, and in bronzes, it awakened a fear inside him that had been waiting, well-rested, to course through his veins once again.

             Days later, the Baron’s men found Lydia dead in the Northern Forest. The only way the Baron knew how to recover from wounds that deep was by immersion into a fantastic new project, one that would blow everyone away with his sheer splendor. For days he sat at his desk, penning, planning, sketching away at his idea. The Baron’s servants feared for his health, but despite the many continuous days he scribbled indoors without breaks, he had never felt better.

           At Lydia’s funeral, he stepped up to the podium with a smile. Next he pulled over an easel with many different pictures of Lydia by notable artists and plastered the plans over the right half.

           He bubbled, “Ladies and gentlemen gathered here today, I wish to tell you of my wondrous plan! Over the next month we will take on a great feat. Behold, the Grubberton

Tower! The tallest thing a gentleman can erect in this fair nation of Grubbertonia, and perhaps the world! I doubt you’ve never seen anything so very extravagant, so very beautiful, believe me. Funding will come from my benevolent parents, and admission will cost 2000 Grubbucks.” A dainty hand graced the air above noble heads as a voice called out, “And what exactly does this have to do with the passing of your daughter, Lord Grubberton?”

           He replied, “Well, it’s quite obvious, don’t you see? We…uh…I…uh…a statue of Lydia, the apple of everyone’s eye, will grace the top of this ivory tower!” As he spoke, he moved a picture of his daughter to the top of the easel, right above the plans. “Uh, did I mention the tower will be made of the purest, most expensive, most unsoiled ivory? Because it is. I want to make a point that no sordid firestarter can touch the impressive elite of Grubbertonia, and a monument to my dear daughter will do just that, believe me.” The baron made one last flourish to the plans before skipping back to his seat.

           Weeks rolled by and the tower rose. Indeed, it was the tallest, whitest thing anyone had decided to erect in that part of the world, and once again, an unnatural passion had consumed the Baron. Since now he was most obsessed with height, Lydia’s tribute faded from his thick head. He hired contractors and fired them faster than a speeding bullet, because there was no other way to build this thing according to him. It was now rumored in some alleys that he had decided to put a throne of pure gold atop the tower in Lydia’s memory of how she supported him so.

           Because the men at the top of the tower only looked upward, they never saw the metallic curves, the snaky tendrils, the undullable claws of the beast that suddenly clawed the tower with noise more hideous than a THUD! or fingernails on marble. The Last was quick, he clawed and threw his weight against the tower, and down it went. As the dragon went away, the Baron heard a whisper: “I guess that is why you say your tower is so untouchable.” He was the only one who survived the crash, mainly because he put on a parachute pack once during safety training and decided to never take it off.

             The crash filled him with rage. Numerous times, he delivered addresses at many balls, vowing to crush whatever monster had violated his rules, upturned his carefully groomed class structure. Everyone assumed the monster was a metaphor, despite his desperate and weak attempts to clarify the evil’s origin. “They were probably working with peasants,” one lord suggested during one such tirade. Since then, the Baron made a point to his guards that they needed to arrest any peasant that looked vaguely suspicious. A few weeks and a few hundred prisoners later, a new comment arose, this time from a duke. “What are you doing about this? You would not be so angry, Grubbs, if the monster was gone.” The Baron fumed at the mention of a nasty nickname he had not heard in decades. “YOU? Claim that I, chief enemy of the beast, am doing nothing to stop it? Impossible! How do I know you are not working for them, you rat? If you think you are up to my level,” and here he spat at the ground, “come lead an army with me and kill the monster that did this to us!”

           Unfortunately, that duke was persistent. Together they stirred up a militia, but not without negativity. Collaborating with the duke was infuriating (he just seemed to do most of the work without breaking a lordly sweat!), but he had to keep his image together somehow. At last, they had figured out where that dragon had ran off to, and so they ventured to the cave, a most ancient hoard.

           However, the easiest way to distract the Baron was with money, and in the center, there were two impossibly large chests made of some hematite-ebony-lead alloy. Shiny, black, and carved with ancient runes, they called to his soul. He ordered his men to carry both of the chests out to the woods where they could open them. It took a great while and a great effort to carry the huge chests out into the forest, but the real challenge was opening the chest, which he had tasked the small force with, since he had men from the vault room attending this affair. While they worked at the lock, he went to take a nap…

           …but when he woke up, he saw his entire militia lying prone around the two chests, coughing deeply every now and then. His men’s skin had taken on a gray undertone, and they were unable to comprehend orders. Anyway, they did not seem threatening if not a little tired. “I’ve seen worse,” the Baron said to himself as he studied the lock on the nearest chest. He reached out and touched the lock to see if he could hack it when the runes lit up with a fiery red-gold and the chest opened, throwing its lid back as if the hinge was spring-loaded.

           Yet nothing was in that chest, just a dark void. He walked to the other chest, noting that the duke was among the fallen around that one. Touching that lock magically opened that chest to reveal nothingness once again. For a moment, he was truly frustrated, but that frustration turned to fear when a hand grabbed his leg. The duke was certainly feeling a little uncanny. “Walton, are you all right?” asked the Baron. “I know not if you jest, but please let go of my leg.” In response, the duke Walton, or what once was him, turned around with an angry, inhuman expression and attempted to bite the Baron’s shoulder. But it was in vain, for the Baron turned around and fled, but not before almost stumbling into another crowd of infested men. He and his horse were almost to the edge of Grubbertonia when an eerie whisper floating on the wind found his ear: “You cannot outrun your corruption. Its consequences may not be direct, but it has forced directions on many.”

             Again, the Last was right. The Baron’s failure to protect his own people from such a supposed threat was all the skeptics needed to write him off as a loser. Anyone who knew the Baron knew him as a man enamored only in his wealth, given to excessive outbursts of anger and pride, and a chaser of imaginary beasts. Society had every reason to reject him, and so they did, no matter what scheme he tried to use. He visited even the most grimy pubs in Grubbertonia if it meant cleaning up his reputation, but often he would be caught in his attempts and regarded as a hypocrite. This was the perfect time for a sign of hope.  

           Late one night after a pub crawl, there was a sparkle in the corner of the Baron’s eye, and then it was a closer gleam, and then it was a gleaming lady, one who he might consider hooking up with, and then he realized it was a girl, now a shining young woman, who he had not seen in months, not since that fateful night.

           “Lydia!” he called. “Is that really you?” The girl rushed over to him.

           “Father! Of course. Who else would it be?”

           “I thought you were dead for so long…”

           “Well, I am alive. But let us not worry about that! We should play a game,” Lydia said, opening the door to the next pub. It was poker night, so the overjoyed and reunited pair sat down at a table with two peasants starting a game. “With these fellows?” he whispered to his daughter. “Are you sure?” In return, Lydia gave her father the puppy dog eyes that would turn even the sharpest no into a resounding yes. The game began.

           “Are we betting everything?” asked one peasant.

           “I suppose we are, because I know between the two of us, we have nothing.” replied the second peasant, taller than the first. “What about you two aristocrats?”

           “We will bet 10 Grubbucks,” responded the Baron. Lydia looked at her father, disappointed. “Are we not the greatest family in the world? We should bet everything. Besides, there are two novices,” she said, gesturing to the peasants, “and two of us. So there is a fifty percent chance of us winning, and it all goes to our family name.” The Baron sighed. There were certain things he could not refuse, and his daughter was among them. “Fine. We too will bet everything.”

           The game was long and suspenseful. Even though there was danger at every turn of the game, usually Lydia was smart enough to think her way around it. She was winning with her father in close pursuit, and no one could stop her. However, while the peasants were unable to challenge Lydia, they did manage to shake the Baron’s standings at the last second. If it was not for Lydia’s brilliance, the Grubbertons would not have won.

           Once they got home, Lydia said, “I have a special surprise for you, because you did so well, and you inspired me to win. But you must close your eyes and take my hand.” That he did. When he opened his eyes, he was shocked.

           “Lydia, why are we in the vault?”

           “Hm, I am not quite sure why. It is a good place to tell you something secret, though. You will want to hear this important message! I can get us out, anyway.”

           “Well, if you insist…”

           “Thanks. Trust me, you really need to hear this, and I am the one of the only people you really listen to. That game back there was no mere game. Your lack of decency brought this upon you. A daughter’s murder, an ambition shattered, a life-threatening warning unheeded and survived; nothing could shake a cent from your purse. Which is why I had to win everything from your grubby hands in the way I did. You see, you owe me something. And I…” Lydia writhed, the shimmering metallic accents in her dress expanding and merging with her flesh as she grew into a more serpentine shape. To his horror, the Baron realized who had been behind this, glints of gold, silver, copper and bronze reflected in his terrified eyes.

             “I am everyone.”

           Everyone in every last village of Grubbertonia thought it was a joke at first when they awoke to find the stuffing of their pillows had turned to coins. The alchemists made many tests, skeptical of the coins’ reality; for the Baron was known to dupe any class lower than him multiple times. But no, they were real, and if science was not enough for some of the more ignorant serfs, there was yet another sign. Somehow, the dragon-backed coinage had made it into everyone’s share. People seemed a little lighter because their purse was a lot heavier and nobody was above or below anyone else anymore.

             Yet still, the Baron’s manor stands, but now as a residence for the homeless. The vault room is still there, locked shut. The groundskeepers did confirm that the vault was empty, and it just remains shut because now it has no purpose but to remind others of this cautionary tale, and whenever a leader in the community turns 14, they are told the story at the vault. But on certain nights, guests of the manor can hear ghostly screams from the other side, filling them with courage instead of fear.