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pink-peony-princess · 4 years ago

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Who Said Anything About Tact?

Violet's walk had started out like any other. She was a person of habit,very rarely did she break her routine, and so how she came to be by Old Station Bridge,she couldn't be sure. One thing had led to another, she had noticed the way the late afternoon light was hitting the trees just across the small river, the field behind it backlit perfectly. So perfectly that she'd done what she'd so rarely done before and stopped to take a photo.

She'd been warned about the presence of wolves by her mother so many times before, the whole town of Mercy Falls knew about them. There were the Cresent Moon pack, feared amongst wolves, but of zero threat to humans, in fact they were well know to help protect their human neighbours whenever necessary. And then there were the rogues, the mean, vicious, unapologetically violent, wolves that were fixated on taking the town for themselves.

Unfortunately for Violet this was who she came to be in the presence of the day it happened.

She'd taken her photo and had made it no more than 30 metres down the road when she heard the first growl. At first she ignored it, maybe it was a trick of her imagination she thought shaking her head. But she heard it again, this time closer, and she had a weird feeling as though she was being watched.

Before she had time to react, she was hanging just above the ground sharp teeth cutting into her side as she screamed to no effect for the animal to drop her, it shook her the way a dog would shake its prey to kill it, showing no sign of letting her go. She would have sworn she heard a crack of bone, but she couldn't be sure because her whole body felt like one giant punching bag. She called out for help again and again, but it was useless, no one would hear her out here, no one came along here, and for good reason she thought as she let her body go lump, accepting her fate.

Raul and his two betas- one of his brothers Peter and his friend Connor were nearly finished with their evening perimeter run of their lands when they heard it. The unmistakable rumble of growling in the distance. None of the three men recognised the tone, meaning it wasn't one (or several) of their own, which only left one other possibility-rogues.

They listened for a minute before they heard the sound of a woman shouting, begging for help over and over again before just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

The three wolves looked at one another before sprinting for the eastern boundary by Old Station Bridge. If there was a human,they were in trouble, there was no way a human could win against one rogue, let alone multiple.

Raul had dealt with his fair share of rogues in his short time as alpha, but nothing would prepare him for what they saw as they came to a stop by the bridge. A pack of 10 wolves were all circling a young brunette woman- from what Raul could see from the glimpses he was catching between the wall of wolves she around the same age as him and his brothers.

He made his way closer, careful not to bring attention to himself or his betas, he wanted the element of surprise.

He was just about to attack when the young woman looked up, as if she sensed help had come. What Raul wasn't expecting as the woman held his gaze was how it would make him feel. Initially Raul registered the terror and pain on the woman's face, the extreme helplessness, and then something hit him. It was the weirdest feeling- like warm tingling butterflies flooding Raul's entire body, his wolf- Knight- was restless, anxious really, begging to be let free, and then it happened, it clicked "Mate, mate, mate!" Knight shouted in Raul's head over and over again. There was a moment or two of elation where neither Raul or this unknown human girl moved before Raul was snapped back to reality by yet another growl from one of the rogues as they continued to circle and a small pitiful whimper from the girl.

There was no way he was going to let his mate get hurt he thought to himself as he lunged forward immediately knocking one of the wolves out of the way. Peter and Connor followed suit, just as easily dispensing another two wolves a good 10 metres from where they'd originally been. Though they got straight back up, poised to attack again.

Raul could see the girl clearly now that the circle had been broken and the sight pulled at his chest, though he wouldn't like to admit it.

The woman had a large gash on her temple which was trickling blood down the side of her head, dropping in a small pool on the ground, along with several puncture marks on her abdomen, which judging by the blood that had saturated her white shirt were deep, not to mention what looked like a very broken right wrist and scrapes covering just about every visible part of her body.

He could feel the anger rising him at what these low lives had done to the girl- his mate! His! Noone else's! And before he could think he was shifting ripping a pair of pants out of the nearest tree (thank the Lord the whole perimeter of their lands had stashes of clothes) and was running over to her.

A deep gutteral growl left his lips, stopping everyone in their tracks.

Even Peter and Connor stopped, they all knew what that growl meant, it was the possessive growl of a mated wolf warning everyone and everything in it's way to stay away- or else.

The girl flinched as Raul continued to growl as the rogues slowly backed up,clearing a path for him to get to her.

"Don't touch me," she begged, eyes wide with fear as she tried to shuffle backwards away from Raul as he bent down in front of her.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Raul spoke gruffly. "I'm trying to help you stop fighting me!" he grumbled, swinging her up into his arms effortlessly as she tried to push against him.

The way she sobbed as he moved her pulled at his heartstrings he had to admit, but right now he had a mission, get her to Shawn his other identical brother and one of the pack doctors before she past out or bled out.

"Let me go." she smacked his chest weakly,making absolutely no impact. Infact Raul barely felt it.

"Stop fighting me!" Raul snapped, feeling frustrated as he ran as fast as his legs would take him in the direction of home.

"I don't even know you! I want to go home!" the girl continued to struggle despite her injuries.

Peter who had been running behind Raul with Connor (both of whom must have shifted without Raul even realising) spoke up.

"Raul, look at her, she's terrified and in pain." Raul could tell without even looking at him that he felt bad for her, he was always such a softie, whereas Raul would rather be tactless and keep his mate alive than worry about being a gentleman.

Raul halted causing Peter to crash into him mid-step.

"Look Peter, I can either do as she asks, or I can save her life, which do you think I'm gonna choose?" he asked pointedly, glaring at his younger brother. He should know what was at stake here, afterall he'd found his mate Betty 6 months before and was absolutely besotted.

"I'm not saying you're not doing the right thing." Peter tried to backpedal. "Just maybe be a little nicer, a little more understanding, think about how you'd feel if you were in her position. She's human. Attacked by rogues and then some strange guy who also happens to be a wolf comes and picks you up and snaps at you when you try to defend yourself as you would."

"I'm trying to help her," Raul snapped again, glaring still.

"I know you are," Peter smiled sympathetically, "all I'm saying is maybe watch your tone."

"I'm sorry," he sighed, looking down at the crying girl in his arms. "My name's Raul, I know you're scared but if you don't let me help you won't be alive to go home," he explained impatiently, still walking.

"But you're a wolf. Why would you help me?" The confusion in her voice genuinely surprised him.

"Not all of us are big bad wolves," he answered, not disclosing the real reason. She was quiet for a minute except for the occasional hiss from pain.

"You are." she looked up at him waiting for a response, but Raul was so shocked that all he could do was laugh.

"You might be right you know."

...

By the time they made it to the pack house the girl, his mate had become lethargic and non- talkative. Raul wouldn't let it show, but he was really starting to panic. When he'd thought so many times before about the possibility of meeting his mate, this was so not what he'd imagined. But here he was carrying a half- limp woman with potentially life-threatening injuries through his house with everyone they came across giving him the same look of shock and confusion.

Peter and Connor had disappeared to put a search party together to deal with the rogues in question. Raul had really been quite forgiving of them over the two years he'd been in charge, but this, this was too far, this he would not forgive, he'd hunt them for the rest of his days if that's what it took to get revenge.

He would never forgive them for what they'd done to his mate. Never.

He made his way up the stairs that led to the pack hospital quicky- it had been decided when he became alpha that a whole floor of the pack house (it was a mansion really if you took the size into account) would be turned into something of a hospital. Not only was it more convenient for everyone in the pack house- rather than going to a GP or hospital they could simply walk upstairs and be seen by a doctor nearly straight away, but it was practical for all the times when werewolves would come home injured from fights or assignments and need immediate medical care. As this woman did now. When Raul reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner to the door of the hospital he was met with a wall of people and even more curious eyes. Everyone seemed shocked to see their alpha- usually so tough and strong carrying a semi conscious woman as though she might break at any moment.

"Out of the way, fucking move!" he yelled, causing her to whimper as the sound sent shock waves through her skull. Everyone scurried, heads down not game to look their alpha in the eye. They knew just from his stance, let alone his tone that he wasn't kidding around.

"Shawn get your arse in here!" he called as he pushed his way through another door and into the consultation area.

He made his way over to a bed, putting her down as gently as he could, but she still gave a whine of discomfort.

Whether in a half-delirious state or simply trying to distance herself from him, she made a move to try and get off the bed almost immediately but he stopped her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Stay," he spoke, a little too harshly, instantly regretting it when he saw her bottom lip quiver slightly. "Sorry," he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Who's this?" Shawn asked walking through the door a moment later, he looked between Raul and the young woman on the bed. Up close Raul could see just how pretty she was, chocolate brown eyes and a few freckles here and there. She was perfect he thought.

"Took you long enough," Raul grouched "She's my mate," he spoke quickly, watching as both Shawn and the woman's eyes went wide. Shawn was the first to recover, nodding and waiting for his brother to go on as though he hadn't just mentioned something totally life changing.

"She was attacked by rogues. I'm going to fucking kill them!" he fumed pacing the area.

...

As soon as Violet heard the word 'mate' she began to freak out, her breathing became laboured. She couldn't help but claw at her throat in a desperate attempt to get air. She couldn't have this jerk as a mate, she couldn't leave her home to live with a pack of wolves, she wouldn't.

Shawn rushed over grabbing an oxygen mask and gently placing it on her face.

"That's it, nice slow breathes, you're okay," he encouraged as Raul looked on helplessly.

"Raul, get outside, cool off, you're terrifying her. Look at her," he spoke not bothering to look at his brother, still trying to coax Violet into a semi-normal breathing pattern.

Ordinarily, Raul would have kicked Shawn's arse from here to Mars for talking to him like that, but when he turned to face his mate and saw the tears of fright rolling down her face, the way she clung to his brother's hand, he was brought back to the present. Of course he could be hot-headed and he had a reputation to uphold, but that didn't mean he wanted his mate to be scared of him. Hell that was the last thing he wanted.

"Sorry," he muttered, pushing past Shawn and walking out the door.

They heard a crash of what sounded like a vase, causing Violet to jump again.

"Sorry about him," Shawn apologised. "I promise, he's really not that bad, he's a big softie really, he just gets protective of his loved ones and doesn't necessarily deal with the emotion the best way. I'm Shawn by the way," he smiled.

"V-violet," She looked at him still unsure.

"Can I have a look at your injuries?" he asked.

"Y-yeah," she answered.

He smiled before carefully assessing the surface injuries. Violet was relieved to hear that the bite wounds although nasty weren't life-threatening and would heal 'just fine' although he did get Violet to hold a piece of gauze over the area while he went about setting her up with different what felt like a 100 different leads so he could track her vitals.

"I'm just going to get you hooked up to a few monitors okay. They won't hurt, they're just so I can keep track of your heart rate and oxygen levels, things like that okay?"

She nodded, and Shawn went about making sure the slightly insane amount of leads were properly attached, before coming back over to the bed and pulling a penlight from his breast pocket.

"Looks like you gave yourself a nasty whack here," he commented, trying to be a bit more casual about it to put her at ease.

"Follow my finger," he asked as he turned the light on and shone it towards Violet, immediately making her want to recoil. "Do you remember what day it is?" he asked with a small frown, as he pocketed the light once again.

"Saturday?" she answered feeling very unsure.

"Yeah it is," Shawn smiled sympathetically at her obvious confusion and fear.

Things were quiet for a while except for the rhythmic beeping of the machines attached to Violet which were starting to lull her into sleep

"Knock, knock?" someone tapped at the door gently startling Violet, before a man who looked almost exactly the same as Shawn, except with shorter hair poked his head into the room." Hey, I just came to see how you were? The others just left to track the wolves that attacked you and Raul's downstairs sulking," he smiled as he stepped into the room, dodging Shawn who was now busy getting supplies out to deal with the nasty and numerous wounds covering Violet's body. "I'm Peter," he held out a hand.

She smiled,holding out her left non- injured hand, "Violet."

Shawn walked back over to the bed carrying a load of medical supplies which he placed on the bed beside Violet, it made her feel a bit sick thinking about it, there were bottles of disinfectant, scissors,wipes, packets of what looked like needles and tubing, sheets of protective paper and gloves.

"Try not to focus on what I'm doing, why don't you talk to Peter while I work?" he suggested, kicking a rolling stool in Peter's direction which he sat on before following suit on his own one. "I need to start an I.V. with some antibiotics okay?" he added, before picking up a packet from the bed and ripping it open.

Violet stiffened as what Shawn had said sunk in, an I.V. meant, a needle and Violet was no good with needles, the last time she had to have one she fainted in the reception area of her doctor's.

"It's okay," Shawn tried to calm her, but he could tell that she was only becoming more and more uptight.

"Hold Peter's hand if you want," Shawn suggested seeing the tears pooling in her eyes.

She took Peter's hand immediately in her good one and Shawn went about positioning her arm for the I.V., wiping her arm before lining the needle up and looking up at her. "Sharp scratch," he warned before inserting the needle quickly, but carefully.

She jumped slightly, and gave a small whimper, but overall, she thought, it wasn't too bad.

"There all done," Shawn smiled, getting up to discard the waste into a special bin. "How's your pain? I'm going to give you a local anesthetic when I clean your abdomen and head up, but I can give you a dose of pain relief if you need it," he offered.

"Please," she nodded, a few tears falling down her face.

Shawn nodded again going to get the pain relief when there was another knock on the door, this one was harder than when Peter had knocked to come in. The door opened and Raul came in, not waiting to be invited. Violet noticed straight away how much calmer he looked.

They stared at each other for a moment, before Shawn walked back into the room, stopping when he saw Rau in the doorway.

"You can come in if you're calm enough," Shawn invited him, promoting Raul to step fully into the room and close the door behind him.

"Raul, this is Violet."

Raul smiled a really genuine smile and Violet couldn't help but notice, now that he wasn't being a totally arse, just how handsome he was, how handsome all three of them were- Raul, Shawn and Peter. They were all well built, and extremely tall- towering over Violet's 5'2" frame, with curly brown hair and brown eyes. Raul was by far the most well built and intimidating with a sleeve of tattoos covering his arm and right hand as few scattered on his neck. Up close Violet could see the lip and ear piercings that only added to the tough almost gothic look. The smile on his face a stark contrast to the rest of his appearance.

...

Raul made his way over to the bed slowly, carefully, the last thing he wanted to do was scare Violet anymore than he already had. He wanted to show her the softer side of him, the side that would do anything for his mate, the side that was fiercely protective and loyal. Not the arsehole he showed her when they first met.

Peter stood up and smiled before leaving the room, the rolling stool now vacant. Raul took the opportunity to sit down, still looking at this young woman in awe.

"I'm sorry I was an arse to you," he apologised, looking down at his hands.

Violet didn't say anything, but when Raul looked up, she nodded softly signalling she'd heard him.

"Violet I'm going to start stitching your head up now okay?" Shawn interrupted their little moment.

Raul could see the panic on Violet's face as Shawn spoke and wanted so badly to comfort her, but he wasn't sure how. He felt so much pity and protectiveness at his tiny mate laying helplessly on the bed as Shawn tended to her injuries.

...

"Can I, can I hold your hand?" The softness and tentiveness of the question was so unlike Raul that both Violet and Shawn stopped, stunned momentarily. As much as Violet wanted to say no, just to prove a point that you don't get to be a complete jerk and then backflip and suddenly everything was okay again, she had to admit that an odd sense of calm had washed over her since Raul had entered the room.

She nodded again and he immediately took her hand carefully, sending shockwaves of tingles up both of their bodies. She looked at him panicked, but he just smiled reassuringly, before speaking, "It's the mate connection," he murmured, squeezing her hand gently. It felt odd to be holding someone's hand that she'd barely met and that had been so cold to her previously and yet, it felt so right.

Her thought train was interrupted by a sharp prick and then an intense stinging started on she forehead, before Shawn was pulling up her top revealing the wounds that she'd been holding pressure on. "Deep breath," Shawn warned this time before yet another prick and more stinging, the process was repeating a further two times before he discarded the needle.

"Oww, it's stinging," she whimpered.

"Shawn why'd you have to hurt her!" Raul half growled, though it was nothing on what he'd been like earlier.

"I'm not trying to, I promise, unfortunately it can be a side effect of the anesthetic. It shouldn't last long."

After she was stitched up,and her broken wrist x-rayed and plastered the two men left her to have a moment alone while they spoke outside.

"How bad?" Raul asked folding his arms.

Shawn sighed, "She's badly banged up. She'll need to be on I.V.for at least 24 hours."

"I want her in my room," Raul demanded immediately.

"Did you hear what I said?" Shawn asked.

"Did you hear what I said?" He counted harshly.

"Fine," Shawn sighed. "'I'll set her up in your room. If she agrees."

Raul nodded, a smirk on his face. They both knew he'd won the battle and there was nothing Shawn could do about it.

By the way, what were you thinking, just picking her up and bringing her here before actually talking to her?" he shook his head. "She was terrified." Raul who could hear the disapproval in Shawn's voice didn't take lightly to being spoken to by one of his pack, let alone his own brother.

"One don't talk to me like that, ever again,I might be your brother, but I'm also your Alpha and two I'm sorry, but if I hadn't have done what I did, she would be dead. Maybe that makes me harsh or whatever but I'd rather save my mate and the future luna of our pack than worry about pleasentries."

Shawn wanted to say more, but knew better than to push Raul so he simply said "I'll talk to her about staying with you, stay here." Before he left,not waiting for his reply.

...

As Shawn had expected as soon as he mentioned the idea of being in Raul's room, she shot him down pointing out that while he'd been nice to her in the last 30 minutes or so, he'd been a total jerk previously and she didn't want to be stuck with thst.

"I know he wasn't the nicest to you," Shawn agreed, "But I promise he means well, he was stressed and frustrated. He's your mate, it's his job to love and protect you and trust me he will do anything to honour that, even if it means being a bit harsh sometimes. Plus being around him will help you heal quicker, it's something that your body will recognise subconsciously, even for you as a human. It's one of our weird werewolf things. Please," he put his hands together practically begging.

"Fine," she conceeded, but if he's even the slightest bit rude I'm outta there,"

"Deal."

Half an hour later and Violet was situated in the most comfortable bed she'd ever laid in, the smell of Raul (a mixture of Sandalwood and Musk) filling her senses. She had to admit it calmed her, despite her wariness towards him.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked leaning against the doorway arms folding a smile once again gracing his face, making him look so much less scary. She jumped slightly holding a hand to her chest.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he apologised and something in the way he said it told her he wasn't just apologising for now.

"S'okay," she yawned, "but you have zero tact you know," she laughed as he frowned.

"I'm Raul Mendes, alpha of the largest pack in Canada,I can be mean, I can be ruthless,I also protect the ones I love with everything I have. But who said anything about tact? Cause it definitely wasn't me," he laughed, coming over to sit on the bed next to her, careful not to invade her space. As Violet drifted into a dream-state she could have sworn she heard him say "Sleep well, little mate," but of course when she questioned him on it the next day Raul would deny it till he was blue, well red in the face- with embarrassment that is. Maybe he wasn't such a big bad wolf afterall Violet thought.

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blueeyedheizer · 4 years ago

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under her wing - castor

WARNINGS: sickness, mention of needles, talks of death, violence

A/N: holy shit. I've had this fic in my WIPs for officially a year now. 🥴 It kinda sucks that no more than 5 people are going to read it but oh well... you get used to it 😂 It's my longest fic so far (4,4k words) I hope it isn't too confusing for those who haven't seen the show, I tried to keep it light on the characters and specific words used in the show. Some parts (ending included) might be a bit rushed cause in all honesty, i lost interest in this fic and ran out of inspiration so...yeah sorry about that but I really wanted to post it anyway :)

•••

"The boy's loyalty is impressive. But he's getting worse, and we're getting nowhere." you heard Nathaniel say as you placed a cold cloth on the boy's forehead, hoping for his fever to cool down a bit. You couldn't help but let your eyes explore his features as you took care of him. A couple of scars traveled across his cheeks, and his neck was covered in black veins contrasting with his pale skin. His eyes were closed, but you remembered them being some of the brightest blue you'd ever seen. He looked almost delicate despite the ferocity of his soul. Your eyes then wandered on his chest. About a dozen needles were pierced on it. The Widow said they were a necessary precaution, as the gift made him dangerous. You dipped the cloth back in the cold water before spreading it over his forehead again.

"I take it my regeant has a suggestion." the Widow continued, interrupting the small silence that had filled the room.

"Cut off his head, and send it to Pilgrim. Punishment for raiding the camp." your head shot right up.

"What?!" you left the boy's side to face Nathaniel, a look of horror on your face. "He's just a boy, Nathaniel. We're absolutely not killing him." you spat, emphasizing on 'absolutely not'. The room went silent for a moment and you scoffed, averting your eyes from Nathaniel to glance at the Widow. "Mother, say something!" you pleaded, throwing your arms in the air to show your frustration. She remained silent for a moment, pacing around as she thought of an alternative.

"We could use the boy's devotion as a weapon to weaken Pilgrim."

"The man's a zealot, we need to send a clear message."

"I won't let you do that, Nathaniel. Everything doesn't always have to be solved with cutting heads off. You'll have to find another way." you crossed your arms over your chest, well determined not to let him have the last word on this. The Widow's pacing came to a stop and she sighed.

"We're keeping him here for now until he gets better." she continued, looking at you. "If he ever does. But he's under your responsibility."

The same day, Cressida showed up to the Sanctuary and, as expected, threatened to attack if the boy wasn't given back to Pilgrim. After lots of talking, arguing and being on the verge of fighting, all four of you eventually agreed on a deal. Three of the widows' Butterflies were to be temporarily sent into Pilgrim's army in exchange for you to keep the boy and take care of him for a strict amount of time. 4 months, nothing more, nothing less. And if the boy dies in your hands, the Butterflies die with him.

You were the one who suggested the deal in the first place. You saw Minerva and Nathaniel's eye widen when the words left your mouth, but you felt like this had to be done. Something about the boy was intriguing, and you needed to know more about him.

The Widow had given you the order to take him to the small spare room she had originally got built to keep M.K. locked. You were against the idea of locking him up at first, but you couldn't push aside the fact that he was a Dark One, therefore much stronger than you and a potential danger to you and everyone else.

You let him get some well deserved rest and came back two hours later to check up on him.

Unlocking the door, you stepped inside before carefully locking it again behind you and walking towards him. He was finally awake, lids still half closed as his sickness got the best of him, tiring him out mercilessly. You stared at him for a moment before speaking up.

"How are you feeling?" he didn't answer. Not with words anyway. But his cold, hard glare told you that he wasn't planning on getting friendly with you. You took a sit on a chair nearby, resting your forearms on your lap.

"Tell me. How does Pilgrim control your gift? I saw him turn it off." you stated, your eyes meeting his.

"You think you know about the gift? About us? You know nothing." he spat. "Pilgrim was chosen."

"By whom?"

"By Azra." You stayed silent for a moment and frowned, stunned by how brainwashed he seemed to be.

"There's no such thing as Azra." You barely managed to get those few words out before he suddenly grabbed your wrist and pulled you down in one swift movement, rolling over and pinning you to the bed, the side of his forearm over your throat as his other hand held a blade flat against your cheek leaving you helpless.

"You know nothing about us, about Azra. About what we're fighting for." he insisted, speaking through gritted teeth.

"I may not know everything...but there is nothing beyond the Badlands." you retorted, your heart accelerating. You were well aware that the knife was still dragging across your cheek yet you were brave enough to let the words out. "This is the only ground left on earth. This...thing Pilgrim calls a safe haven, it doesn't exist. He's lying to you." You hissed, crying out when the blade pierced your skin slightly. "What do you think will happen when you're gone? He's using you, because he's nothing without your power." you continued. You could feel your face start to redden from the lack of oxygen "Just think about it." you whispered, his eyes staring dead into yours. You swallowed thickly, trying to turn your face away from the knife.

"He already found my replacement." The tone of his voice caused your expression to soften slightly. He seemed defeated, it was as if he knew his life was already over and the only thing he kept fighting for was his faith in this so called safe haven. You could tell his hands were shaking, and he was having a hard time holding himself up with his arms. A few more seconds passed by and the pressure on your throat loosened, allowing you to breathe somewhat properly again.

"I'm just trying to help." you continued in a much softer tone. "Your fever's getting worse, you won't make it if we let you go now. So please, let me help you."

Before any of you could move, you were interrupted by a shout of your name. Nathaniel and Minerva suddenly burst in the room and within just a few seconds Nathaniel had Castor on the floor with both hands around his neck.

"Nathaniel stop!" you managed to scream as you sat up and held your throat, trying to catch your breath. Nathaniel wouldn't let go, his grip on Castor tightening as he fought to free himself from his grip. You jumped from the bed, landing on the older man's back, trying to push him off the boy. "Enough!" you screamed. "Let go of him!"

"He was trying to kill you, Y/N !" Nathaniel retorted, finally letting go of him.

"I had everything under control!" you said as you helped Castor on his feet, letting him hold onto you for support. You glanced at him and had to fight back a gasp as you noticed his state.

"You're bleeding..." you said as you moved your hands to his cheek, lifting his face up to inspect the source of the bleeding. "Lay back down. Come on." He was shaking, a thin layer of sweat covering his forehead as he coughed. He reluctantly complied, laying back on the bed and wiping the blood off his nose.

As soon as the boy was laid back, the Widow placed a hand over your shoulder, turning you around so you could face her.

"Are you okay, did he hurt you?" she asked as she cupped your face, inspecting the small cut on your cheek, but you swiftly pushed her hand away.

"I'm fine."

"Y/N, you have to understand—"

"Look at him, for God's sake!" you suddenly yelled, startling everyone in the room. "Look at him, and tell me this boy currently has enough strength to actually hurt me." you spoke more calmly this time as you pointed to Castor. The single effort of holding himself up above you had drained him of his strength. He was breathing heavily with his eyes closed, his cheeks wet from both sweat and a few tears that had escaped the corner of his eyes. Minerva and Nathaniel were rendered speechless as they both stared at you, not knowing what to say. They didn't seem to understand why you were so invested in taking care of him, and to be completely honest, you didn't know either. There was just something about him that made you want to keep him safe.

You shook your head and scoffed before walking over to the bed and grabbing the wet cloth from the bowl, spreading it back over Castor's forehead.

The next day, you decided to pay him a visit early in the morning. You had woken up in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep, your mind constantly going back to him. You had so many questions. What was this safe haven he told you about? Was there actually something beyond the Badlands? Why was the Gift so harmful to him if he was born with it? Your brain simply wouldn't shut off.

You greeted him politely as you opened the door to the small room, once again making sure to close it behind you.

"You can't keep me here forever." he said, not bothering with niceties. "Pilgrim will come for me. And when he does you won't live another day." the boy spat through gritted teeth, causing you to chuckle slightly. You ignored him.

"Did you get any sleep?" no answer. "I'm not your enemy, you know." you said, looking at him over your shoulder as you sterilized a needle. "I mean, technically, I am. But I really don't want to be."

"You knocked me out and kidnapped me."

"I also saved your life. And for the record, you punched me in the chest until I was left coughing blood on the floor. That makes us even." you continued. "Why don't you tell me your name?" you asked. Cressida had already mentioned his name but you wanted him to tell you himself, as a sign of trust. He didn't answer though, which caused you to sigh. "Well, I'm Y/N. If it weren't for me your head would be laying at Pilgrim's feet as we speak." he didn't say anything. Instead he pulled harder on the chains that were wrapped around his wrists and started to move around, trying to find a way to free himself.

"You're going to hurt yourself. You should save your strength." you said, flicking the needle before turning around and walking towards him. He fell back on the bed with a defeated sigh and gulped hard, his face contorting in what looked like worry. Or was it fear? You couldn't really tell. He closed his eyes, chest heaving up and down heavily. You frowned when you noticed his sudden change of demeanor. "Hey, hey. Calm down." you tried to bring him some comfort by placing your hand on his forehead, wanting to check his fever at the same time. He clenched his jaw but didn't complain. His forehead was still burning and you tried not to show your concern, not wanting to worry him more than he already was.

"What's in this?" he wondered, nodding towards the needle, the cracking of his voice destroying his attempt at sounding confident.

"Something I hope will help with your fever." your eyes met and you sighed. "Look— the chains weren't my idea. I was against it. But after what happened yesterday the Widow thought that keeping you chained would be safer for me. But I promise I have no intention of hurting you." you spoke. "I might even take them off, if you cooperate. I only want to help you get better." You stated matter of factly. Castor scanned your face in search of any indication that you might be lying, but all he saw was genuine concern. "Do you trust me?" you asked. He stayed silent for a moment before nodding slowly. He was in so much pain, he really had nothing to lose. You nodded your head back at him and moved, ready to stick the needling in his arm. "Ready?"

"Yes."

You smiled softly, trying your best to get him to relax as you prepared the injection site on his shoulder. Castor looked away and winced a little when the needle was inserted, but you were quick to pull it out after it was emptied, the medication being easily injected into his body.

"All done." you smiled as you held a compress on the area, wiping off the tiny spot of blood before throwing it away. "Now get some rest. It'll probably knock you out for a while."

"Wait." he interrupted as you were about to leave, causing you to turn to him.

"My name. It's Castor." you smiled.

"It's nice to meet you, Castor."

You came back everyday for the next several weeks, repeating the same process. You tended to his wounds and gave him the medicine he needed to ease the pain caused by the Gift. Castor was still reluctant at first, and it went like this for a couple more days until he warmed up to you and eventually trusted you fully.

It would be safe to say the two of you became close, much closer than either of you would have ever expected.

"Y/N, may I speak to you for a moment?" The Widow asked, peeking from the door to your room. You looked up from your book and nodded before motioning for her to come in. She noticed Azra's book in your hands and took a seat across from you. "Can you read it yet?"

"No. Nothing about this book makes sense." you sighed with a shrug, handing it to her. She nodded but didn't say anything. You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms across your chest as you rested your back on the head of your bed. "I suppose this isn't the main purpose of your visit."

"You know Castor won't stay here forever, do you?" she told you.

"I know. Why?"

"You won't see him again once he's gone." she insisted. You sighed softly, rubbing your face with your hands.

"I know that too, Mother."

"I'm not blind to the feelings you have for each other. But I need to make sure you know this thing you two have going on can't and won't last forever." she spoke softly, reaching to take your hand in hers. You nodded and gave her a small smile. There was no point avoiding the topic or lying about it.

Castor's recovery was going great, you even started to believe he was close to being completely healed.

But that was until his fever suddenly spiked.

You didn't know how or why it happened so suddenly. One day he was completely fine, the next he was laying almost unconscious on the bed, his breathing uneven as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Y/N...I don't think there's anything else we can do for him." Tilda spoke softly, her hand resting on your shoulder comfortingly.

"Yes. Yes we can. We need to bring a doctor, they'll know what to do. This is what we should've done since the beginning." you spoke firmly, applying a cold cloth on his forehead, your own breathing becoming uneven as your anxiety grew.

Castor whined and mumbled something unintelligible as more tears fell down his cheeks. He slowly moved his head to the side, his tired eyes meeting yours, silently begging you to make the pain go away.

"You're gonna be okay. I'm right here." you cupped his cheek with your hand, your thumb brushing it softly as you looked back at him, a tear escaping your eye.

"Quinn murdered our only doctor, Y/N. You know that."

"Then bring the doctor's daughter! She'll know what to do." you looked over your shoulder. "Tilda, please, I can't...—" you inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as you spoke. "I can't lose him. Okay?" you admitted in a whisper.

Silence fell in the room, only the sound of Castor's breathing filling it.

"Y/N...I really don't think that's a good idea." Tilda watched you with a pained expression. At those words you tried to keep more tears at bay, but your efforts were vain.

Tilda knew how close the both of you had grown, but most importantly she knew you had already lost way too many people in your life. With a small sigh, she eventually took her final decision before exiting the room.

"I'll see what I can do."

[Time skip : two weeks]

As soon as Tilda walked in the room you rushed to her and wrapped your arms around her neck, hugging her tight. She had done everything in her power to get Castor the help he needed, persuading the Window to get in contact with Veil. Both women had a long discussion about it and The Widow had to do a lot of convincing but thankfully, Veil agreed on offering her help.

After days of intense treatment and sleepless nights, Castor was finally out of danger.

"Thank you. Thank you so much for doing this." you whispered, holding her close.

"You're welcome, Y/N. I'm glad he's okay." you smiled at her, nodding before pulling away to give Veil the same grateful embrace.

"Thank you, Veil. I owe you."

"It's nothing. You did a great job at keeping him alive yourself. He probably wouldn't have made it this far without the medicine you gave him." she pulled back and looked over to the sleeping boy next to you. You smiled and nodded slowly, thanking her one last time and bidding her farewell as she left. Tilda followed, leaving you alone with Castor.

You sat on the chair next to his bed and took his hand into yours, holding it while you waited for him to wake up, which he did after about 10 minutes.

"Hey." you smiled, reaching over to cup his cheek, softly stroking his scars. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." he mumbled as he tried to sit up, wincing as he did. His head was still hurting from the heavy medication.

"Hey, easy." you placed a hand on his chest, easing him back down. Castor groaned, eyes closing as his head fell back against the pillow. Moving from your sitting position, you poured him a glass of water and then returned to his side. "Here."

Taking the glass from you, he only took a few sips before already giving it back. After that, a small silence settled between you two.

"Are you sure you're okay?" you murmured. He didn't answer immediately, seemingly deep in thoughts.

"Why are you so good to me, Y/N? When I first got here, you never tried to get revenge for what I did to you. You've always been here for me, taking care of me when I never did anything to deserve half of it. Why?" you smiled, looking down at your hands.

"Because I believe you're not like Pilgrim." You stared at each other in silence for a couple seconds.

"He took care of me when no one else would. He's a good person, Y/N."

At that you chose not to answer, not wanting this to grow into an argument since Castor was always quite defensive when it came to Pilgrim. Instead you just smiled and squeezed his hand, letting him know that he would always have you.

And before you knew it, it was time to let him go.

Sitting by the window, you watched as everyone got ready for Pilgrim's arrival.

"Are you okay?" a voice interrupted your thoughts. Nodding, you quickly wiped your wet cheeks and put on a smile, holding your arms close to yourself.

"Yeah."

Castor smiled sympathetically as he took a step closer, crouching in front of you to try and meet your gaze. He was doing much better than the past weeks. His skin had regained its normal color, his eyes were brighter than you'd seen them before. And after a long, exhausting fight, his fever was gone for good, and he was ready to be sent back where he belonged. You lowered your head, only for him to tenderly lift your chin.

"As soon as we find Azra..." he started, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'll come back for you."

"Castor..."

"I know. I know you think there's no safe haven. But I promise you it's worth believing in."

"Cas...even if you do find Azra, Pilgrim will never let me through. I've never had faith in it, and I still don't. We're supposed to be enemies." you gave him a sad smile, reaching out to brush your thumb over his cheek.

"I'll find a way. You're my family now, Y/N."

You ran a hand through his hair, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his forehead and nodding against it. Your eyes were tightly shut, a couple tears falling freely.

"Castor, Y/N..." the Widow's voice interrupted. "It's time."

You felt Castor's hand brush against yours as you walked side by side, then your fingers intertwined. The two of you walked close to each other, making sure no one could see them.

With one last squeeze, he let go of your hand and walked over to Pilgrim. The older man pulled him into a fatherly embrace, his face filled with relief and gratefulness before pulling away.

"Thank you for taking care of my son and bringing him back to me." Pilgrim spoke, looking at you then the Widow. You nodded politely before glancing over to Castor who was now greeting his sister, Nix. You had to fight back tears as your eyes met one last time. You nodded at him with a bittersweet smile before turning on your heels and walking away.

6 months later

It was the third time in three weeks that the Sanctuary had been attacked. You were still completely clueless as to who you were fighting against, but after so many attacks in such a short amount of time they sure had something against the Widow. It was something you were used to though, and you considered yourself lucky that other clans were here to help because without them most of your people would've been dead by now. The losses were heavy this time, though. The enemy had great advantage over you and a dozen of your people along with those from the helping clans had been killed or badly injured.

You were gathering the bodies when you were startled by a familiar voice coming from behind you, causing you to still. You waited an instant before turning around, your eyes searching for the source.

And then you saw him.

"Castor." you breathed out, a smile spreading over your lips as you made your way to him. As soon as you made eye contact you lunged forward, dropping what you were doing and throwing your arms around his neck with a relieved laugh. Castor's arms immediately found their way around your waist wrapping tightly around you as he pulled you close. You pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, your thumb rubbing underneath his eyes and down his cheek, tracing his scars with your fingertips.

"What are you doing here? Why— Why didn't you come back sooner?" you asked in a bittersweet tone.

Your questions were left unanswered as he pressed his lips against yours, his hands immediately moving to cup your face. You were taken aback at first but eventually you gave in, closing your eyes. You lips comfortably moved in sync, allowing the kiss to last for a moment. Now was probably not the best time for this to happen, but you couldn't care less.

"He killed Nix." he murmured after parting from the kiss.

"What?"

"Pilgrim. He killed her." your hand rested on his cheek, stroking it soothingly. He was on the verge of tears, fighting hard to stop them from falling. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, your eyes searching for his. So many questions were running through your head. Why did Pilgrim kill Nix? She was like a daughter to him. Did she betray him? Did Castor come back here to find shelter? However you knew the wound was too fresh for you to start asking questions as his eyes betrayed the pain he was trying to hide.

You looked around yourself to see if anyone needed help, but it seemed like everything was being handled. You locked eyes with the Widow from afar and you exchanged a nod.

"Follow me." you grabbed Castor's hand and led him inside the Sanctuary, locking yourself in a room. As soon as you were away from the chaos you pulled him in for a proper hug, taking a deep breath of relief as you held him close to yourself.

"I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too." he murmured, his eyes closing for a moment as he tightened his hold around your waist and finally allowed himself to cry. "You were right about everything." he chuckled sadly, causing you to pull away. "Azra was nothing but a made up lie. If it ever existed, it doesn't anymore. It was wiped out with the Old World." you nodded understandingly before leaning over to press a lingering kiss to his cheek.

"It's not your fault Cas. You couldn't know."

"No, but I could've listened to you."

You smiled sympathetically, caressing his cheeks gently with your thumbs.

"You trusted Pilgrim. He was your family, I wouldn't have expected you to choose me over him." you whispered.

Then a comfortable silence settled between the two of you. Nothing more needed to be said, not yet, you were both happy to have found each other again.

"Have you found another Baron?"

"No, i'm on my own. Nix and I were still looking for one when..." he paused.

"It's okay." you interrupted, cradling his face in your hands and pressing your forehead against his. "You don't have to explain." he nodded, closing his eyes. "You're safe with me now. I promise."

#blueeyeddean

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brycelahelalover · 4 years ago

Text

Relightning the spark

Pairing: Bryce × f!MC( Tesse Sterling )

Author's note: Hello!! I'm back witn another fanfic, though this one is going to be special to me. If you want to know why, stick around to the VERY end to know. Enjoy.

Warning: Angst.

Part 2 Part 3

The past

"... and Cinderella and Prince charming lived a happy life together. The end." Tesse concluded, closing the book.

"That story is.. lame." Snarked Keiki, rolling her eyes.

"But you chose it..." Said Bryce.

"Yeah, in hopes that it might be less lamer than the movie. But jokes on me, it was worse.. I don't know why mom insists on buying me this kind of books. I'm really not interested in reading stories about a Prince swiping the poor women off her feet." Responded Keiki while rolling her eyes again.

"You're a six years old girl." Said Bryce.

"Your point being?" Asked Keiki while arching her brow.

"You should like this kind of stories. About the princes and princesses and whatnot." Said Bryce like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"She SHOULDN'T like anything. And I agree with her. All Disney princesses stories are sexist. They all represent the girl as this fragile creature that needs the help of the man to get out of her miserable life." Added his girlfriend.

"See? Tesse gets it." Said Keiki while giving her brother a pointed look.

They continued bantering over which one of the Disney movies is less sexist when they heard a loud bang followed by a scream.

"Is that your mom?!" Tesse asked Bryce frantically.

"Yeah.. Tesse, Keiki, you two should stay here and lock the door after i leave." He said while looking in the door's direction.

"What? No, I'm coming with you." Replied Tesse, following him up from the foot of Keiki's bed.

"Tesse.."

"Bryce, no. I'm coming with you. End of story."

"You're a real pain sometimes, but fine... Keiki, you stay here. Quiet. We'll come back as soon as we can, alright?" Said Bryce.

"Okay." Responded Keiki, looking scared.

Bryce kissed his sister's forehead and then went and opened the door slightly, checking the hallway. Tesse followed him but not before giving the little girl a tight hug.

"You're going to be alright, okay?" She told her before her and Bryce left the room.

Bryce and Tesse walked the rest of the hallway quietly, as to not alert the intruder. But what they saw upon making it to the staircase was still up to debate, whether be it better than a burglar or not.

The grand hall was filled with armed police men. All of whom surrounding Akoni Lahela. Bryce's father.

"What's going on?" Said Akoni while one of the police officers is putting handcuffs on him, sounding enraged. But if you strain a little bit, you could hear the panic in his voice.

"Akoni Lahela, you are under arrest for charges of insider trading." Said the oldest looking officer, giving off an air of authority.

"WHAT?" Said everyone at the same time.

"There must be a mistake.." Said Akoni, looking around frantically as if searching for an escape.

"Save the act, Lahela. I'm not interested in hearing whatever story you're going to come up with." Said the officer, sounding even more agitated than before.

Then he turned to Bryce's mother, Rosalind, and addressed her.

"Mrs. Lahela, your presence is requested at the police station tomorrow."

"I didn't do anything." Rosalind said.

"That's still up for debate. Now.." The officer said before mentioning to the one holding Akoni to follow him.

Bryce ran down the stairs, stopping before the older policeman.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry but there has to be a mistake.. he.. we.. how?"

The officer laid a hand on Bryce's shoulder, speaking more softly.

"Son, your father DID that."

He patted the teenager's shoulder before turning to his father.

"Come on, off we go."

"I want to call my lawyer." Said Akoni through gritted teeth.

"Don't worry, Lahela. You'll get your call. Though not before you're put in a cell." He replied while leading the way out of the door.

Soon, their voices were replaced by the roaring engine of the retreating police cars and the grand hall became empty expect for Tesse, Bryce and his mother.

"Mom? What were they talking about?" Asked Bryce.

"Why are you asking me? I know nothing about that. Now.." Rosalind said before turning to Tesse.

"You're still here? Don't you have a home to go back to?" She added, turning up her nose to the girl.

"Don't you talk to her like that!" Said Bryce, glaring daggers at his mother.

"Bryce, it doesn't matter.." Said Tesse.

Indeed it didn't, since Rosalind was already marching up the stairs, looking like.. well, like someone whose husband didn't get arrested just a few minutes ago.

Tesse squeezed Bryce's hand, drawing his attention back to her.

"It's okay, and I should go home anyway."

"You can stay if you want to.." Said Bryce, drawing her to his arms.

"Nah, I really should go. Unless I want MY mom to rip me a new one." She said, hugging him back.

"Alright, I'll take you back, we should check on Keiki first though."

30 minutes later, they were standing in front of Tesse's house. They both got off the motorcycle and started walking towards the door in silence, holding hands. Upon making it there, Tesse stopped and then turned to her boyfriend.

"Do you want to come in and talk about.. earlier? I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind."

"Nah, I'd rather sleep it off."

"You sure?"

"Yup."

"I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, I'll come pick you up like usual."

He said before bringing her lips to his in a sweet kiss after which Bryce turned and marched back to his bike. Tesse watched his retreating back before going inside.

The next day, upon setting their feet down into the school grounds, the stares and dirty looks started. It's like everyone decided that they were the most important people in the planet. True, Bryce and Tesse were among the "popular kids" but they weren't popular enough to claim this much attention. And Bryce knows what changed that.

"Everyone is looking at us." Said Tesse, looking between all her fellow students that are surrounding them.

"Of course they are." Replied her boyfriend.

"What do you mean?"

"You really need to start watching some news."

At her shrug, Bryce continued.

"The news of my father's arrest and the reason why got aired this morning. Everyone probably saw the headlines."

"Oh my god, Bryce. Are you okay?"

"As well as you'd expect."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nah, plus the bell just rang so we should hurry up."

Tesse cast a worried glance toward her boyfriend before they made their way towards class amongst all the whispers and dirty looks and pointed fingers which lasted the whole day and seemed to intensify with every new one. But what bothred Bryce the most were the comments Tesse was receiving from her supposed friends and practically every other person in school. He didn't care that much about the comments he was receiving, or didn't care as much as he can, since he felt a responsibility for what his father did. He couldn't say anything, especially to the kids who claimed that his father's deeds ruined their lives. But to have Tesse on the receiving end of that kind of treatment as well, that wasn't fair to her.

One of the times Bryce was present when few of the remarks were thrown at her was the Monday leading to prom. The two girls were pretending to be whispering behind their hands even though their voices could be heard clearly from Bryce and Tesse's spot just a few feet away.

"Isn't she planning to break up with him?" The first girl asked.

"Why would she?" Replied the second girl with a question of her own.

"His dad is a criminal."

"She's probably a part of what they did."

Bryce couldn't hold it in anymore. He turned to the girls, giving each of them a glare that could melt steel.

"Oh for goodness sake, would you two cut this rubbish.."

He could feel Tesse's grip in his elbow, trying to get his attention.

"Bryce, it's fine.."

"What? No, Tesse. It's not fine. Did you hear what they were saying about you?"

"Well, that's rich coming from the guy who refuses to speak up about himself."

"That's different."

"No, it's not." She said before sliding her backpack on her shoulder and making her way toward her next class.

And from there on out, Bryce tried to be with her as much as he can, even though Tesse wouldn't let him speak for her, not even once to the comments that were getting even harsher by the day.

It was the night before prom when he decided what he should do.

"Wanna go to our spot?"

Bryce sent the text that was answered a few minutes later.

"Sure."

"I'll come pick you up."

A few minutes later, Bryce was driving his bike to Tesse's house. And then they were making their way to their "spot" on companionable silence.

It was a cliff that overlooked Maui. They found it on their third date sophomore year. It wasn't that far from Tesse's home. Upon making it there, Bryce parked his motorcycle so that they can lean on it while looking at the view in front of them.

After a few beats, Tesse turned to him with a smile on her face.

"So, you ready for tomorrow?" She asked.

"About that.." He said while running his hand through his shoulder long hair.

"Yeah?"

"Tesse.. I don't think I can do this anymore." He whispered, barely keeping his tears at bay.

"What?" She said in a quiet voice.

"I think we should call it quits." Replied Bryce while looking at anything but her.

"Bryce.. are you joking?" Tesse said in a voice that betrayed the fact that she was trying to hold in her sobs as well.

"No."

"Why? Three years, Bryce. What could've made you do this now." She said, the tears having already escaped.

"Tesse, I'm not the person for you."

"And how do you know that?"

"Tesse, my dad is a criminal."

"I'm aware. And you're telling me that why? Bryce, I'm dating you, not your dad."

"Yeah. But as long as we're going to be together, you're going to be hurt from what people are going to say and your name is going to be dragged through the mud alongside mine. And you don't deserve that, Tesse. You deserve only the best." Bryce said, clutching her upper arms.

"But If the best isn't you, i dont want it." Said Tesse through sobs.

"Believe me, you don't to be with me right now." Said Bryce before kissing her forehead.

"Bryce, no.." Said Tesse, clutching his shirt in her fists.

Bryce extracted himself from her grasp before he climbed his bike and drove off into the distance. Leaving a broken heart in his dust while trying to convince himself that he did the right thing.

A/N: Hi, again. So this fanfic is going to have 2 parts, maybe more, I don't know. So as I said earlier, this fanfic is special to me because it's a collab between me and @tyrilsnightbloom who is going to be writing the next part.

P.S: want to be tagged? Tell me😊.

Tagging: @tyrilsnightbloom

#Bryce Lahela #Bryce Lahela fanfiction #Bryce×f!MC #choicesstoriesyouplay #PixelberryChoices #ChoicesOpenHeart #Bryce Lahela angst

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theangrypokemaniac · 5 years ago

Text

@its-whitetomorrow

I appreciate that you take the time out of your day to read my witterings, and respond to them in detail, but I'm somewhat intellectually limited and it takes a while to write an answer.

The final one is a bit of a problem. The original post is long, your bit is long, and my addition is probably twice both put together.

Did you know Tumblr has a limit: no more than two hundred and fifty text blocks per post? I discovered this from experience, unsurprisingly.

I think the only solution is to split it across several posts.

I wasn't going to say anything, but I suppose I should.

I started this blog last May, to relieve the boredom of my main embarrassment, whose only likes (all three of them) were from porn bots.

It wasn't even meant to be about Pokémon. I'd left the fandom years previously. It was odds and ends, but I happened to find a few silly screen shots so wrote a couple of joke remarks, not expecting a ripple of interest.

Within a couple of hours I got more notes than t'other's managed even to this day. I had the idea this was where I was more at home, so I started taking it seriously.

My pseudonym was just daft thing I'd made up previously, to reflect that, whilst still in love with old days, I'm not exactly pleased with how it's gone.

I thought it might stand out as memorable, plus I like acronyms, so it affords me the opportunity to call myself 'T.A.P.'

In the early days the focus was on the 'maniac' aspect. Anger as a description didn't fit at all. The farther back you go, the more stupid and clownish it gets. It's not been like this all the way through!

Seriously, it used to be an entertainment blog, designed to make people laugh. It's all ages: no swearing, no porn, nothing to put anyone off.

(This post under discussion contains the only profanity I've ever deployed. I thought saving it up might add some oomph.)

I mean it, it's was all light-hearted ridicule. Every so often, there would be a slightly cutting remark, but mild compared to now.

Then, last September, someone I spoke to regularly, who assured me we were friends, suddenly cut off all contact.

At first I wasn't aware of it, but by October it became too glaring a silence to ignore.

I thought rifts started because of massive disagreements, but as far as I remembered our last exchange ended normally.

I found out by accident that the reason for it was because I am repugnant and morally inferior and so swollen with my own ego that the existence of others doesn't register. Instead they are but soulless droids built to worship the great T.A.P. mollusc.

Well that was news to me. I had no idea I came across like that. As far as I knew, I was on my best behaviour when we interacted.

I was polite. I tried to be ingratiate myself. I kept talk to the fandom. I didn't pry. I attempted humour when the opportunity arose.

I thought I'd done all I could to be liked, but apparently I hadn't. It was a revolting experience for them, for all of saying they loved me and I was 'honey'.

It really, really, really got to me, and the feeling hasn't abated, if anything it's worse.

As I said, I don't know what I did wrong, and because I don't, I can't mend my ways. If I am this repellant waste of flesh I'd like to change, but if I'm not told my offence, what am I meant to do?

If what I thought was the best I could be wasn't good enough, and instead was so sickening I don't deserve their presence, then I have no idea how to interact with people.

Maybe every time I respond to someone, thinking I'm at worst, civil, is really grotesque conceit, because my arrogance is so extreme I'm not even aware it's there. In my head it sounds normal.

It'd be too easy to scoff that they were the one with the problem, but, given all the arguments that happen in life, it can't always be someone else's fault. It's got to be you at least once.

They obviously think they were justified, so who's to say they weren't?

You may say not to let it worry me, that I should just get over it, and you'd be totally right. Being bothered makes me feel pathetic and petty on top of the rest, but this is me you're talking to, not a sane person. Self-hatred is more instinctive to me than breathing.

I always dwell on the negative. If one hundred people were assembled, ninety-nine of whom declared me the most wonderful being ever to live, and one remarked I wasn't all that special, it's him I'd remember.

It's called ghosting because that's what happens. There comes a moment when you accept that, no, it's over, rejected again, and it's like realising I'd died, and had been gone for a while.

Except I hadn't noticed the process, so I was always dead in a way, and they spoke to the silvery silhouette left behind, until that too dispersed into untraceable nothingness. Again, the silence is my fault for dying, not theirs.

I feel there's no point in messaging anyone, because I'll only disgust them too. Some blogs encourage contact, and when I see it I always think:

Yeah, but they don't mean YOU.

If it's another person I already spoke to, I can't shut up. I bombard them with text in the hope they know I don't think they're a menial droid. Every one I immediately regret, and wish I could take back, because that will irritate them until I'm just a sad, nagging past.

The Ghost-Maker used to reblog 99% of my work. This dropped to nothing overnight, so not only am I worthless, but so is everything I do.

Posts G.M. didn't like got 0-5 notes. Ones they did had 20+. Many a time, it took their reblog for anyone else to notice.

It was like others used that blog as a filter to pull the fool's gold from the murk of this one. Once their favour evaporated, so did a lot of the goodwill from elsewhere, so it's was as if Tumblr agreed I was scum.

Saying that above just shows they were right, because it takes one smug bastard to believe their existence registers with anyone else.

Please don't think I'm demanding likes, that my stuff deserves them, although as I'm arrogant I am. It's just that 99% to 0% is a bit of a fall.

Up til then, I held back much of what I thought about the current state of the anime, as they liked it, but now I have no reason to stop.

If I'm to be accused of all these vices I might as well have them. I'm dead, so who cares what I say? No one listens to a ghost.

It's not that I'm unconcerned if I upset anyone, it's just the truth that I don't matter enough for what I write to be valued enough to offend.

As a ghost, I think of this blog as invisible. It's there, but not really, so how can anyone mind?

Incidentally, the first week I was here I got blocked by someone who hates all fans from the Nineties. I don't care about that, as they sound like a cretin, and I'd have to be defective to gain their approval.

I just want to say I find that moronic. I don't hate new fans at all. I wouldn't block someone because we disagreed.

Blocking denies people access to your blog, stating they don't deserve your ART. That's arrogant to me.

Blocker likes Ghost-Maker, but...

Ever since around October, I've progressively become angrier and angrier. Whenever I'm here or Pokémon enters my head, it just reminds that I'm pond slime, about the most crude, malformed half-life freak you can envision.

I don't like being here anymore. I keep intending to leave, the site and the fandom, and set fire to it all before I go, wipe away the slug trail to spare people's stomachs.

I kept quiet until now, but holding it in just made it more intense. If I may describe myself in ridiculously flattering terms, I feel like a shaken champagne bottle, but the cork is welded in, so the only option is for the glass to shatter.

If anyone's reading this, wondering where the fun went, well this is why I flipped. The red mist won't clear. I can't see beyond it.

I won't name Ghost-Maker, because I don't want to start anything, plus most will take their side. They may see this as they still rifle round these parts occasionally for posts that aren't mine.

Well done, Ghostie. You're the lucky one. We'll never meet and you haven't seen me. Pity the poor sods I've encountered. There must be vomit trails across the land provoked by my vile condition. I wasn't aware of this until you let me in on the secret.

There's an English television presenter called Caroline Flack. She killed herself yesterday and everyone loved her. I feel guilty that I'm alive and she's not.

#Pokémon #Tumblr

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aces-to-apples · 6 years ago

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DVD commentary meme! Whatever part of Family Before Honor you'd like to talk about, please!!

Alrighty, since there isn’t much of it posted and chapter two isn’t very long to start with, I’ll just do that then. Author’s commentary on chapter two of “Family Before Honor” beneath the cut:

Two Months

Domestic: 1) of or relating to the home, the household, household affairs, or the family. 2) no longer wild; tame.

I suppose the first thing to note is the pattern of the chapters and summaries—each chapter, and there’s only going to be three, is titled based on how long it’s been in the fic since Cut’s death and each summary is the theme on which the chapter is built. “Two Months” is more meant to bridge the gap between “Two Hours” and “Two Years” and is based around Rex making the transition from military life to civilian life. Settling into a rhythm with Suu and the kids that works for everyone.

Rebuilding the La’Cuane farm is an undertaking both larger and smaller than Rex had first estimated.

Ah, yes, “La’Cuane”. Because fuck Dave Filoni. Before I watched The Deserter, I was under the impression that Lawquane was most likely pronounced more like “lah-kayn” but, as is my custom, when I learned the “official” version I said “nah, fuck that” and came up with my own. So, “Lawquane” is a mistranslation as so many Basic Twi’lek names are. Because fuck you, Dave.

The first few days are an unending game of hurry-up-and-wait: for Republic forces to finish routing the Seps, for Jesse and the boys to come back to retrieve him when he didn’t answer their comms, for Suu to sniffle and stutter her way through the story they’d cooked up to explain his ‘death.’

I just don’t like “Seppies”, okay? I just don’t. “Covies” I’ll accept from Halo, because Marines, but “Seppies”, “tinnies”, and “shinies”? Mmm, how ‘bout the fuck not?

Then waiting for various scans of the remains to come up positive for Fett’s genetic material, for ‘his’ chip to come up too damaged to ping as more than simply present, for Kenobi—well, it turns out that Kenobi had a softer heart than Rex had ever thought. From what Rex spies, he looks damn near devastated for a few heartbeats after Suu tells him the news.

Departing from @norcumii’s version, “Dead Men Tell No Tales”, I decided that it’s too early in the war for Rex and Obi-Wan to have actually started a romantic relationship and kept it as more of a “what if” kind of thing for them to regret. More pining, that way ;)

Then the children march up to him and Jesse, carrying Rex’s armor in their undersized little arms, and Jek loudly proclaims that they want to keep Rex’s bucket. “He was like a, a superhero,” Jek says earnestly, and next to him Shaeeah nods vigorously. “He was so brave and he saved us from the monsters and we’ll take really good care of it.”

Listen, the La’Cuane kids are just insanely cute, okay? And according to Legends (I think?) they were aware enough that they had several million uncles out there in the universe that Shaeeah wrote a book about it, so they absolutely grew up with stars in their eyes about their extended family.

Suu makes a little scene of chastising them, calling it disrespectful, saying that his brothers should have his helmet, it was only right. Rex is dazed by the layers of manipulation they all go to just for him to keep his face; he’s even more dazed by how well it works.

Kenobi clearly melts at the display but looks to Jesse, Kix, and Hardcase for the final decision. Rex can read the silent conversation between them as clear as day. When Jesse crouches down to gaze intently into the visor of Rex’s helmet, he knows the children have won.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Jesse says decisively, and it’s settled. Quieter, he adds, “I think he’d like that…”

If Rex wasn’t so traumatized right now, he’d be absolutely indignant that Jess just blatantly lied like that. How dare you slander the good name of Captain Rex, good Lieutenant, by implying this small child whom he only knew for a few hours and “died” to protect should keep his face when Kenobi is standing over there trying not to cry. Come say that to his helmet, coward!

Rex doesn’t think about where Cut’s bucket had ended up.

I like throwing out lines that if you think about them for longer than it takes to read them then they might become incredibly depressing. What did happen to his helmet? What happened to his armor?

Jek clutches the helmet to his chest in victory and Shaeeah smiles sweetly and Suu has this fond, exasperated look on her face that Rex assumes comes standard with being eyn buir. The children magnanimously offer the rest of his armor to the men, stacked as neatly as they could manage. Rex stares as Kenobi helps pack it away with the supplies for safekeeping, subtly pocketing his left vambrace as he does.

I’m gonna be honest, at this point canon and fanon have merged so much for me that I don’t even know what’s true and what’s not. Just go with it.

Rex doesn’t think about maybes and what-ifs.

Then Kenobi turns back to Suu and his gaze goes past her to the ruined farmhouse and Rex gets the feeling that Kenobi’s about to do one of those terribly un-Jedi-like things he had never, ever admitted to sometimes doing. He pulls out a credit chip and Rex knows.

He has to turn away from the scene and take careful breaths. Kenobi wasn’t perfect—Cody has spent hours venting to Rex and Wolffe and whoever else managed to meet up at once about his hypocritical, sanctimonious Jedi—but just like Skywalker, just like Tano, just like Windu and Yoda and Secura and every other Jedi, he had his moments of breath-stealing goodness.

Listen, I love some Jedi characters to death, but I have—had, now that Tumblr filters out posts with words like “fuck” and “wank” in the tags when you search for them and pretends they don’t exist—a #fuck the jedi order tag for a reason. The narrative tends to frame both the Jedi Order and most Jedi characters as Righteous and Good, while also having them commit pretty heinous acts and tossing the audience horrific implications/pieces of information at the same time. I’ve said it somewhere before, but The Clone Wars wants to have its “deep, edgy, grimdark exploration of war” and eat its “fun, wacky space adventures” too and while we’ve all noticed the tonal whiplash that the show gives us, it plays hell with the narrative itself. Unspeakably bad shit happens in one arc, and nobody ever mentions it again. The Jedi control a slave army, and that’s Bad, but we’re told that they care about their troops and want to help them Later, which cancels out the Bad and keeps them Good Guys. In universe, it absolutely doesn’t work. We all know the Jedi pull some fuckshit every two weeks, so you bet your ass the clones know it too and routinely get sauced and rant about it to each other where no one can hear them. But they also can be extremely helpful and empathetic between three to five every other Thursday. Sorry, just mentioning #fuck the jedi order sends me off into a rant and I actually deleted a lot of other stuff from this part because Not Important.

Rex should’ve known his last act as a captain, and his first act as a free man, would be finally witnessing one of those moments.

And then Kenobi is gone, his brothers are gone, and the work begins.

- - -

It’s slow-going, and at times back-breaking, and it quickly becomes apparent that the nerve-damage Kix had warned about has set in good and proper. After the children have gone to bed, Rex and Suu go outside to have a rousing argument about what to do—the first of many on the horizon.

I know, I know, it’s common wisdom that disagreeing with your partner are normal but knockdown drag-out arguments Are Not and while I absolutely understand that, I come from a family with an absurdly large number of siblings that subscribe to the Taika Waititi School of Siblings and therefore it’s perfectly reasonable to shout yourself hoarse about some nonsense or other and get mad and stomp off and then two hours later throw a pillow at the other person’s head and say “hey dickhead come look at this funny post what’s for dinner later”. And as such that’s how every sibling relationship I ever write will function because I genuinely don’t understand siblings who don’t drag each other at every opportunity and then pop up around a corner like an awful gremlin to scare them at 2:30 in the morning just to fuck with them.

Suu demands they use part of Kenobi’s credits to pay for surgery to remove and replace the dead arm; Rex counters that he can function with only one arm, but none of them can function without a roof over their heads and walls to shield them from the elements. Suu says that they will contact a doctor she knows on the other side of the planet tomorrow and that’s final; Rex blinks, says understood, sir, and stands down.

The next morning, between frying eggs and waking the little ones, Suu apologizes for 'pulling rank’ on him. Rex can tell the words sit strangely in her civilian mouth. He accepts her apology and says nothing about how he hadn’t even noticed his own automatic reaction to her tone the night before, but. That was exactly how he’d reacted, wasn’t it?

When next they argue, about him ‘overdoing it’ and ‘exerting himself too much’, he’s ready for the gut-punching Commanding Officer Voice and shouts back when it’s his turn to talk. It works for them.

Listen, I don’t know about you, but when I hear certain tones of voice I automatically respond in certain ways. Like the vocal version of being full-named.

- - -

“White is death,” Rex explains once the final layer of base paint has settled on the plastoid. He runs his hand firmly down the prosthesis in its finalized form, from the ball of the synthetic shoulder to the tips of each finger. It’s as much to test that the molecules of paint bind properly as it is to get himself used to the difference. “White is the bones of those long gone. White is the snow that covers the fields in winter. It… stifles, and kills, but it’s also. Possibility, I suppose. White armor is shiny and new, but that just means it has yet to prove itself. You never know what you’re gonna get when you scratch beneath the surface.”

I had a lot more of @izzyovercoffee’s Mandalorian color theory stuff that I ended up cutting just because it didn’t really fit, but you should check them out because they’re suuuuuuper interesting. I love cultural worldbuiding shit like that.

Hanging on his every word, Jek and Shaeeah nod breathlessly. They watch as he picks up a foam brush and dips it into a small pot of 501st blue. He sets it to the very top of the arm and brings it down in a smooth, careful, practiced motion.

“Blue is reliability,” he continues. The unbroken line he draws down to the wrist is thinner than it was on his armor, but copying his armor isn’t the point; the point is to create something new out of its loss. “It’s faithfulness, and consistency. It’s the sky—the very air—and you can always in trust that.”

Listen, if you want subtlety, go read deadcat’s stuff. If you want to get bashed over the head with this shit, you’ve come to the right place.

Lastly, he picks up a fine detail brush and dips it into a second pot.

“This one is different,” he says eventually, gauging his little cadets’ avid expressions. “You use red to honor a parent and the word for ‘red’ in Mando’a is ge’tal—literally, ‘almost blood.’ It’s a complicated word, because to Mando’ade, your family isn’t always going to have the same blood as you. It might not be red at all—it might be green, or blue, or something else entirely. But with family, you’re always ready to spill others’ or your own in order to protect them; it’s about honor… and love.”

“Mom,” Shaeeah deduces, her voice quiet as a mouse as they all gaze at the sharp, cutting magenta that coats the brush.

Rex nods.

“Just so.” He twirls the brush around and offers it to them. “Now, what should we do with it?”

Listen, it’s very important to me that we cut that toxic masculinity shit out of Star Wars, stop linking pink to femininity, more important stop linking femininity to weakness, and ultimately I want to see more clones wearing pink. Pink flowers and curlicues mixed in with 501st blue on Rex’s sick robot arm? Sign me the fuck up.

—

Aaaaand that’s the Author’s Commentary on Chapter Two of Family Before Dishonor, hope you enjoyed!

#ask meme #dvd commentary meme #answered asks #by apples #norcumii #family before honor #star wars #the clone wars #captain rex #suu lawquane #sw fic

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disneydreamlights · 7 years ago

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So, I've figured out how you'd obtain Moogle of Glory in the MMO. After clearing Beast's Castle, you'd get a cutscene of Donald and Goofy crashing in Daybreak Town. After seeing this cutscene, if you enter then exit the Moogle Shop Menu. Doing that will trigger the cutscene where the Moogle's Keyblade scheme falls through, and the Keychain attaches itself to your Keyblade. Then you can complete the Moogle 'o Glory quest chain.

PLEASE ANYTHING IS FUCKING BETTER THAN THE MOG QUESTS.

I want to max out Moogle of Glory so bad. I literally need a Power Magic medal after pulling every Foreteller but Gula (and guilting Aced and Invi) but the MoG questline is so bad...and only easy to do in 0 AP. I hate it.

You'd actually obtain the Power Bangle after receiving the "Where's Chirithy?" Quest, upon entering the Fountain Square. You'd then get a Guilting tutorial. You'd get a hint that the Chirithy you were talking to isn't your Chirithy when you speak with your own Chirithy after completing the Guilting Tutorial and they have NO idea where you got the Power Bangle (with some foreshadowing since they have a minor, subtle freakout upon seeing that you have it). So yeah, there's that.

Tbh that foreshadowing should’ve been in the actual KHUx now I’m salt.

The Moogle Shop Menu would have buttons for each shop menu, one for Medals, one for Items, one for Furniture, and one for Spirit parts. There'd also be be a button for selling Medals, and a button for selling Keyblade Materials. The Spirit portion of the shop would have two banners that are always there where you can buy Rainbow parts for the Pupstar and Kitstar, plus the limited time banner for other Spirit Parts.

So, the Spirit would be unlocked through simple means, progress past a certain point in the story (not sure where yet, other than it being before Beast's Castle), then head to Daybreak Town. Cue obtaining the new Pet feature. As for the room? You'd unlock it in a Story Quest, after completing the first three Disney World arcs and returning to Daybreak Town, you would get the key to your room. Why a key when you have a Keyblade? To discourage you from abusing the Keyblade's unlocking powers!

Combining these two into both parts because they’re both pet things. I love the idea of a shop where I could buy the pet parts individually. Perhaps do the banners in the same manner as limited edition shop items, with the rainbow items being available for Munny (because let’s face it when you’re at the point I am in the game where you have quite a few million of it, Munny is useless) and having things worth spending Munny on besides evolving medals to guilt them would be nice.

Also the Daybreak Town thing is adorable and hilarious with the key, and if you ask me you actually should hold off on giving the pet until beating the Keyblade War. I think in the MMO since it’d probably go through KHX and KHUx that it would make most sense to not give the pet until the Union Leaders create it in the Unchained Realm.

So uh, I was thinking of an idea for a SUPER RARE Guilt Medal that's used to roll/reroll traits. While Fusing two of the same Medal would still be the best way to go, these SUPER RARE Medals would be an alternative for Medals you don't have duplicates of. It would cost more Guilt and maybe some Munny to use, however. Additionally, I don't know if it should be Phantom Aqua, DiZ, Robed Ansem, Sora's Heartless, or some other villain from the series. Do you have any ideas?

Hooded Ansem. It should be a character not represented yet but still significantly important and powerful within the series.

So, okay, when the Foreteller Deals arrive, everyone would receive a free Medal corresponding to their Foreteller. Each banner would have the "guaranteed in 5 draws", plus the chance of pulling one of the other 4 Foretellers (and Luxu, whom wouldn't have a banner). Luxu would be another Speed Medal. Sharing any of these Medals would change the music in the Player's room to "Dearly Beloved (Back Cover vers.). Players would be able to borrow Friend Medals for single-player portals.

Nonny you’re speaking my language I wasted over 40k jewels for Ava and granted, I got her, that’s 42k jewels I could still have an be well on my way to saving sixty for that Roxas out right now or the Xion dropping in a few weeks.

Okay, so I'm kinda torn on how I want the "Proud Mode" Keychains to be obtained. One way I was considering was having them be available in the "Item" portion of the Moogle Shop, where you can pull a random Keychain from the pool of the "Keychain" Banner. The other way was having Avatar Boards you unlock as you level up where you unlock them with Avatar Coins. I'm kinda torn between the two of them for obvious reasons

So, I think I figured out how I'd like the whole "Proud Mode" Keyblade thing to work. Basically, what if every Story Battle had a "Proud Mode" or something along those lines? I mean, that's pretty close to how canon does it, but seeing as how I've never beaten the first Shadow of the Proud Mode quests... But yeah, what if the first time you clear choice Story Battles in Hard Mode, you got one of the "Hard Mode" Keyblades?

I mean that’s basically how canon does it, but I think having them pull from a banner might be slightly better than just being avatar coins, so long as one Keyblade is guaranteed, but I think it should be available with Event Coins. We have so many event coins left at the end of every event (mine are in the thousands typically) it’d be nice to have something I can throw all those extra event coins at so they’re not wasted.

I also had an idea for the Organization XIII Medals inspired by the AWFUL "Organization XIII Revival" 1 day event. Basically, on the first day of every month, you'd be able to obtain Xemnas from Event Quests. On the second day, Xigbar, and so on and so forth until the fourteenth where you can get Xion. Shorter timeframe? Yes, but it's much less stressful than "Only thirteen days starting from the thirteenth with only ONE CHANCE ever!" Plus, Roxas and Xion medals from the monthly event!

I’d like that if only so I could guilt Xemnas and Xigbar since I failed to do it both times, but I feel like the event will come around again. This is a rerelease of them from the first time after all. Xion medals from any event are also very good to me. XD (Course I more want Xion’s hair but still)

Getting long so throwing the rest under read more for this group.

So, Anniversary Art #6 would depict Nightmare Chirithy in its boss form front and center with Maleficent and Pete at its right and left respectively and two robed figures standing behind them. Anniversary Art #7 would depict Phantom Chirithy in the Background with Maleficent and Pete standing in front of it, and three masked figures (whom players would later learn to be the brainwashed Union Leaders) standing before them. Both would be Reverse Medals.

NIGHTMARE CHIRITHY ART YES.

So yeah, in Unchained X (three whole years after players witnessed their plush companion freak out over the Power Bangle), we'd get a cutscene explaining why the NEW Union Leaders would allow the Power Bangles since they'd probably have learned what Guilt really is. The idea? Use the Medals to imprison darkness with the Guilting Process, and the Nova Attacks are a sort of exhaust to purge dark energy. Now if only they didn't task the TRAITOR with collecting and containing the purged darkness.

So yeah, the plan with that cycle was to keep the darkness from being able to take tangible form so that the Union Leaders could use the Lux the Dandelions collect to turn their dreams into new worlds, void of darkness. Seeing as the series happened, you can guess how well that turned out. But yeah, Lauriam collects all the Darkness and uses it to create Nightmare versions of the Spirits. Speaking of the Pets, as cool as the bottle animation is, spending Jewels for random parts is just, no.

Putting this under gameplay since guilting is a mechanic, but it does make a surprising amount of sense and explain a lot of the reason why the Union Leaders would actually think it’s okay to allow the Power Bangles and guilt in the Unchained Realm.

As somebody who wasted 3000 jewels just to get a full piggy set because she loves pigs and skipped the bunnies because she needed jewels, fuck yes. Do not charge me for my pigs, I don’t care if it’s cosmetic offer at least basics without premium currency and different unique colors for the jewels.

So, I'd probably make it so that you'd use Munny for more than just Fusing Medals. I'd have it so you have to spend Jewels to purchase Items, Medals, and SOME Avatar Boards, sure, but I'd have it so you spend MUNNY on Decorations (furniture), and MAYBE spend both Guilt and Munny on the random Spirit Parts because Spirits are Dream Eaters and those are made of Darkness (the Union Leaders think that they're turning Darkness into Light when they make Spirits. They're not) so continuity nod there.

YOU’RE LITERALLY TELLING ME THINGS SQUARE SHOULD’VE DONE YOU’RE MAKING THE DREAM KHUX HERE WITH MYNNY FOR DREAM EATERS. (How would you sell Guilt given how the mechanics work?)

So, looks like the "Rainbow" parts were exclusive to the Bunstar instead of being a third color type like I thought. So, no "rainbow" Pupstars and Kitstars in the MMO AU. But I probably would still have a permanent banner of some type in there, be it Chocostars or Frogstars or something. Maybe both? Anyway, the purpose of the Spirit is to eat Nightmares that might emerge from the Guilted Medals, with the ones that raise your Spirit's Rank the most being what Brain deems high-risk.

I think they might exist in JPUx, but who cares, do them anyways, they’d be cute. Also frog dream eaters would gladly have me throwing money at jewel boxes.

So yeah, I was thinking maybe Guilt Prizes would look like the Guilt Symbol, you know what I'm talking about, with each "level" of the symbol corresponding to one point of Guilt. like, Prizes that look like the level 1 symbol would reward 1 Guilt, the level 2 symbol 2 Guilt. The counter would use the Level 7 Guilt Symbol, however. Additionally, Guilt prizes would be inside the bottle in the "Blind Box" Spirit Part purchase animation, until the 3 lights fly in and turn them into a smoke cloud.

Honestly anything that could help with guilt would make anybody more likely to buy those pets blind boxes. XD Only reason I will spend more money on pets is dragon. I got reindeer and fox, that’s good enough.

So, in the MMO AU, the more powerful the attack, the more gauges it will cost. There wouldn't be any 0 SP Medals. As such, Kairi EX's REALLY broken Special Attack would be USELESS in a single player situation, since it would cost 15 SP Guage and only return 5. In Multiplayer, or when using Namine or the Special Attack Guage 2 Skill, on the other hand.

Actually, Illustrated Kairi EX would Coat 10 Guages, restoring 5. Regular Illustrated Kairi would cost 15 Guages and restore 10. They would still have the Canon affects, save for the damage since they would be Team Targeting Medals. Figured that would be more balanced.

Listen I like being broken but anything would be more balanced than what’s currently in the meta with Kairi EX. I actually literally only have my iKairi2 on Treasure Trove just because I don’t have anything better to put there. Actually that’s every Keyblade but Lady Luck now. XD

#MMO Anon #Anonymous #Heather Answers

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robininthelabyrinth · 8 years ago

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I wish you'd write a fic where, to save Len, Mick must find his soul/heart/presence in the void the Oculus left (somewhere in the wreckage of all the shattered timelines) and bring it back. AKA a coldwave Orpheus and Eurydice AU

sooooo this got away from me a bit

Fic: Sailor’s Sorrow (AO3 Link)Fandom: Flash, DC’s Legends of Tomorrow, Literary Allusions GalorePairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: Sailors tell the same tales everywhere you go.

Sometimes, they tell you how to bring someone home.

(an Orpheus and Eurydice retelling - and a bit more besides)

———————————————————————————

Sailors tell the same tales everywhere you go.

Different languages, different cultures, different people, but in the end it always comes down to them and the sea: stories of danger, stories of wonder, stories of strange things you can’t even begin to imagine.

Mick Rory was born on land, as far away from a coast as you could go in his continent.

Kronos was born to the sea.

The Time Masters belittle it when they call her the Time-Stream, their pathetic and futile attempts to make it less than it is, to make it something they can understand, something they can master.

She is no mere stream: she is Oceanus and Tethys, Varuna and Varuni, Anahita and Aegir and Ryūjin and Idliragijenget, all of them together, the great Tiamet who blankets the world entire. She is the Many-Named, the Inexorable, the Endless, Time in all its forms: all oceans come from her, and she is both the greatest of them all, and yet beyond them. She is the slow, rolling wave, the quiet calm, the swiftly rushing current that carries the many-mirrored universe ever forward in her hands, gentle and rough in turn, and she had no beginning but is in herself the whole of creation entire.

And, like all seas, there are those who sail her, and their stories.

It’s on a mission for the Waverider when he first hears of it.

It’s just another boring day in, day out, honestly. Travelling to different time periods rather loses its shine when all you ever see are people being people the same the world over, different architecture, different languages, different clothing, but the same nevertheless—the Tower of Babel was a lie: it did nothing, nothing at all, because in the end people are people no matter when and where and nothing can make that untrue—and not a single soul on the Waverider had Len’s passionate creativity, his bold recklessness, his sense of humor that could turn even the dullest outing into a thrilling adventure.

He’d rather be going to a grocery store to get a loaf of bread with Len than breaking into the Winter Palace with the Waverider.

For this mission, he was sulking around a pirate’s bar in his Kronos gear, faithfully recreated to his specifications by Gideon. The others on the ship had not believed him at first when he had said that his reputation preceded him and would still be valid, accepted by all, but he had proven them wrong, and now they used his dual persona in the same clumsy way they wielded all their weapons.

He opted not to mention that he was not the first Kronos, and that as he travelled through Time he had met others, time remnants, who saw him and looked upon the shape of their future. He had the feeling it would disturb them to know it, this crew that sails the sea of Time but never loves and fears her like a sailor ought.

Len would have laughed in devilish glee.

He misses Len like a stab wound that never heals.

Time is meant to cure all things, they say, but those that said that never rode Time’s currents and mastered its complex navigation, never found their bearings in a place that knows neither set time nor place, never flung themselves forward upon the currents of always and forever, never turned sail to the winds of Fate and spat in the face of destiny.

There are no lighthouses to guide the way through Time, no signs to show you the hidden shoals and reefs that could wreck the finest sailor’s ship, no; this sea so bright that no light could shine through but that of the human soul.

Len was a light so bright that he sometimes thought it should have been seen for miles, for years, for centuries.

His chosen rival, the Flash, shines bright and blazing as well. They should have had that, that glorious clash that echoes through the ages, brightness enough to light the path home for a thousand lost sailors’ souls.

But Len is gone: the light has gone dark, and he sails onwards blind and without a friend.

And then one day he hears it.

“They say it’s a black hole,” the old man croaks from the corner of the bar, his eyes bright and black and shining like beetles. He clutches his pitcher in his hand, but does not drink; he sits by the fire, old and wiry and just as mad as the rest of them, time-sailors all. “Brand new, where it oughtn’t be. Someone ripped that hole into Time herself, they say. The hole – the Endless Pit, the Time-Stop, the End of All Things. It is a pathway to the land of the dead.”

“By which you mean that anyone who follows that path ends up dead,” another younger man scoffs.

But the old man shakes his head. “It’s happened before,” he says. “It will happen again. A pit, a pathway: the brave may go forth through and seek their dead, and if they are brave and strong and true, they may call them forth once more. Time itself will yield up her prey to he who braves the deepest of the still waters.”

“It’s a myth,” a third man scoffs, drinking deep. “It’s nothing more than death-trap.”

“It’s true,” the old man insists. “I lost my love, who I thought I loved more than life itself, and I walked Charybdis to find her.”

“Did you bring her back?” someone asks.

He is somehow unsurprised to find out a few seconds later that it was him.

“I was not true,” the old man says bitterly. “I had a sister, a family, an audience, all waiting for me back home, and I loved them the more, though I would not admit it; I brought my love almost all the way out, but failed my tests, and she disappeared again into the deep.”

Hidden by his Kronos helmet, he swallows, staring at the old man, half-remembering a story Len once told him, a silly snippet of nothing, an amalgamation of tales that Len found in books, in movies, in libraries – nothing at all, and yet he remembers –

He strides forward abruptly, and grabs the old man’s hands, pulling them loose of the tankard and turning his fingers up.

The old man’s fingers are callused deep and hard, each one formed from years of savage beatings in the name of passion, and the weapon a string of gut in a harp of bone.

He looks at the man.

“Yes,” the old man hisses, voice low and silky, his beetle-black eyes shining with all the colors of an oil spill. “I am he of whom they speak, for I mourn my loss until the end of Time herself, and speak of it to all.”

“Heard they ripped you apart till only your head was left,” he replies. “In a fit of madness.”

“They did,” the old man says. “But they could not bear to lose me, or my gifts, and so they stitched me back together after. I can only tell you where the path is, and how to follow it; the trials are different for each man.”

“But you will tell me,” he says, knowing it to be true.

The old man looks upon him and there is pity in his eyes. “How could I not?” he asks. “You have lost everything – even your name.”

And he knows that the old man is correct.

Kronos is too tight a fit, a slave-name given to him by his masters to make others fear him; Mick Rory is too loose, for that name had become a half name, meant to cover one-of-two, Len-and-Mick, and not one alone. Heatwave is a name he held but briefly, a gift from a lover, an apology, never truly claimed as his own and yet it is all that he has left: the name, the gun, and the ring.

Len also left him a mission.

If he were better – if he were true – he would stay with them, he would do his job, he would return to the gray walls and the endless days of the Waverider, to mockery and to use, and suffer them gladly as fit punishment for having not been a better friend. But he is not better: he is true only to Len and not to Len’s wishes. He cannot go forth much longer without Len by his side.

He has already started to seek oblivion to return to Len’s side, and Len wouldn’t have ever wished for that.

“What can you tell me, then?” he asks, forsaking the last of that which he was given. He will not be returning to the Waverider today, not without Len; one way or the other, he will find Len once more.

The old man dips his head into a nod, a recognition, and the others in the bar forget them as if they had not been there, neither of them: these others do not have a black hole in their hearts to echo the one in reality, the sort that is needed to hear these words, this story; this story is not for them. Not yet, and if they are lucky, not ever.

The old man may be an omen of doom, a trap in glittering tempting form, as the sailors say, or he might be the guide to salvation.

At this point, he-the-nameless, he who was once Mick Rory and at last has hope that he may yet be that again, does not care.

“Tell me,” he says a third time, and there is some use to Len’s half-learned religion – to ask three times turns the key and opens the gate, and shows those who are truly willing from those whose will shall fade in time. “Tell me where to go.”

“You know where it is,” the old man says.

“The Vanishing Point,” he replies, finding that he does know, after all. He’s always known.

It is the path he must yet learn.

“You must follow the albatross to find your way,” the man says. “She will lead you to where you need to go. But be careful – if you err upon your path, the albatross will take from you until you have no more to give, and take yet more than that.”

Another memory drifts up, fragile and precious, Len younger and happy, letting him lay his head in his lap, and Len read to him aloud –

“Water, water everywhere,” he says, echoing words he had not known that he recalled. “And not a drop to drink.”

“There is a greater hell than death,” the old man says, and his voice is weary, his eyes distant. “And it is to be lost in in the sea of memory forever.”

He can imagine it well – every touch a memory, every sight and sound and smell summoning recollection, and yet never able to go forth into reality once more – and he does not need to imagine it at all.

It is his life every day, even now.

“There are those whom Time cannot heal,” the old man tells him, and he knows that it is true. They are the damned of Time, who have no succor but desperation. “I wish you luck.”

He nods, and goes.

Finding the ship is easy enough – the time pirates fear him and honor him and worship him, or at least the suit that he wears, and one is more than happy to convey him back to the ship which he molded to his own use long ago and left behind only for Len, a finer prize by far – and he takes it as no more than his due, stepping back upon her, master and commander once more.

He takes her sailing.

No rough-formed AI for him this time, no; no Barry Allen working wonders with code and the Speed Force, bringing the future forward in time in a backwards threading that only speedsters can do. He guides the ship himself, and its ghost is silent in honor of his task, and he rides the crest of the wave to his destination.

The Waverider’s crew sees only the utility of the current, not the beauty. Even Rip turned deaf ears to the tempest outside, Time Master to the depths of his soul even once he spurned the organization; he covered his eyes with maps and his ears with his ghostly navigator, and he turned his back upon it so as better to focus on his plots and his hopes and his dreams, which in the end were not so dear to him as he thought they were. And the crew Rip gathered, the crew Rip left behind – the crew knows nothing. They see a uniform green, a blank highway, where he sees swirls and knots, bends and currents and flows, roaring storms larger than Jupiter’s and little break-tides so gentle and sweet it could bring tears to your eyes.

They know nothing of it. He knows it all.

Some part of him was born to it.

He was - and here he smiles - always capable of handling extremes.

He contains multitudes.

He tacks and turns, steering expertly through the shoals and back into regular space far enough away that he can see that which is his goal, and oh, the sight of it is enough to shake a man’s soul.

Charybdis, the Boundless Whirlpool, the Storm of Storms, the Great Eater, Ship-Crusher, Life-Ender, the Hole In the Universe, the End of All Hope - the sailors give them many names.

Science calls them black holes.

Gravity roils its bindings here, pulled so close and tight as to squeeze out all else, physics free at last of the chains of rules. Life herself yields up her domain, energy over matter at last. The swirling mass churns around the outside, swirling as through in a drain, atoms tearing apart in the fury of the storm, colors beyond colors ever yet imagined by living being, and in the center – ah, in the center, there is nothing but a dark so deep that the eye cannot understand it. It is beyond black, it is nothing, and to contemplate it is to contemplate madness.

Nietzsche’s abyss: entropy itself, king of death, enthroned in all its glory in the land of the dead where even the universe itself cannot reach but can only pour itself into, draining itself of all that makes it what it is, stars and planets and even space itself, consumed into the nothingness.

Abandon all hope, ye who would enter here.

The sailors of Time fear this danger above all others.

When the Time Masters took him, they put him in a machine built along the models of this, the great monster of the deep, the fears that haunt the dreams of all living creatures. Their machine tore apart his soul into its component atoms to mix it back into Kronos, but the machine failed, where it never failed before, because all of him, every last part, down the atoms, was marked by Len. Len’s life, Len’s light, Len’s spirit, Len’s mind: they tore him apart, but they could not take that memory away from him. He might have forgotten it, for a time, but the raw star-stuff of his body always remembered.

The first time Kronos beheld a Great Eater, he did not think of the stories shared furtively in the nighttime dark of barracks of the Time Master’s captive hunters. He did not think of gravity, or of science, or even of myth and fairytales and children’s dark delight, nor even of the nightmares that can only be recalled in part when you awaken because to remember all is to lose that which keeps you together.

He thought instead of Len, smiling in delight, holding out in his hands a tape of such ancient vintage that all Kronos knew would sneer at it, and of Len’s hands, cool and long and perfect, fingers clenching against Mick’s as a horse got stuck in the mud and fell prey to sadness, of the stone giant that was eaten by the world-consuming Nothing.

That’s what he sees, when he looks upon the Storm of Storms.

Nothing.

Len.

It was that thought of Len that brought him from himself, that reordered what the Time Masters had mixed up, that gave him a mind of his own instead of a mere body to be puppeted at the Time Masters’ will. It was that thought – Len – that gave him hope.

If he is to find hope once more, he must find Len, and to find Len, he must offer up his soul to the Great Eater and hope against hope itself that the king of the damned will find his sacrifice worthy.

And if it doesn’t work, well –

He can’t imagine a better place to die than here, where Len burst open the dam of Time and let it run wild through the many worlds. Worlds of echoes, worlds of paths untrod, the roads more and less travelled, worlds so different in tone that life scarcely can recognize itself in the faces of its kin, worlds so similar that a single flap of a butterfly’s wings is all that changed.

The great sea of Time contains them all.

He waits, patient, his hand on the helm, guiding his ship’s prow to stillness, his mind on the waves, his ship beating back against the sirens of death, gravity herself singing temptation and pulling gently for him to come nearer, to come close, to come to them and never return. Up and down, bottom and top, strange and charm – those are the sirens that sit at the foot of Charybdis and smash the sailors who fall into their arms.

He will not fall.

The old man said he would be guided by the albatross.

He watches, sentinel and silent witness, as a nebulae barely born gives in to the lure of Fate and belches forth her many colors, streaming towards the hole but never touching it, watches as the Eater drinks down her fiery heart. No more stars will be born here; this is their graveyard.

This is where he lost his North Star, his guiding light, and it is here, he hopes, that he will find him once more.

He holds on hope, his hope, his Len, who may be there, in the land of the dead, waiting for him.

And then he sees her.

A white dwarf, soaring through space, arrowing straight towards the very center of the Pit, a glorious elongated streak of white with the wisps of the colorful nebulae drifting in her wake, draped along her shoulders like a gossamer-thin shawl, an angel descending into the deep as though to light the way by her very presence: Beatrice, she was called by one man; by another, Eärendil.

To the eyes of a third, she was an albatross.

His fingers clench upon the helm.

Len.

Where there is hope, there is life.

And oh, he hopes, he hopes, how he hopes.

His hands move on instinct, a sailor’s knowledge sunk deep in his bones, and he follows her trail, his ship flying into the cloud that she leaves behind her like a lighted path which he hopes will lead him to salvation. His ship floats between the gas and the debris, the shining rock and the glittering ice, and he follows her on her sure path into the deep.

He hopes.

He keeps as closely on her tail as he can, until his ship groans beneath him in protest at his nearness to that incandescent heat, next to which even Lucifer in his original glory would be shamed, and his hand is steady, his gaze firm, and he does not stray from his path no matter how the gravity breaks upon his ship, no matter how Time itself begins to fray around him.

He hopes.

It could be seconds, it could be a million years, but he does not care. He follows his albatross, his hope, and he follows her into the dark.

He hopes.

His ship screams beneath him.

He might scream himself, he’s not sure.

And still he follows.

He follows, he follows, he follows, his whole attention fixed upon nothing more than that white point ahead, that glowing ember, and then -

It’s dark.

He might be dead.

He finds himself rather unsure about the whole matter.

His fingers cannot feel, his eyes cannot see, his ears cannot hear, and yet there is something of him alive: he has no mouth, and yet must scream.

why do you come here

There is no voice in this place, if this is a place and not hell.

For hell is empty, Len told him once, and all the devils are here.

why do you come here

Len.

you come for one of the dead

Yes.

Little by little, he feels himself come together. Atom by atom, electrons intertwining, neutrons locking together and forming strands, elements being built from dust, dust to dust, like all living things, the materials of a dying star regrouped in just the right order to make a man.

He is a man.

He is alive.

His ship is - he knows not where. He thanks her in his mind for her service, and spares a moment to wish that her death not be in vain, for a sailor loves his ship, loves her passionately, but not as much as he loves the sea.

Not as much as he loves Len.

He has lost Kronos’ armor. He finds himself clad instead in stardust, in his favorite set of heavy pants with many pockets, his shirt a few buttons loose, his heavy fireman’s jacket to protect him from the element he loves most.

you come here, nameless one, to collect your dead

He turns, his body his own once more, and regards the Throne.

There are no words that can describe it, the King of the Void in Darkness. He is formless; he is all forms; he is anti-matter and matter cannot comprehend him, the one true unknowable beyond the reach of all science. Death is his handmaiden, not his definer, and Might herself cowers before him. He inspires neither wonder nor horror: there is no room for anything but awe. Gods are born and die in the blink of his eyes, Olympian and chthonic both.

This is He who all life has sought in desperation to name, and yet He is Nameless.

Honestly, he’s not entirely sure He is a He at all, or if He is, it is only one of his many faces.

what will you give for your dead

He would laugh, if he could; what would he give? He is no Orpheus, here to win love with a song that brings forth sadness in all who behold him; he is no scholar, no poet, no hell-raiser.

He has nothing to offer but his hope.

and that hope is beautiful

it shines a light no matter where it goes

even here where there is no light

If there were room in his skull, he would feel something, he’s sure: relief, perhaps. But there is nothing, nothing but awe, and hope, and the voice.

His hope is enough.

the way will not be easy

there are tests

He will do what he must, what he can, and if he fails, so be it.

yes

go forth now

be wary, nameless traveler, for you have many miles to go before you may rest

There is a path beneath his feet, leading away from the throne.

Len laughs in his mind, another memory springing forth to just behind his lips and eyes, and the path solidifies into golden brick.

He takes one step, on to the road. He takes another.

Turning his back on the throne is the hardest task of his life to date, and he knows that it is nothing compared to what lies before him.

But if he succeeds - if he’s true -

It will be worth it.

The path is long, and he must walk every mile.

He walks.

And then there it is.

The first test.

The oldest story had three heads to tame before he could proceed; the nearest named four times fifty living men that cursed the sailor with their eye -

He groans when he sees what obstacle he must pass.

No Cerberus for him, oh no, nor allies lost.

His first test is to confront his murdered dead.

He has killed -

There are so many.

But he has his path, and he has his test, and he has his hope.

And so he goes.

He walks along the path, and the path leads him forward, and then he is wading into the sea of spirits that stand between him and his goal.

His hope, his Len, for whom he would do anything.

He is anticipating that his dead hate him, he expects hands upon hands to rip him apart.

He is wrong.

“I do not care about you,” drawl the ghosts of the men in the mine. “I never even knew I died.”

“I have my own ghosts,” say the soldiers from the past, Capone’s and Germany’s and others still. “I have no room to fight you, too.”

“I wronged you,” say his rivals, his opponents, criminals like him, shrugging it off: honor among thieves, even in the end. A match fairly played between unfair men: the possibility of loss accepted. “And I know it.”

And once those melt away, then and only then, there they are. His hateful dead. The ones he killed, the ones he hurt, the sins of his life there to stop him in his tracks the way he once stopped them in theirs.

“You killed me,” they hiss. “You hurt me. I had more I wished to do. Your fault, your fault!”

Their fingers grow into claws, their eyes glow with fire, and their heads are haloed by spitting snakes, and they reach for him, and he flinches - his eyes shutting in anticipation of terrible pain, for there is no vengeance like that of the angry dead -

“I love you.”

What?

He opens his eyes.

“I love you,” says the ghost that stands between him and the Furies that lust for his blood, and he cries out in pain.

It is his mother.

“I love you,” she says a third time. “I forgive you. It was an accident.”

“I love you,” the shade of his father says, stepping forward to stand beside her.

“I love you,” the children whisper, gathering around him.

His brothers.

His sisters.

They gather around him as he walks, tears slipping down his face, and though the Furies around him rage, they guard him.

And around them -

“You gave me food when I had none,” a small child says. She had come by the restaurant where he had once worked, thin and starving, and his fingers were light enough to vanish the food he left out deliberately into her pockets. He never saw her again.

“You defended me from pain,” a boy scarcely past adolescence says. He had been in prison for the first time, a friendship badly chosen and a dare gone wrong; the others had looked upon him as prey. He had defended him for the few weeks he was inside; they had never spoken.

“You taught me a trade,” a man says. He had been bumbling and foolish; he had strength and size, and they were to be used, but he had no skill. They had met in the gym, and he had taught the man what he knew, and the man did not die the first time he went into battle under the Family’s command. The next time they met, they did not recognize each other.

“You saved me,” an old woman says, and he remembers her, remembers how she had been dying, her heart giving out, and he had ruined one of Len’s carefully timed plans to get her to the hospital. Len had never held it against him. He never found out what became of her.

He did not help these people for love, nor satisfaction. He just – helped. Because there wasn’t any reason not to.

There are bad deeds he has done in his life - the darkest, the meat of the Furies – but there are also good deeds, good will he spread through the world for no reason and no cause and no demand for payment, and he has enough, just enough, to get him through the sea of dead and to climb the path upon the other side.

She is waiting for him there.

Her lips were red, her looks were free; her locks were yellow as gold; her skin was white as leprosy -

The nightmare Life-in-Death was she.

“Lisa,” he says, the name a sigh of breath, barely spoken.

She turns to him and smiles. Her teeth shine in the dark. And she reaches forward and takes his hand in hers.

His blood runs thick with cold.

“Come,” Life-in-Death says. Dante imagined her as Virgil, statue and teacher stepped down and come to life, his companion to lead him down and down; the oldest songs called her Despair, she of the crooked hook that she slides into the hearts of men to drag them low.

He can only see her as Lisa, much-beloved and much-wronged. He told her of her brother’s death and watched as she grew colder than ever before, her brother’s ice climbing around her heart.

They have been companions for some time now, Life-in-Death and he.

“Come,” she says.

The path is long, the path is hard.

“Come,” she says, and guides him onwards.

There is a swamp beyond the sea.

The trees are old and withered and bent; their roots curl down and their branches droop. The golden bricks are barely visible beneath the muck and grime. It sticks to his boots, it sticks to his pants. It makes him heavy. It makes him slow.

He is a lumbering beast, trudging through the mud.

Mindless. Stupid. Dumb.

Why does he keep trying? There’s no point. It’s obvious he won’t succeed. There was never any chance of succeeding: he was doomed from the start. Everything he touches dies. Was not the sea of dead enough to show him that?

He used up all his good deeds in getting this far.

He’s just a criminal, in the end. Just an arsonist. A sick man, who can’t stand by himself, useful to nobody and no-one.

Even the Legends knew he was worthless and they were heroes.

He trudges through the swamp.

It’s harder and harder to lift his feet.

God, why is he doing this? If he just stops, if he just dies, he’ll be dead, and that’ll get him to the same result, won’t it? He’ll be by Len’s side again. If he keeps trying, he’ll just mess everything up. He’ll make it all burn down. He’ll turn it all to ash.

Everything he tries turns to ash.

Every endeavor he begins.

Every plan he joins -

Len’s plans.

He ruined those, too, every one of them; he dragged Len down with him, he -

Len laughs in his mind, gleeful and manic; the memory sharp as ever. He reaches out his hand to him, a shared joke, a shared adventure, a shared life, and –

“We dawdle a bit,” Len sings on the way to a job, the memory faint and distant but growing stronger. “And then - we loiter a while, and dawdle again. We gather our strength - to start anew - on all of the loafing and lounging we still have left to do –”

He frowns, and something stirs in the base of his mind.

Something about a swamp.

“Why did we become criminals?” Len had asked him.

“Because we hate working and love money,” he had told him.

There was something –

About a swamp.

“Don’t,” he rasps, and his voice is dry and it hurts to speak. It’s so much effort - and what a waste! It won’t help. Won’t help at all. Just a waste of time, like everything else; a waste of energy, a waste of a life –

Len sang this to him once.

“Don’t,” he says again. “Don’t say –”

It’s pointless.

He’ll never remember it.

“Don’t say there’s - there’s - there’s nothing –”

Nothing, nothing, nothing, that’s all he is.

Nothing.

He remembers.

“Don’t say there’s nothing to do in the doldrums,” he forces out through numb lips. This was Len’s favorite movie, and the one he raised Lisa on, and even if he pretended later that it was something slightly more respectable, Star Wars or Lord or the Rings or something, it was never true. This was it; this was the one old tape he wrapped his childhood around. “It’s just – not – true.”

It’s not true.

None of it.

This is not true.

A child’s movie: the swamp of despair, of apathy, of thoughtlessness, which can be conquered only by thought and will and want. The Doldrums that would just as soon eat you alive, make you stop thinking, make you stop-stop-stop – and the only way out is to march straight through regardless.

He bares his teeth and speeds up.

Maybe he is a failure, maybe he is dumb, maybe all of that is true.

But he has his hope, his hope that it will get better once again, and he will not fail.

Life-in-Death snarls, robbed of her prey.

Her hook is still lodged in his heart, her sadness and her despair and her apathy still lodged in his brain, but he will not yield. Not now. Not when there’s Len to think of, and god, Len is all he thinks of.

Len is what pulls him through and makes him forget not to care.

The swamp ends.

His boots are clear, his pants are dry; the mud of the Doldrums cannot hold him now.

Life-in-Death has challenged him, and he has overcome, and so she turns and leads him onwards.

But there is more yet to come.

He follows the path.

Given the color of the bricks beneath his feet, he’s almost unsurprised when he comes upon the gates of Dis, glittering and green.

No jeweled city for him, though, no.

It’s a prison.

A prison made of glass and metal and twinkling stone, a hundred memories of confinement. The towers of Iron Heights, the depths of the gulag, the twisting turns of Chicago, the glaring weight of the Tombs in New York, and more and more and more -

And inside the prison there is a chair.

He moans.

He knows what test he must face here.

It is a test he has faced before.

This is the prison of the Self.

He walks forward, and he meets himself, reflected in a thousand mirrored planes.

Face twisted in greed, face twisted in hate, in rage, in fury, and worst of all, in the calmness of premeditation. He wore this face many times before – but the last one, the calm of death-inside, he only wore once.

He walks, and he sees:

Kronos sits upon the chair, with rusted chains looped around his arms and legs, and regards him with disdain.

“How low I have fallen,” Kronos says to him.

“How high I have risen,” he retorts. “To be you is to be a slave: I have cast off your name.”

“I was the most feared of the Hunters,” Kronos responds. “None heard of me but that despaired; My hunt was inexorable; I never tired nor weakened, and my prey never escaped me.”

“You were a dog,” he says. “You barked at the order of your masters.”

“I was strong, and nothing could hurt me.”

“You were alone,” he says, and that is the end of it.

Kronos bows his head. The chains about him crack and break, the rust eating away at them at the last, and they burst forth –

And then Kronos is gone.

There is only what he carries with him.

That was the easy part.

He turns next to regard what he once called himself.

“You left them behind,” Mick Rory, forty-three years old, Legend and sometimes even a hero, accuses him. “Len trusted you, and you betrayed him, and you left him behind, too, and he hated you in the end.”

“I love him,” he says. It is not a defense. It is a fact.

“You threw away the gift he gave you,” Mick Rory, Heatwave, enemy of the Flash and supervillain of fire, tells him. “He wanted you to join him, and you left him to the mercy of his father.”

“I love him,” he says. It is not a defense.

“You destroyed him,” Mick Rory, criminal and husband, burning with the flame of a cursed warehouse, says. “You drove him away; you made him abandon you, and you tore out his heart.”

“I love him,” he says.

“Why do you persist?” Mick Rory, younger than the rest, a groom, wearing a ring and promise, says. “Your crimes are not merely against the world; they are against him. Why would he want you still?”

“I love –”

“Why did you hurt him?” Mick Rory, youngest yet, fifteen and foolish and not even knowing that the heat that licked his heart was love. Tears stream down his face. “Why?”

“I love him,” he says, weary beyond weariness, sad beyond sadness. There is no defense but this: “I will not judge myself for him.”

They stand aside, the hollow men, the old skins which he has worn and was and has since cast off behind him, the soul of him carrying forth to be the person that includes all of them but is not bound by them, and they let him pass.

There is a garden outside, silent and dead, and beyond the garden there is a door.

The gate is locked shut, but the path continues.

On the door it is written: He who was living is now dead – and those of us still living are dying, with patience.

After the agony in stony places, the shouting and the crying, prison and place and reverberation –

He knows what he must do now.

He takes a breath in, pulls it all inside himself, everything he was, a tight ball of feelings and thoughts and memories, and he breathes it out, letting it go.

The gateway opens.

He walks on, and leaves himself behind, and goes forth truly nameless.

The pathway leads him down to a valley.

The stories tell of a test of trust: do not look back, traveler, and she will follow upon your feet.

The stories do not tell that there is first another test.

Recognition.

He’s found Len.

He’s found all the Lens.

Len at thirty, as Mick remembers him best, young enough for irrepressible energy but old enough to be grumpy about it.

Len at fourteen, as Mick first met him, a skinny bundle of bones with greedy eyes and light fingers.

Len at twenty two, bright and eager and enthusiastic, circles under his eyes from raising Lisa.

Len at forty, clad in supervillain parka and practicing his speeches on Mick, apology and forgiveness all at once.

And there’s the Len that Mick never knew: Len at four, chubby cheeked and happy; Len at eight, a beaten dog that doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong; Len at sixty, old and tetchy but still as clever as ever.

Len at eighty, curled up comfortably, old and smiling and content with a life long-lived.

Len at thirty-eight, weeping over his partner’s burned, comatose body.

That last one is a stab - he’d never known that Len had done that, that Len had screamed at the nurse trying to separate them that they were married and he had a right to be there, that he had slept for three days in a crappy plastic chair until the doctors had confirmed that everything would be okay.

Just like Len, not to mention that.

“What do I do?” he asks Life-in-Despair, who still lingers.

“Find him,” she answers.

And he nods. Len is in them, all of them, but only one of them contains eternity, a human soul that lights the sky.

He doesn’t bother examining them: they are all Len, and all are him, and he could spend eternity here learning about each of them.

Instead, he closes his eyes and blanks his mind.

Len is his hope, his guiding star, his true north.

Len’s gotten him this far.

Please.

At first there’s nothing.

But then -

A memory curls in at the corner of his mind, slowly shading in the lines and colors.

It’s nothing special. A day in fall, not too hot, not too cold; raining a little. They’re in their thirties; Lisa, adult enough now to be on her own, has come to visit. They have watched movies all day. Mick cooked. There was a popcorn war, and then they made s’mores on the stoves and stuffed their faces with delight.

Lisa’s asleep on the armchair.

Len is curled up into Mick’s arms on the couch, his fear of intimacy fading just enough to permit him this. There are no open warrants, for once, and they pulled off a heist a few weeks before, a big one that went perfectly. They’re rich, they’re free, they’re together.

It’s quiet but for the rain.

It’s perfect.

“I could live a hundred years in this moment,” Len said.

“And then you’d be old,” Mick had teased, breaking the feeling of it.

He opens his eyes. He’s not that man anymore - he would never break that moment now, but let it go on and on as long as he could, would luxuriate in it, wouldn’t fear feeling every damn second of it - but he remembers.

He doesn’t need a guide.

He knows Len.

He opens his eyes.

Life-in-Death waits before him. Her eyes are avid, her fingers keen, her mouth bright and red. He sees that there is more of her, too - Lisa young and innocent, Lisa older and freer still, but only two more.

Three in total.

Hecate Three-in-one, they call her; the Morrigan, the Moirai. Child-Mother-Crone, they say of her, and they worship her, but here in the dark she is not guide but guardian.

She of the three heads snarled and bit and barked and slept when clever Orpheus came; she wove visions over the graves of the heretics for starry-eyed Dante; she told lies made of nothing but the truth to doomed Macbeth.

He knows her, too.

“Well?” she asks, and her eyes shine with the glee of victory close at hand. “Where is he?”

He smiles.

“In the ice.”

Her smile freezes.

The Sphinx at Thebes looked just so, when Oedipus answered her riddle.

Oh, he would love to see Len in that moment, that remembered moment, that perfect peace, forever and always warm and safe in the arms of his lover, eyes on his sister, safe and happy, the rain keeping the world away. It would be heaven for Len.

But the Len he knows has never loved himself so.

No.

If that was heaven, then Len has cast himself to hell.

And for Len, there is only one hell for which he deems himself fit, and he knew of it long before Len told the whole world.

“The lake of ice,” he tells Cerberus, who has grown large and monstrous. “Where they put the traitors to kin.”

No Sheol for Len, full of the screams of lost souls, ever-wandering, no. For him is the freezing wasteland, for the father he could never please and later killed, for the sister he felt he failed, for the partner who he loved but left behind.

Cold enough to freeze all the tears of regret that Len has never shed.

Now that he looks at the Lens, he sees the truth: the only thing they have in common is the blank look in their eyes, the stillness behind them, for there are no eyes here, in this valley of dead stars, this hollow valley, this trap.

He turns and finds the one Len whose eyes still shine: trapped forever in that terrible moment when he turned the cold gun, whose capacities he knew better than any other, upon himself, the moment the ice froze the blood and muscle and nerves and bone. The moment where he gave up his livelihood, gave up his life, for a chance – only even a chance – of saving his partner.

How could he do any less, to save Len?

He reaches out and touches that one, and abruptly the valley is empty, his choice is made.

“Am I right?” he asks Cerberus mildly, because he never met a monster he didn’t want to fight.

She disappears, the three-in-one, and that is all the confirmation he requires.

The path is still beneath his feet.

“Walk, then,” she hisses in his ear. “Walk forth, nameless traveler. Your journey is not yet done – you have found the soul, but not yet the body.”

He walks.

He thinks, perhaps, that Len is behind him, now; he has reached the pit and now must climb the mountain of Purgatory to make it home.

Going up is always harder than going down, and going down was hard enough.

He sees the albatross far away before him, a single point of light in the darkness, and he remembers hope.

He walks.

He does not look behind him.

Just in case.

He wonders where he will find a living body here, in the land of the dead.

The path winds upwards, slow and sure, and he gains heart from it. He is a nameless traveler, but he has faced three tests: the reproach of the dead, the swamp of grinding sloth where the suicides curl up as trees, and the prison of self-hatred. He has bearded Cerberus in its lair and has walked alongside Life-in-Death without fear.

And best of all, he feels a gaze itching between his shoulder blades.

It might be his imagination.

But perhaps not.

His steps are sure, his spine straight, and he imagines he can see the albatross guiding him up.

And then the path turns abruptly left, and when he turns with it, his mouth drops open and the air in his lungs leaves him in a single huff, as though he’d been punched in the gut.

It’s not fair.

They should not have asked this of him.

Before him lies a river of fire.

It delights his soul, the siren sound of it, the crackle and the snap, the heat that beats on his face even from here, cracking his lips and baking his skin, and it is beauty beyond the concept of beauty to him. It is the balm to the anxiety that pricks the center of his soul, the restlessness that dogged him for as long as he can remember.

He finds that he has gone several steps towards the river, all unknowing.

The river feeds into the boiling sea and upon the river there stands a ferryman.

There is a ferryman in every such story. The only question is what shall be needed to pay his price.

He draws near, then nearer, and then he is there, standing upon the dock.

The ferryman, who has no eyes and a face made of shadows, smiles and says, “Welcome.”

It is the voice that sings in his sleep, dreams and nightmare both; it is his greatest love, it is his most hated foe, it is his holiest of holies. The agony and the ecstasy -

The flame itself speaks to him.

He stands mute before the ferryman, unable to speak, and yet he must. He must, he must, but it is so hard to remember what it is that he must demand. Here his sorrows are lifted, here his dreams are fulfilled. Here there is no pain but that which he invites into himself; here is the fuel that drives his spirit; here is the meat and drink of his soul.

He raises his eyes to the open flame of the river.

At the very top, between the barest tips of the tongues of fire as they beat their fury into the air, whipped by inexorable passion, he sees a glimmer of light that comes from beyond the flames.

A white light, the merest pinprick, and rimming around her, like the iris to a pupil, is a cloak of many colors.

The albatross.

He’d been following her - he’d perjured his faith, he’d ignored the call of the flame, and for what? For -

Hope.

Eyes of many colors, blue and hazel and brown and gold.

He’s never won this battle before.

He has to win it now.

Len’s counting on him more than ever.

“What do you want?” the ferryman asks, that voice of voices ringing in his ears.

He opens his mouth to ask for safe passageway, but what comes out is “I want Len.”

His voice is weak and ragged, pained and small and miserable like it hasn’t been since he was a child. He sounds like a child, begging for his favorite toy that daddy took away.

The ferryman smiles - grotesque and glorious, a skull-grin that stretches too wide - and offers him a cup.

“You have given much, and so you may take,” the ferryman says.

He takes the cup and stares at it. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with it - it’s empty, a round plain ceramic container with no handles or differentiation, and the only thing around is the river of fire, but surely that can’t be..?

“Why?” he asks plaintively.

“This river finds its beginning in the heart of a star,” the ferryman says. “This is its end.”

Understanding is slow in dawning, but dawn it does.

He has the soul. What he needs is the body.

And what are our bodies if not the ashes of burnt-out star-stuff?

His gaze drops down to the river, which flickers red and yellow and orange and white and blue and a thousand other colors. It looks real, it sounds real, it smells real.

This is going to hurt.

He takes the cup in one hand and clenches his fingers around its unbroken edge as hard as he can manage, and he kneels by the churning shores of the river of heat, and he dips his hand into where he last saw white and blue, despite knowing it will be even hotter than the yellow, because Len would like it better that way.

It does hurt.

It hurts more than he could have ever imagined.

He thought he knew pain, that he had been burnt before, but that was nothing - every part of him screams, even his mouth, and his fingers feel as though they are melting, the flesh sloughing off like so much ash, the smell of blood and burnt and -

He pulls his hand out.

The pain stops.

His hand is unblemished.

The cup is filled with fire.

“Well done,” the ferryman says.

He nods, too shell-shocked even to wipe the tears from his face.

He looks up at the ferryman, not rising from his knees. “Will you let me pass?” he asks.

The ferryman regards him for a long moment. “I will take you to the other side,” he says finally. “To where your path continues. But only you can decide if you may pass.”

He understands all too well what the ferryman means.

Even with the memory of pain lingering, he finds his eyes straying, his head turning, the flames singing out his name, and he knows if he lets them take him, he could be here forever amongst the crashing atoms of the death of a thousand million stars.

But it’s still nothing but a graveyard.

He has the hope of more than that.

He climbs into the boat, and the ferryman takes him onward.

He clings to his cup and he wraps his lips around Len’s name and prays to the only thing that could ever draw him away from his flames.

The journey takes forever and a day, and he feels as though he has endured every minute of it.

But at the other side his companion Life-in-Death, the Three-faced Hag, Lisa - glorious, wonderful, simple, beloved Lisa - waits for him.

He fixes his gaze upon her and does not let himself look at anything else, not the flames, not the dock, not the ferryman, not even the path beneath his feet, not until he is by her side.

“I have crossed,” he tells her.

“You have,” she agrees. She sounds approving, for once. It was a hard test to pass. “Give me the cup, and I will give you a man.”

He hesitates.

“I swear upon the start,” she adds, amused. “The weft and hue, the loom and the thread - and the twist.”

He gives it to her, recognizing that she has changed again: not Moirai at all right now, no, not the cruel weavers of fate and destiny. He’s looking at her truest form, singular and unlike any other.

Tyche: Lady Luck, Mistress Chance, Mazel and Shimazel both; the spin of the wheel and the adventurer’s byword, the flip of a coin that determines everything.

Len’s patron goddess, if he ever had one.

She takes the cup and it disappears in her hands, and then she reaches out and grabs his shoulders, staring at him right in the eye.

“I have reformed him,” she says. “And your journey, which has been long, is almost done: there is but one last test.”

He nods.

“Then I tell you only these words of caution, one you know and one you don’t: don’t look back, and -”

Her eyes shine black as the pit of entropy in which they now stand.

“- run.”

He runs.

He runs as he has never run before. He was never built for speed; he is powerful, not fast. He withstood the tide, he did not outrun it. But now he runs, and he doesn’t look back, and behind him there is a scream like he has never heard before:

A Great Eater at risk of losing one of its prey.

He runs.

The scream rises and rises like the wind in a hurricane until -

“Mick!”

It’s Len’s voice.

It’s Len.

“Mick, hold up a damn second!”

He runs.

“Damnit, Mick! Wait! I’m falling behind!”

He runs.

“Mick! It’s catching up with me! Just fucking wait! Just - listen to me, for once in your life!”

He runs.

Tears stream down his face, but he runs.

“Mick! Mick!”

He claws at his face, a habit he thought he’d grown out of years ago, turning his nails on himself when his anxiety grew too great and there was no way to make fire, and his nails gouge long tracks in his cheeks.

He runs.

“Mick! No! Mick, don’t leave me here!”

He runs.

“Mick!”

And then a scream.

He runs.

Don’t look back.

And then, worst of all, there aren’t any more words. No more words, no more sounds, no more scream, no more presence, just the absolute certainty that there is nothing behind him, that Len has fallen, that he is far behind him.

The feeling scratches at his eyeballs and tears at his throat, demanding - insisting - just one quick check -

Don’t look back.

This is a test of trust and a test of faith.

He forces himself to look ahead, nails digging into his temples as he forces himself to keep his face from turning, hands on both sides of his head to fight against his own instincts, and in the distance he sees her.

The albatross, large and glorious and beautiful, white and shining, and beneath her is a ship. Not his own, for that was torn apart, but another - older than his, of strange make, but a ship nonetheless, and it will carry him upon the waves of time if only he can make it.

He is abruptly certain, certain as the pit, that if he reaches that ship he will be safe - but he, and he alone, and what use is all this if he is still alone at the end?

But she told him not to look back, and she told him to run, and she is as close to Len as he can get in this pit of horrors, this land of the dead, and he will trust in her, in Len, when every fiber of his being cries out that she has lied.

He trusts in his hope.

He has to.

Faith is the substance of things unseen.

And all the things unseen, the nightmares that you wake up after panting and terrified but know not of what you dreamt, are chasing after Mick now, and they’re getting closer.

He runs.

His lungs are burning, his eyes are aflame, his head pounds, but he runs.

His muscles scream, his joints lock up, his feet drive iron nails up his heel and toes with every step he takes, but he runs.

He runs -

And then he’s there, the ship is there, the path leads there, and he throws himself forward into the ship and suddenly he’s tumbling-tumbling-tumbling for forever and eternity and -

Silence.

He opens his eyes.

He’s on the bridge of a ship. It is not one he has ever piloted before, but some principles of design are universal. In the window of the bridge he sees that they are falling further and further away from that rarest of sights in the theorized universe: a white hole.

A knot of spacetime with no start and no origin, which nothing may enter but through which you may leave.

His albatross.

They are back in normal space.

And so he turns, barely daring to hope, barely able to make himself twist enough to see, to check, at last to know -

Len is lying there beside him, just as he remembers him, blinking awake even as he stares at him.

“Len,” he whispers. “Len. Len…”

He cannot say anything else.

Len’s beautiful eyes widen and dart around, before fixing on his face, and then he smiles. “You got me out,” he says, as if he knew it all along, as if there was never any doubt, as if his faith in him was as great as his in Len.

“I gave up my name for you,” he says helplessly, when he means to say ‘Of course’ and ‘I was always coming for you.’ He doesn’t know why. It’s not important, a name, not when he could have this.

Len smiles, and reaches out, and he trembles at the touch of Len’s hands, human-warm and Len-cool, as Len cups his face in his palms.

“That’s okay,” Len says. “You’re my Mick; that’s who you are.”

And so he is, and was, and will forever be.

Len’s Mick.

#my fic #dccoldwave #mick rory #leonard snart #captain cold #heatwave #DC's Legends of Tomorrow #sailor's sorrow

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