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soren-apologist · 25 days ago

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i feel like people who say ike is a mary sue/gary stu in radiant dawn don’t realize that fe10’s supposed to be the ending of his arc as a character, where he’s reaching the very last part of his development.

at its core, fe9 is a coming-of-age story; ike goes from being a hotheaded, impatient teenager to a much calmer, more mature version of himself after having the responsibilities of handling a mercenary company and later an entire army thrust on his shoulders at far too early of an age. as such, while fe9 on its own initially seems as if it’s an entire character arc, we actually get to see how ike further grows into himself after 2 years of peace and coping with the events of the mad king’s war, a privilege that remains extremely uncommon for most fire emblem protagonists.

the ending of part 2 introduces us to a 20-year-old ike, now having physically grown up to match his personal growth from the start of fe9. while a more mature version of himself, he never turns on the morals and ideals that make him who he is, having decided to leave the crimean court to return working as a simple mercenary because he knows it’s where he belongs. despite this, however, he still finds himself dragged into conflicts and subsequent positions of power he doesn’t want. even though all he wants is a simple life as a mercenary, he still willingly chooses to take on the role of a general of sanaki’s army because he’s just not the kind of person to turn away someone in need, especially when he’s quite literally the only person qualified to fit the role asked of him (commanding armies of both beorc and laguz).

to clarify, ike isn’t already over with his character growth by fe10– he’s just nearing the end of it. while it’s a lot more subdued, you can absolutely still see the stubbornness and sass that characterized him in fe9; he’s still backtalking the enemy commanders he fights and giving people in positions of power above him a hard time whenever they do or say something he doesn’t like.

on that point, even as the “mature” version of himself, he honestly still kind of puts his foot in his mouth a few times there. it obviously never reaches the extent of him snapping at the entire council of begnion because they were being rude to elincia, but instances like this, where ike could have literally gotten himself and his entire army killed if he had genuinely offended dheginsea, whether through death-by-black dragon king or getting thrown back into the kauku caves:

or this, by which point in the story he’s so tired of everything that when oliver decides to defect from his own forces to the greil army, ike’s just like “eugh” and says right to oliver’s face that he’d rather fight and kill him then have his support as an ally, something he probably shouldn’t be doing (and most likely wouldn’t if it wasn’t oliver asking) considering there’s a very finite number of people available to fight ashera:

(i can’t entirely blame him for this one though, because, again… oliver)

or, hell, even this, where ike is standing directly in front of ashera who is about to kill everyone in the tower and turn the entire world to stone, to which his response is to tell her to pick a god and pray:

…are all pretty good instances of ike not always managing to catch his tongue. i mean, if nothing else, you can’t deny the guy’s got balls of steel, but shit-talking pseudo-immortal beings entirely capable of killing him on the spot probably isn’t one of the wisest decisions out there. still, though, it actually matches his fe9 characterization pretty well; in both games, he tends to snap and say or do something ill-advised when he’s frustrated and believes someone else is in the wrong in some way. the main difference between the games is the extent to which ike reacts, though, as now he’s a little calmer even when angry, and no longer charges headlong into danger like when mist and rolf were kidnapped or when facing the black knight for the first time. he’s still making some questionable (bad) decisions here and there, it’s just now they’re a lot less severe than they used to be, and he’s grown up enough that he doesn’t need titania to lecture him whenever he does something dumb anymore.

besides this, the main thing ike is still dealing with in fe10 is his tendency towards self-effacing behavior— and yeah, on its own “too nice for his own good” does sound like the sort of flaw a gary stu would have, but in this case it genuinely does affect him. he’s constantly bending over backwards to help those in need, even when his own kindness is constantly shooting him in the foot and leaving him to deal with even more problems. it actually coincides with his tendency to speak before he thinks, because as a person he just can’t sit by and watch as someone or a group of people is treated unfairly, even if it means getting himself wrapped up in a mess he could have avoided by staying quiet.

on that whole “shooting himself in the foot” thing, it’s important to keep in mind that the “rewards” ike receives for his kindness are more often than not things he doesn’t actually want. as a smaller example, his good looks, bravery, and gentle heart are constantly getting him attention from women when he himself has no interest in their flirting, to the point it makes him uncomfortable. as a much larger example, ike doesn’t want to be a wealthy nobleman, but he still accepts the title of lord to help elincia, and chooses to hold it for a year and a half after the war for the sake of giving legitimacy to her newfound regency over crimea. after this, he finally manages to give up his title and return to running the greil mercenaries, only to be contacted by bastian after a few months and have to go into hiding for the sake of launching a surprise attack on ludveck’s rebel army. he’s then immediately drawn into the begnion-laguz alliance conflict, something he’s actually okay with because he’s being contracted as a mercenary commander and not a general, except that as soon as their army combines with crimea and sanaki’s forces he’s promptly guilt tripped into being a fucking general again. after, like, 2 weeks of commanding sanaki’s army, they accidentally set off the apocalypse, and now ike is the general of the army facing off against literal god. when all of this is said and done, he still doesn’t get what he wants— a simple life as a mercenary— because now he’s known across the entire continent as the radiant hero, the savior of tellius. after everything he’s gone through, he doesn’t even get to have the quiet life he wanted because he’s simply too impactful of a person to be forgotten by history. ike doesn’t want fame, riches, and women; he just wants some relative peace and tranquility, something he is continually denied while the former is frequently pushed upon him.

ike’s ending is where i personally believe it marks the true conclusion of his arc as a character. like a lot of other people, i wasn’t initially sold on the idea of him just up and running away from the continent forever, leaving behind loved ones like mist and titania. after thinking it over a lot, though, i eventually realized it’s actually a very fitting ending for someone like him. the unfortunate truth of the matter is that, no matter what, if ike had stayed in tellius he never would’ve gotten his true happy ending— his fame as a general would have followed him forever, and it’s almost guaranteed he would have found himself dragged into yet another conflict he didn’t want to be a part of, something he himself definitely seems to be aware of.

as such, ike packing up his belongings and taking off either alone or with someone dear to him was actually the best solution to this perpetual dilemma; after years of pain and struggle, finally finding a way to escape the world that had ripped away his childhood and demanded so much out of him must have been cathartic. no longer was he the radiant hero, savior of crimea and tellius— now he was just ike, a traveling mercenary, and that was all he wanted the entire time. it’s also part of why i like the idea of him going with soren so much, as anyone else, including ranulf, would still have ties back to tellius, and could potentially come to regret leaving permanently in the way ike wanted to (hence why someone like mist could never be an option). with soren, however, all he wants is to be at ike’s side, regardless of wherever it takes him. in fact, i’d even argue the two of them leaving together is the best-case scenario, where they both can get exactly what they’ve always desired. as ike and soren get to finally escape the world that had caused them so much grief together, they actually both attain their happily ever afters, living the lives they always wished they could have had.

at no point is ike ever a “perfect” character; at his very core, he’s a person who refuses to stray from his moral compass, something that causes him to make as many mistakes and brings as many issues as it does successes. in fact, it’s so prevalent of a trait it stands as one of the themes of fe9, where even as he grows from a stubborn child to a calm, mature adult, he never loses that earnest belief in doing what’s right. as such, while it can be easily mistaken as doing so, path of radiance was never meant to contain the entirety of ike’s development as a character— it was merely intended to portray his growing pains as he gradually develops into the person who would one day be hailed as the radiant hero. mirroring this, radiant dawn stands as the very ending to this story, in which his selflessness finally grants him a tellius at peace and the freedom to seek out his own happy ending. he was never meant to go through an entire, second arc in this game— he was simply finishing the one he started four years ago.

#oof that was long #at some point i’m gonna have to come up with some sort of tag for these tellius analyses #but i can’t really come up with any sort of clever or funny name for it right now #anyway it’s also probably good to note that another reason why ike’s development is a lot subtler in this game #is because the story needed room for the growth of several other major characters in this game #like miccy/pell/elin/skrim/etc.#so like even with everything i said here there’s also just the obvious occam’s razor lol #fire emblem #tellius #fe10 #ike #long post

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bookish-bogwitch · 4 months ago

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Thank you @roomwithanopenfire, @rimeswithpurple, @blackberrysummerblog, @nausikaaa, @larkral,

@hushed-chorus, @alexalexinii, @monbons, @whatevertheweather, @run-for-chamo-miles,

@artsyunderstudy, @mooncello, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @forabeatofadrum, and @aristocratic-otter for the tags over the past few weeks. I've had a crazy month (90% in crazy a good way) and too frazzled to come up with my own WIP posts, but have enjoyed reading yours and being included.

Here are six ten moody little sentence from Chapter 11 of Basil Pitch's Diary. (In case you missed it, I posted Ch. 10, September, a few weeks ago, then fled the country.) Baz is hanging in in Niall and Dev's room:

The last time I was here with Niall, he’d told me to hold out for more than ear scritches and the occasional carrot. Now we sat on his bed with a chessboard between us. “Baz,” Niall said quietly. “What are you doing?” “Beating you.” I moved my queen to menace his remaining bishop. “With Snow, I mean.” Niall did that thing where the rook and king hop around, which shouldn’t be allowed, and I realized he’d won. Again. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, there is a me who grew up with someone to play against, demolishing a Niall who never went to math camp.

Below the cut: musing, a posting plan, and more tags.

Musing: I've actually written a ton since the last chapter even though I've been AWOL, but for a while no matter what I wrote, Baz felt out of character. I'd write a scene, like it, and then think "but why is he doing this?" Then I'd rewrite with Baz behaving completely differently, and that also felt OOC.

I worried that I'd somehow doomed myself with inconsistent characterization, but then I figured it out: Baz at this point is deeply inconsistent. He presents himself to the world one way, he tells the reader / himself that he's something else, and deep down he's a secret third thing. And sometimes his masks slip.

To some extent this is every unreliable narrator. But boyo has REALLY tangled himself up at this point. Something's gotta give. Until it does--which it will, soon--I have to be very clear in my mind, even if Baz isn't, about which Baz is driving the Baz at any given moment.

A lot of you can do that sort of thing intuitively. I can't. So I've been building this out (showing you just the headers b/c spoilers):

This might stultify some (most?) of you. For me, though, it's freeing. When my brain isn't trying to keep track of everything, my imagination can unfurl.

"'Everything'?" you ask. "This isn't that plotty a fic." It's not, but it's already 2.5x longer than anything else I've written, which means developing skills I haven't needed before. Anyway, my BPD chart and I are having fun. We're very happy together.

Posting Plan

I pushed myself to get Ch. 10 up before leaving home for three weeks, because Ch. 9 had ended on such a wretched note. While I was happy to have gotten it up, I didn't love the self-imposed time crunch (though betas @cutestkilla, @facewithoutheart, and @thewholelemon were fuckin' heroes). Feeling rushed had me stressing and second-guessing choices that were probably fine.

My plan now is to pause updates until I have at least a very rough first draft of the final chapter, then post it all at regular intervals. I know a longish pause means some folks who'd been reading along will wait until it's complete, if they return at all. To those folks--sorry, and I get it, and thank you for reading in the first place, and I love you.

Tags and shy waves to @brendughh @beastmonstertitan @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @carryonmylovelies @creepyspice

@comesitintheclover @cows4247 @confused-bi-queer @artsyunderstudy@chen-chen-chen-again-chen

@chronicallyhomoerotic @drowninginships @dragoneggos @excalisbury @emeryhall

@erzbethluna @ebbpettier @fight-surrender @fatalfangirl @gay-at-ikea

@fiend-for-culture @forabeatofadrum @foolofabookwyrm-activated @arthurkko @j-nipper-95

@gekkoinapeartree @goblindad-emoshit @henreyettah @hertragedyconnoisseur @hushed-chorus

@icarus-n-flames @ineffable-grimm-pitch @ic3-que3n @ionlydrinkhotwater @iamamythologicalcreature

@ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @shrekgogurt @im-gettingby @youarenevertooold

@monbons @mooncello @raenestee @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @messofthejess

#six sentence sunday #my writing #basil pitch's diary #stem nerd niall #let baz be dumb 2024 #writing thoughts

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balimaria · 2 months ago

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I’m sure many of us are familiar with the similarities the Yu-boys have to their adjacent protagonists, some very much so (Yugo/Yusei) and some not quite so much (Yuto/Yuma). But the Yuri Duel Links event has got me thinking… they’re really leaning into the similarities Yuri has with Judai.

He’s always had a fair amount of parallels. There’s the obvious “they both went to a duel academia,” but there’s also the fact that they’ve both had major hands in carrying out mass genocides (jeez), or that they both underwent soul fusions with other character(s), or Judai and Yuri being the only characters to use Super Poly (except that one flunky in Zexal who randomly had it in his hand for one shot…) showing how Yuri is carrying on Judai/GX’s legacy as the Fusion counterpart (and 1/4th of another Supreme King)

OR, most relevant here, their focus on having fun above all else.

Yuri’s constant insistence that he’s here to have fun (which was a part of his character in the show, but it’s focused on much more in the event) and showing no interest in any “obligations” he may have outside of having fun (like apologizing or trying to repair any of the damage he’s done. You go girl give us nothing.)

It’s all very much akin to a pre-season 3 Judai who had little to no sense of responsibility and was almost solely motivated to duel (even when he really shouldn’t have been) by his desire to have fun. And while Yuri’s idea of fun is a little more sadistic than Judai’s (a little more like Yubel, even?) the point is the same.

This line that Yuri says is what got me thinking deeper about this, because I remembered Judai says a near-identical one. (Apologies for the crusty png.)

Obviously they’re not going through the exact same development here. Judai’s arc is about being carefree to a dangerous extent, then swinging to the opposite extreme when he is suddenly saddled with very heavy burdens, and ultimately finding balance between the two: regaining his love of dueling while also bearing a sense of responsibility. Yuri’s arc (if you can call it that, it’s the beginning of one certainly) seems to be a more straightforward “discovering there are things that are fun and also do not come at the expense of other people’s lives” type deal, with a little bit of learning who the hell you’re supposed to be now that you aren’t part of a military school dictatorship or Zarc/Yuya’s soul amalgam sprinkled in. He’s discovering new toys! Everyone clap for him please.

Though it’s not just that fun things don’t have to come at the expense of others… but that it’s MORE fun when they don’t. And that’s the real step forward that Yuri makes in the event. Which honestly fits and doesn’t feel forced, which is something I was concerned about. That boy is a little cockroach! Let him crawl around and make people scream like he always does. Just… maybe some of those screams are of other people having fun too. Maybe. Someone should probably still make sure they're okay, though.

#ygo #yugioh #ygo arc v #arc v #arc v yuri #ygo gx #yuki judai #god the way arc v incorporates legacy characters/ideas/settings makes me froth #the writers just sat down with all the previous shows and were like #ok gx you are the military invasion dictatorship child soldier dimension #and zexal youre the one getting invasion'd #this is such a beautiful way to honor the legacy of our shows #and it was. and it still is.#I could honestly go on and on #maybe another time #my txt

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weirdsht · 3 months ago

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Catalyst - JJK & Reader

notes: this is purely self-indulgent so its messy asf. I don't usually write for jjk because I feel like I can't grasp their characters in writing, but I had to write for jjk after the manga ending.

tags: no gender specified for reader, yuuji & reader, platonic relationship, implied satoru/reader, self-indulgent, manga spoilers (obvi)

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Constructive criticisms and any kind of interaction are more than welcome

Requests are currently closed but my ask are still open (read pinned)

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Silence lingered in the air, it was the dead of the night after all. Everyone is getting a well-deserved rest after being constantly battered, bruised, and stressed. However, one presence stands out in the communal area of the Jujutsu High Dorms. Pink hair illuminated by the soft glow of the almost muted television can be seen as you enter the living room.

“Shouldn’t the Yuji Itadori be sleeping peacefully now that no Ryomen Sukuna is pestering him and saying nonsense in his ears?”

You jokingly asked the teen as you slid beside him, seeing what movie had his eyes glued on the television at this ungodly hour. Unsurprisingly, it’s one of the instalments of the Human Earthworm movies.

“Can’t sleep.”

The pink-haired teen simply states, his eyes still glued on the television. Despite that, it doesn’t look like he's paying attention to the movie. There are simultaneously no thoughts behind those eyes, yet millions of concerns wracking his brain.

Of course, you noticed all of this. What kind of adult would you be if you don’t see the kid’s suffering especially after he just went through so much?

Not a reliable one, that’s for sure.

“You haven’t slept well since Shibuya. It’s been a week since everything started settling down yet you seem stagnant. What’s been bothering our precious Yuji? Hm?”

The student went visibly rigid at your words. He knows he wasn’t hiding his turmoil well, but at the same time, he hadn’t expected you to confront him straight on like this.

“I’m sorry… I’ll be fine soon, I promise.”

His response made you shake your head. Not necessarily disappointed in the young man, but rather disappointed at how the circumstances and some people made him believe that he should not seek help from other people.

“That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant Yuji. Now tell me what’s been plaguing your mind.”

Your voice had its usual softness in it that was reserved for talking to Satoru’s students. At the same time, it held firmness, telling Yuji that he couldn’t skirt his way out of this one. Unlike what he had been doing for the past week.

Yuji has had the time to mull over his problems by himself. Now it’ll be the time for him to mull over them with you.

“I was just thinking of the what-ifs… Like what if I chose the immediate execution instead… Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

To some extent, you get where the kid is coming from. Yuji had always felt like he was at fault for everything Sukuna had done during these past months because he was the one who ate that finger. Because it was his choice to continue being the vessel for the king of curses.

Yuji Itadori felt as if it was his burden to atone for Sukuna’s sins as he was the one who essentially revived him.

However, you beg to disagree.

But before you can say something, Yuji speaks up once more.

“I was so selfish… If I hadn’t been selfish then it the casualties wouldn’t be this severe… Nanamin would still be here… Choso too, as well as Gojo-sensei… Gojo-sensei… I’m so sorry [Name] because of me you lost Gojo-sensei… If only I hadn’t been so selfish…”

Ah, so that’s why he couldn’t look at you.

The poor guy is full-on sobbing now. His back is hunched over as he loudly sobbed in his knees. It’s so bad that his blabbering nonsense, or at least it’s nonsense for you. Why would he be sorry for something he couldn’t control? Why is having the desire to live considered a selfish choice now?

Why can’t Yuuji Itadori look at you anymore? The same lively kid who used to join you whenever you pulled pranks on Satoru. The same kid you have grown to see as your own alongside Megumi, Tsumiki, and Nobara? Why is that very same kid being eaten alive by survivor’s guilt every night despite appearing to be okay daily?

“Hey, hey, that’s not it Yuji. It’s not your fault. It couldn’t possibly be your fault.”

You held onto the student’s trembling hands, making it known that he still has an adult figure in his life.

“But Gojo-sensei, you loved him so much and yet because of me—”

“It wasn’t you who did it okay? There’s also nothing wrong with wanting to live. That’s normal because you are human. As Nanami said, you're the kid and we’re the adults. We’re the ones responsible for you, not the other way around.”

Your hand gently stroke his as he slowly calms down from his breakdown. The movie in the background is now getting to the climax, but neither of you cares.

“You’re not mad at me [Name]?”

“How could I ever be?”

“There’s a lot of things to be mad at honestly…”

“And yet I can’t think of a single thing.”

Yuuji finally looks at you. His eyes are bewildered as if he can’t believe what his hearing. When his gaze finally met yours, you offered him a gentle smile. One that tells him that you won’t be leaving or getting mad at him anytime soon.

Perhaps that’s the kind of support he needed from a parental figure right now.

“Gojo-sensei said he wants everyone to surpass him. That people will one day grow up and leave him behind. But how could I? His Gojo-sensei, the sensei that was there for me. The one who shielded me from the higher-ups? How could I forget him after leading him to his doom?”

The mention of Satoru tugs a certain painful string in your heart, but you swallow it down. It isn’t about you, it’s about Yuji right now.

“Your sensei is just goofy like that. He thinks that his always being left behind despite some of us patiently waiting for him. But besides that, all he wanted was for there to be a future where the youth doesn’t have to worry. And that’s what we are working on right now aren’t we?”

Itadori nodded slowly as your words sank in on him.

“And maybe this was his happy ending too. You kids have a brighter future and he gets to rest in his own way. He's probably tired from dealing with those stuckups all these years.”

You said it jokingly, yet your lips contorted in a bittersweet smile that Yuji didn’t miss.

Despite that, he said nothing in retaliation, for you don’t seem to be aware of what you look like right now.

Itadori knows you’re suffering too, despite taking on the role of being the strong one for all the students. He knows that you have not been sleeping well, same as him. The young man has seen you enter Satoru’s room every night. Has heard your quiet sobs whenever you do so. Your red, swollen eyes that you try to hide every morning has not gone past him.

And that’s why he feels so guilty. He felt that in his selfish pursuit, he had cost you your everything.

Yet it had also cost him nearly everything too.

So how can that be a selfish pursuit?

That’s the point you want Yuji Itadori to see and realize. The reason why you insist on moving forward despite only wanting to wallow in sadness.

If not for Yuji who is innocent in all of this, then for Satoru who wants to see the youth thrive even at the cost of his own life.

As the one who knows Yuji’s innocence and Satoru’s aspirations, you have made it your job to continue the six eyes user’s legacy.

“But [Name] have you really never thought of the what-ifs?”

Yuuji asks you once more after a few minutes of silence. This time his tone was lighter, none of those heavy, self-deprecating implications.

Okay maybe a little, but it’s better now.

“I have. But the what-ifs I’m thinking are a little different from yours. I think of things like, what if Satoru never got sealed?”

What if the whole Amanai thing went better? What if Suguru had listened to your pleas before leaving everything behind?

The student listened to you, his eyes closing ever so slightly. Probably tired from his crying session.

“I can see in your face that you’re curious as to why I never think of what if Satoru didn’t spare you. And that’s because there is no what-if. Satoru would have saved you no matter what, it’s his whole thing. Well aside from being the strongest that is.“

Your eyes also grew heavy. Both you and Yuji unknowingly fall asleep, for probably the first time in a while, as you talk.

In front of you, the movie’s credits had started rolling. However, by the time it happened both of you are already in sleep’s embrace.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #itadori yuuji #gojo satoru #gojo x reader

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ladyantiheroine · 2 months ago

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Daughters of Falcone

a revenge fantasy

Summary: After Sofia Gigante catches Selina Kyle trying to steal her box of diamonds, the two daughters of Carmine Falcone finally cross paths. Despite having lived two very different lives, the two unexpected sisters share one thing in common: A deep desire for vengeance. Together, they plot to bring the king of Gotham's underworld down to his knees.

Content Warnings: Violence, torture, electrocution, choking/suffocation, blood, bodily harm, murder, guns, toxic family relationships, death of loved ones.

Word Count: 7.3k

Author's Note: Set after The Batman and before The Penguin. Falcone is still alive after surviving the Riddler's gunshot wound. You can also read this on my AO3.

Chapter 1: You Shouldn’t Be Here

If Selina had known Carmine’s vault was this easy to crack, she would have tried stealing from him a long time ago. But for the longest time, all she cared about was putting a bullet in the man’s head, and whatever shiny things he kept at home were far from her mind. But Selina was back in Gotham now, the streets were still flooded, and she needed cash.

And if there was anyone in the world who owed her, it was that fucker Falcone.

The Falcone home was dark and cavernous as night, and just as cold. The only light Selina had to see the safe was the amber streetlight that beamed from the window. She turned the knob slowly, wincing at every mechanical click that broke the gnawing silence of the house.

Finally, one click and the safe door creaked open. It had been a while since Selina broke a proper lock, and the last time she did, she ended up in a scuffle with a certain man in a mask.

Don’t think about him, her mind whispered.

In the dim light, Selina caught a black leather case of small pockets, and each one was a tiny, white glimmer. Diamonds. A whole bunch of them. Small, like the ones that may line a necklace or a golden ring. It was hard to say what the diamonds meant to Carmine Falcone. A gift for his late wife? An heirloom from his (and to an extent, her) predecessors?

None of these questions mattered to a thief. To a thief’s eyes, diamonds were just money that hadn’t been transferred to paper yet. And these were enough to float Selina to her next step, wherever that was.

Selina reached her leather-glove hands inside, when a cold voice crawled up behind her.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

It was like ice water poured down Selina’s back. For a brief moment, her heart ricocheted in her chest, until she realized the voice was too feminine to be his. The thief lifted both her hands and turned to face the voice.

In the pale light, she looked like a ghost, but it didn’t take too long for Selina to recognize her face. The face that had been plastered on newspapers, on televisions screens, under the ominous name “HANGMAN.” Sofia Falcone stepped up to her in the dark, draped in a long white sleeping gown, a small pistol in her hand.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware who’s house you’re stealing from,” Sofia said. She walked closer, her silk slippers peeking from under her skirt. “But I think you’ve picked the wrong place.”

Selina stood still and straight. It wasn’t the first time she found herself on the other side of a gun. But she also knew Sofia was a former Arkham inmate, and if she wasn’t unstable going in, there was a good chance was unstable once she got out.

“I know exactly who’s place this is,” Selina said. “This is Carmine Falcone’s house. Was Carmine Falcone’s house.” She said her neck words gently. “And you’re his daughter.”

Sofia gave her a tight lip smile.

“So you’ve read the papers,” she said. “So you should be informed enough to know what happens when you try to steal from me.”

Selina heard a clicking sound in the dark. Even as she was frozen, her mind scrambling for a way out, she kept eyeing Sofia. It stunned her a little to see her in person. They were both daughters of Falcone, and only one of them knew it.

Selina came here for diamonds to pawn. She didn’t return to Gotham expecting a family reunion.

“If it’s any consolation,” Selina said. “I wasn’t trying to steal from you specifically, Miss Falcone—”

“Gigante,” Sofia snapped. Her tone split the air and made Selina flinch. “My name is Sofia Gigante. Don’t call me Falcone.”

The pistol was shaking just a little in her hand. Careful, Selina told herself. This is the Hangman you’re dealing with. You never know what might set her off.

But then again, Selina knew who Carmine Falcone was. If she had to grow up in a house with that man, she just might change her name too. Selina moved her gaze from the pistol to Sofia’s eyes.

“Miss Gigante,” she said. “I was trying to steal from Carmine, not you.”

“Well, this is my place, not his,” Sofia said. “He’s got a different house closer to the city.”

“I see,” Selina said. She curled her words around before she spoke. “Last time I checked, he said he had a place at this address. If I had known he moved, I wouldn’t have come and bothered you.”

Sofia narrowed her eyes at Selina. She took a few steps closer, the pistol never wavering from her aim.

“How does someone like you know where my father—Carmine could live? Do you work for him?”

Selina ran her tongue along her bottom lip.

“I used to,” she said.

“If you worked for him, I would’ve known you,” Sofia said. She aimed the pistol at Selina’s head, and for a moment Selina’s heart lurched as she imagined her brain popping all over the wall behind her. “Take off the mask.”

Selina was stiff for a moment. If Sofia saw her face, she was done for. But it’s not like she had much defense against a bullet. So she lifted a hand to the top of her head, and pulled the black mask off.

Sofia looked at her for a long moment. Her eyes examined Selina’s face, her eyes, her short hair.

“I’ve never seen you before,” she said. “I know everyone who works for Carmine, I’ve never seen your face in my entire life.”

“I wasn’t anyone important to him,” Selina said. “I didn’t work on the business side. I was…an underling of an underling.”

Sofia was still giving her a look like she was considering popping her head off and heading back to bed. So, Selina kept talking.

“I overheard him mention it to a bunch of his associates over drinks,” she said. “Two guys named Johnny and…Milos, I think? Carmine was drinking whiskey with Johnny, but Milos insisted on having a Sex on the Beach, and the other two were making fun of him for having a ‘girly’ drink.”

Sofia’s teeth clenched, and her armed hand started shaking a little again.

“Were you eavesdropping on them?” she asked. “Are you a spy? Do you work for the Maronis or something?”

“No, I was the one serving the drinks,” Selina said. “For guys who have to stay discreet, they talk awfully loud once they’ve had a few." She leaned forward a little. “Don’t tell them, but I spat in all their glasses before I handed them over.”

Sofia didn’t say anything. She kept looking at Selina, eyeing her up and down, like she was a puzzle she couldn’t crack. For the first time, the impenetrable Sofia Gigante seemed to falter in her steely resolve. Selina stepped closer, dropping her hands to her side.

“My name is Selina Kyle,” she said. “I knew your dad pretty well.

Sofia’s jaw tightened. So did her knuckles on the pistol.

“You’re full of shit.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not, and you better fuck off before I do something you’ll regret.

The woman, Selina, looked at her for a long moment. Sofia’s body was tense, ready for a struggle, like the kind she got into with the ladies back at Arkham. But then, Selina took a step back, then reached for the neckline of her shirt. With both hands, she pulled the fabric down to reveal her neck. Immediately, Sofia’s breath fled her lungs.

It was subtle, but even in the buzzy light of the diner one could make it out. A ring of old bruises and scars from fingernails around Selina’s neck. It wasn’t the burn of a rope, nor were the nails scratched sharp enough to match Selina’s claw-like talons. These were from much larger, much stronger hands, with the intent to squeeze out life. And Sofia knew exactly whose hands those were.

She felt light-headed all of sudden, like all the weight had fled her body. She pressed a hand to a table counter to steady herself.

“I gotta be dreaming,” she said. “This can’t be real.”

Selina took the opportunity to step over and take the gun from Sofia. She resisted, but she let Selina set it aside on the other end of the table.

“I can explain everything to you, if you want,” Selina said. Her eyes darted around the darkened walls of the house. “Maybe somewhere other than here?”

She glanced back over at the safe hanging open, the tin diamond glimmering inside. This was her chance to bolt for it. Grab the gun, grab the diamonds, take off before the Hangman could hang her. But something about this was just…too damn enticing. And if there was one thing about Selina Kyle, she wasn’t good at resisting what enticed her.

Sofia seemed to pick up a similar thought.

“How do I know you’re not just gonna take off the second we’re out the door?”

Good question. Selina wasn’t the best at trust either. She turned and walked slowly back to the safe. The metal door creaked as she shut it, leaving the diamonds inside while she clicked the lock back into place. Then, she walked back to the table, picked up the pistol, then placed it in Sofia’s hand.

“Can you trust me until we find somewhere with coffee?” Selina asked.

Chapter 2: Coffee and Cigarettes

Mooney’s was the only cafe in Gotham that was open after midnight. Around one in the morning, the only people there were the waitress wiping the counter and a couple nibbling at croissants in the corner. The cafe’s customer attendance had been especially sparse after the police found the Riddler sipping a latte in one of its red-cushioned seats. For most people, it gave the place an uneasy atmosphere, like a haunted house or a former crime scene. Except for dedicated regulars and the occasional Riddler superfan who wanted to ask which pumpkin pie he ordered before the police slammed his head against the counter. The knowledge that one of your patrons flooded the city wasn’t exactly good for business.

Selina and Sofia found a small, sequestered booth. Sofia ordered a full plate of eggs and bacon. Selina stuck with one mug of black coffee. For the first few minutes, the two of them sat in silence while they ate and drank.

Of all the things Selina could have expected from Sofia, her eating habits was not something she considered. Sofia Falcone ate like a woman who had just returned from nearly starving on some deserted island. She pinched her food between her fingers before plopping it in her mouth. Her fork scooped up scrambled eggs quickly and she gulped down coffee between each bite. Like she was in a hurry. Like she might die before she can finish.

Selina, on the other hand, chewed her eggs and bacon slowly. She sipped her coffee, and over the white ceramic rim, she examined Sofia Falcone. She tried to find traces of her father—their father—that they both shared. Maybe it was the shape of their faces, the shape of their figures, maybe just the shade of dark that made up their eyes. Selina looked for the similarities and differences, parsing away the pieces of Isabella Falcone and Maria Kyle, until only one terrible, cruel man stood between the two daughters.

Sofia finished her food quickly, licking each of her fingertips and wiping them clean with her napkin.

“I can cover this,” she said. “I’m not making you pay for my breakfast.”

Yeah, it would be rude for the woman with the diamond earrings and Chanel-scented cashmere to make the woman in the thrifted jacket and boots pay. While it took time for Selina to find traces of Carmine that she and Sofia shared, their differences couldn’t be more obvious. The woman across from her dripping in the kind of fabric, jewels and pampered body that only Falcone money could buy. Meanwhile, Selina sat in her leather suit and boots, dripping with rainwater on the outside and sweat on the inside, her body ragged from years of dirty apartments and dirty hands of dirty men.

A small part of her was angry. One man produces two girls, one raised in a house of diamonds and the other on the streets of a corrupt city. It’s like there had been some cosmic coin flip between two baby girls, and one of them got the wrong side.

But then Selina recalled the story of Sofia’s sentence to Arkham. It was all over the newspapers and televisions when it happened. The beautiful but mad daughter of Carmine Falcone, sentenced away. Selina had heard all kinds of stories about Arkham Asylum. She once heard an ex-inmate say that he had a choice between an eternity in Hell or another year in Arkham, he would’ve shot himself just to get to Hell faster.

Maybe life in the castle could be hellish too.

“So,” Sofia said, snapping Selina from her thoughts. “Your mother knew my father. How so?”

Selina pursed her lips. She’d spent a while trying to think of ways to approach this, and even to the moment she struggled to find the words. So, she decided to start as far back in the beginning as she could.

“My mother was Maria Kyle,” she said. “She worked at the 44 Below.”

Immediately, a light crossed Sofia’s eyes.

“Really?” she said. “At the Iceberg Lounge? Oz Cobb’s old place”

Selina pursed her lips and nodded. Sofia leaned slowly back into her chair, her eyes forward but refusing to meet Selina’s.

“Fuck…” Sofia said. “One of the girls of the club…I mean…Men of the family are known to sleep with sister-in-laws, housekeepers, not…”

She seemed surprised. Selina crossed her arms and leaned forward on the table.

“You never thought your dad might have been getting with any of the 44 Below girls?” she asked. “Especially after your mom died? You never thought he had a few extra secrets that he never told you?”

Sofia’s eyes were in her coffee mug. Some dark, sorrowful look fell across her face. Selina felt compelled to comfort her, somehow. Reach across the table and clasp her hand. But Sofia looked like she had turned to glass, that any touch could crack her.

After a minute, Sofia’s eyes flicked back up to Selina.

“You know,” she said. “When I was a little kid, especially after Ma died…I kept pestering my dad, telling him I wanted a sister. He told me that my brother and I were trouble enough.” She grinned and sniffled a little. “I guess he changed his mind on that.”

Selina offered a small smile in turn. Sofia sniffled again and rubbed the corner of her eyes.

“I have a sister,” she said. “God help me, I have a sister.”

The two sat quietly for several minutes. Sofia reached into the pocket of her white fur coat and pulled out a boz of Marlboros and a lighter.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

Selina nodded.

“You want one?”

Selina shook her head. She watched Sofia take a cigarette between her teeth and bring the little flame to her mouth. The waitress didn’t seem to mind. It seemed like if you came to Mooney’s at this hour, you were someone in need of a smoke. Sofia took a long, long drag and let the ghostly wisps leave her lips.

“And your mother,” she said softly. “Where is she now?” Selina knew she was going to answer that question, but that didn’t stop the cold spill in her stomach. She clenched her jaw and blinked so her eyes wouldn’t start watering. “She died,” she said. She said it fast, like she was spitting out a tooth. “Carmine killed her.”

Sofia paused, and slowly removed the cigarette from her lips.

“When?” she asked.

“When I was a kid.” Selina spoke slowly and carefully, trying to resist the ache in her throat that wanted her to start crying. “He strangled her to death.”

Something crossed Sofia’s eyes, something slow and dark and hard for Selina’s decipher. Selina sucked in a deep breath through her nose, trying to unclench her whole body. The waitress brought her a refilled mug of coffee. But right now, she wished she had a cold, bitter bottle of whiskey. She took a sip then set it down.

“And your mother,” she said.

Sofia pursed her lips together and dropped her eyes to the table. Selina didn’t make her explain. Everyone knew what happened to Isabella Falcone. The beautiful, troubled wife of the king of Gotham’s underworld. Found in her bedroom with a noose around her lovely neck.

“I can’t believe it,” Sofia said. Her voice was shaking. Her hand gripped her mug with white knuckles. “With his own hands…both times with his own hands…”

Selina narrowed her eyes.

“Both times?” she said. “What are you talking about?” Sofia lifted her gaze to Selina, so dark and cold it made Selina shiver all over.

“My mother did not hang herself,” she said. “My father strangled her.”

Immediately, a cold, hard stone of dread dropped into Selina’s stomach. The back of her neck flared hot and she began to visibly tremble.

“He what?” she said.

The room around both women suddenly felt fuzzy, like they were sitting in a static television. All other sights and sounds became unintelligible except for their table.

“My mother tried to leave him when my brother and I were kids,” Sofia said. She explained it slowly, carefully, like her words were glass that could shatter. “She had a car waiting for her and everything. But before she could leave with us, my father strangled her to death in their bedroom.”

Selina's breath was frozen in her lungs. Her heartbeat was loud in her ear. And from the looks of it, Sofia was just the same.

“He made it look like she’d hung herself,” Sofia said. Then, her voice started to shiver and her eyes started to drip. “I was the one that found her.”

At this point, the waitress and the elderly couple were starting to look their way. No, they couldn’t draw attention, not even here. Selina sucked in a slow, deep breath and Sofia wiped her eyes with a napkin. But under the table, both their hands were shaking. “He killed them both,” Selina said. “In the exact same way…” “Why do you think he does it?” Sofia said. Her voice was soft and her eyes were to the wall. “So he can look into their eyes while they die? Feel their heartbeat disappear?”

“Maybe it’s so he can feel strong. To know he doesn’t need guns or blades to annihilate someone.”

At that moment, the dread and panic in both women alighted into something else. Something scalding, ravenous and explosive. Pure, blinding rage. “That bastard…” Sofia whispered.

“That son of a bitch,” Selina said. “That worthless, spineless piece of—”

CRACK.

All eyes in the diner turned to their table. Sofia and Selina glanced down to see a mess of shattered white ceramic over a puddle of coffee. The black liquid ran to both ends of the table to drip onto the floor. The waitress hurried over.

“What happened here?” she asked.

Sofia and Selina looked at each other, then looked down at their hands. Tiny flecks of white ceramic clung to each of their hands, between flecks of blood where they were cut. Two mugs of coffee, shattered in the grip of two hands.

“I’m sorry,” Sofia said. She didn’t look at the waitress. “We’ll pay for it.”

~ Sofia gave the waitress a wad of cash, enough to cover the two mugs and the meal, and even gave her her pearl earrings as a tip for her troubles. Then, she and Selina stepped outside, where the sky was still dark but the rain had ceased. Sofia lit another cigarette and stared off down the street.

“We have to do something,” she said.

“We should,” Selina said.

“And I don’t just mean stealing his diamonds. You and I both need more than that.”

An icy wind moaned down the street. Despite how big and anarchic Gotham was, it was surprisingly quiet on this street. Like even the rats of the city didn’t dare to disturb the two women.

“I have some ideas,” Selina said. “And I think we should do it tonight.” Her fingers curved into a fist, tight enough for her nail to pierce her palm. “I can’t wait until tomorrow.”

A long curl of smoke escaped Sofia’s lips. She dropped her cigarette on the ground and pressed it under her boot. Then, she turned to Selina, looked her right in the eye. Dark, pitch- black eyes. Just like Selina’s. Just like Maria’s. Just like Isabella’s.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” she said. “I’m ready.”

Chapter 3: Last Breath

Carmine Falcone was not unused to waking in the middle of the night. A lifetime in the underworld made you a light sleeper. One developed a kind of sense that was awake even when you were not, ready to pounce on a hand around your throat or a pillow over your face. So at first, it wasn’t strange that he opened his eyes to the full moon seeping through his window and a feeling that something was off.

He groaned as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His aging body creaked and groaned like the rest of the house. He slipped his feet into his slippers and tightened the knot of his black robe.

“Mickey?” Carmine called.

His nighttime bodyguard didn’t respond. He was supposed to remain outside of Carmine’s door the entire night. Carmine wondered if the bastard had fallen asleep. He lifted himself from the bed and headed to the door.

“You better not be dozing off,” he said. “I hate to do something bad at this ungodly hour.”

He opened the door and peaked out into the hallway. Mickey wasn’t at his post right outside the door. Carmine stepped out of the bedroom and looked down the hallway. The moonlight spilled from the arching windows, and between the wisping white curtain, he could a glimpse of a familiar figure, and the familiar glint of silver handcuffs.

“Mickey!” Carmine snapped. He stomped down the hallway towards where his bodyguard was standing against the wall. “What the hell are ya doing? This ain’t your post.”

He hobbled closer, and as he did Carmine realized something was off about his personal guard. Mickey wasn’t just leaning against the wall. His arms were at his side, limp, and he wasn’t moving or saying a word.

“You asleep?” Carmine said. “The hell’s wrong with you? I outta get my pistol and put one in you right—”

He grabbed Mickey by the shoulder, and immediately the whole weight of his body fell forward. Carmine scrambled out of the way as the guard fell face-first to the floor with a loud thump that shook the floorboards.

“The fuck?!” Carmine said.

He looked down at Mickey’s body. In the dim moonlight, he saw a red spot on the back of the guard’s neck. Like he’d been injected from behind.

“Shit,” Carmine said.

A stone of dread dropped in his stomach. He turned to scurry back to his room and call for Milos. But before he could even start moving, he heard his bedroom door slam shut. He glanced up and saw a shadowy silhouette standing by the door.

“Evening, Carmine,” a feminine voice said. “Can’t sleep?” Carmine’s teeth clenched. Everyone called him Mr. Falcone, never Carmine. Everyone in Gotham knew to respect that. He moved closer to the door, trying to identify the face of the broad who broke into his house.

“Whoever the fuck you are,” he growled “You better—”

All of a sudden, someone grabbed him from behind and pressed a handkerchief over his mouth. Carmine bucked and fought against the hands behind him, but without his gun and his body still half-asleep, he couldn’t release himself in time. The handkerchief was cold and wet with something chemical, and in seconds his body drained and stumbled to the floor.

“He’s waking up,” Selina said.

Carmine’s eyes struggled open and he let out an aching moan. Selina and Sofia stood before the chair where they placed him, hands cuffed behind his back and his ankles tied to the wooden legs. The fireplace crackled and turned the two women to silhouettes, but the light was just enough for Carmine to make out their faces. His eyes flicked between them.

“Sofia,” he said. “And you…”

“Can’t even remember my name?” Selina said. She clicked her teeth. “You’re off to a bad start, Carmine.”

“What the hell is this?” he asked. “Where’s Mickey?”

“It’s nearly four in the morning,” Sofia said. “He’s asleep. Where else would he be?”

“No, they aren’t,” Carmine growled. “You two did something to Mickey.”

Selina shrugged. “He was passed out on the floor last time we saw him.”

“Maybe too much to drink,” Sofia said.

She plucked an iron poker from its stand and turned some of the logs in the fire. The flames sputtered and spat out a flurry of embers, one landing on the carpet just an inch from Carmine’s foot.

“Sofia, darling,” Carmine said. “What’s all this about?” Sofia stepped away from the fireplace but kept the hot poker in her hand. She glanced over at Selina.

“I think my sister can explain it,” she said. Carmine’s eyes widened and his lips parted. He looked frantically between the two women.

“How did you…” he said. He looked at Selina. “Did you…?” “Shush,” Sofia said.

She pressed the tip of poker on his big toe, and Carmine released a croak of pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to move his foot, but the rope kept it in place.

“Let her speak,” Sofia said.

She pulled back the poker, and a red, bleeding wound was left on Carmine’s wrinkled, hairy toe. Selina crossed her arms. “We’re here on behalf of our mothers,” Selina said. “Do you remember their names?”

“My…my wife was Isabella Falcone,” Carmine said.

“Wrong,” Sofia said.

She pressed the poker to Falcone’s other toe, harder this time, and Falcone released an even louder cry of agony. When Sofia pulled it out, the tip was shiny red.

“My mom was Isabella Gigante,” Sofia said. She gestured to Selina. “And her mom?”

Carmine, tears in his eyes, looked at Selina. He recognized her, she could tell. The pretty waitress in the tall leather boots who delivered drops and martinis to Oswald. The girl who had the hots for that Russian chick, enough to hold a gun to Carmine’s head. The girl who would’ve killed him if the Batman hadn’t stepped in first.

“Selina,” he said. “You’re Selina.”

“I am,” Selina said. “But who’s my mother?”

She stepped closer to his chair, towering over him, the flames crackling behind her like hellish brimstone.

“She…” Carmine said.

“She worked at the 44 Below. You two were close for a while. She brought me to the club all the time. I used to watch you. You probably saw me plenty of times.”

“Your mother…” Carmine’s brain scrambled. He knew Selina’s mother, but the panic in his body and the searing pain from the poker were muddling his thoughts.

“Maybe this will remind you,” Selina said.

She brought her hand to his face. Selina’s nails were long and claw-like. She pressed the pointed tips to the meat of his cheek, then pulled down. Carmine released a cackling yell of pain as Selina tore the skin down the side of his face. She left four, bleeding red lines, alone with flaps of peeled skin hanging from his flesh.

“Maria!” Carmine cried. “Her name…was Maria Kyle!”

“That’s it,” Selina said.

She stood up straight and backed up to stand beside Sofia.

“We’re not just here for them,” she said. “We’re also here for Annika, and those seven other girls you killed.”

“I didn’t kill those girls,” Carmine said.

“Oh, really? Because you seem convinced that I did.” Sofia’s eyes darkened. “You were so sure of yourself that you sent me to Arkham.”

“Tell us, Carmine,” Selina said. Her hand was in her back pocket, but Carmine couldn’t see what she was holding. “Can you tell us the names of the girls who died?”

Carmine scoffed.

“How am I supposed to remember the names of seven whores I had nothing to do with?” he spat.

“Wrong answer,” Selina said. “Maybe I can help you again.”

Carmine’s face scrunched up, like he was expecting Selina to slash up the other side of his face too. But what he saw Selina pull out of her back pocket was much, much worse. In her cat-like hand, she held a taser.

“Do you know what they do to patients in Arkham?” Sofia said. “Do you or any of the big men in this city actually know?”

Selina clicked a button and the taser buzzed to light with a spark of electricity. Carmine’s heart lurched in his chest and he started struggling viciously against his restraints.

“The other inmates try to kick the snot out of you almost everyday,” Sofia said. “And the orderlies don’t do nothing about it. Sometimes, they even pin us against each other on purpose.”

Selina stepped back up to Carmine, taser bright and buzzing in her hands. Carmine was crying at this point, tears streaming down his face, muttering prayers in Italian under his breath.

“But the inmates and guards weren’t the worst,” Sofia said. “The worst were the doctors. The ones who said in the softest voices that they just wanted to help you.”

Selina grabbed Carmine by the tufts of his gray hair and forced his head back.

“Please…please…” he begged.

“My doctor’s name was Ventris. Ever heard of him? He’s the one who conducted most of my treatments.” Sofia’s eyes darkened. “The worst of them…was the electroshock therapy.”

“No!” Carmine wailed.

“I didn’t even think they still did that stuff. Seems a little outdated, no? You’d think hospitals stopped using that years ago. Like they did with leeches.”

“Please, you can’t!”

“But maybe healing wasn’t really the point.” Sofia stepped up next to Selina, looking down at her father. A man who ruled over Gotham's underbelly, so feared by so many, quivering and shaking like a baby that pissed itself. “Arkham is a place of punishment.” She leaned down to her father’s face. “Can you imagine being in a house of horrors for ten years?”

Carmine’s face was shiny with tears and snot. He swallowed thickly before he spoke.

“Okay, I understand,” he said. “I hurt you both. And your mothers. And Annika.” He swallowed again. “Whatever I can do to repent for this, I’ll do it. Just name your price.”

“Price?” Selina snorted. “Guys like you think of everything in terms of money, do you?”

“And it’s not just us.” Sofia said. “Or our mothers. Or Annika. It’s those seven girls that you took out.”

Selina hissed right in Carmine’s ears.

“Those girls were not just whores,” she said. “They were people, with lives before you, and should have had lives after you.”

“Do you remember their names?” Sofia asked. “Can you name even one of them?”

“I…I…”

Carmine had no answer. Of course he didn’t. Sofia sighed and stood up straight, backing up by the fireplace to give Selina some room

“Let’s help jog your memory,” she said. “Maybe some electroshock could help.”

Sofia looked at Selina and cocked her head to Carmine’s foot. Selina nodded, then drove the taser into Carmine’s ankle. The man released a howl that echoed through the entire house. It clawed up his throat and rang across the walls.

“Summer Gleeson,” Selina said. “Remember her?”

Carmine heaved his breath in and out. He was too weak and in pain to even think. Before he could gather his senses again, Selina pressed the taser to his chin. Another long, agonizing scream.

“Taylor Montgomery,” Sofia said.

The two sisters took turns going down the list. Each time, Selina sent a sharp, electric pain through Carmine’s body.

"Nancy Hoffman."

Scream.

"Yolanda Jones."

Scream.

"Susannah Weakly."

Scream.

"Devri Blake."

Scream.

"Tricia Becker."

Scream.

His shin, his thigh, his stomach, his chest, his shoulder. After the final name, Selina took the taser and pressed it to Carmine’s neck. At that point, his throat was so torn from screaming that he could get out little more than a high-pitched rasp. He was weak and burning with so much pain that he wished they would just kill him already.

“If…I’m a monster,” Carmine managed to whisper. He looked at both of them. “Then you, my daughters, have become monsters like me.

Sofia pursed her lips. “You might be right, Falcone.”

“But we were our mothers’ girls first,” Selina said. She narrowed her eyes at Carmine, as sharp as a blade. “And no one hurts girls in my city.”

“Not anymore,” Sofia said.

Carmine looked at them both for a long moment, then finally, dropped his head to the Persian rug beneath their feet.

“Are you going to kill me?” he said. “Or keep me in this room like some toy?”

The sister looked at each other, then Carmine.

“We thought about keeping you here,” Sofia said. “See how much you can take until you’re just skin and bones.”

“But we are your daughters, Carmine,” Selina said. “And just like you, there’s really only one way we know how to finish the job.”

The two women approached his chair, Selina at the front while Sofia stood behind him.

“What’re you doing?” Carmine said.

Selina wrapped her hands around Carmine’ throat, her claws digging into his tender flesh. Sofia did the same from behind. Then, both of them started squeezing.

With whatever strength he could still muster, Carmine tried to fight back. He grunted as they closed around his windpipe, he bucked against the chair and the ropes, but they had worn him down.With one hand, Sofia grabbed his head and pulled his face back, and forced him to look in both their eyes as the breath left his lungs.

Maybe it was the loss of blood, the fleeting oxygen, or the sheer lack of sleep, but Carmine thought he saw more than just his daughter. Around them he saw more faces. Maria, Isabella, Annika, the seven girls, they hovered from the ceiling, bruises ringed around their throat, his hand prints on their bodies, watching down on him with pale, pupiless eyes, all of them screaming at him, their hands reaching to grab him and pull him away.

Soon, his daughters were gone. All that was left was the cold darkness around him, and nine screaming hands pulling him down, down down…

Chapter 4: Roses and Sunflowers

For a brief moment at dawn, Gotham was almost a city of gold. It was dark enough that the amber streetlights still flickered, but the sunrise left a shine over the glassy skyscrapers. To anyone awake this early, for a brief moment Gotham had more light than darkness. The only exception was the cemetery, which was cast in shade from the trees.

It was at this hour that Sofia and Selina arrived at their second grave of the morning. Both sisters were blurry-eyed from lack of sleep, from a night of too many revelations and too much ruminating on death, combined with the knowledge of the dominos that would fall in the coming day. Carmine Falcone was dead, hanging in his bedroom, waiting to be discovered by whichever family member was unfortunate enough to find him first.

But Falcone didn’t matter right now. Right now, the two sisters had flowers to deliver, to two women who mattered much more.

“My mother said she preferred roses because they had more variety,” Sofia said as she walked beside Selina. “Red for romance, yellow for friendship, pink for desire…she said there was a rose for every occasion.”

She glanced down at her white glove. There were a few small specks of dirt from when she clutched the bouquet in her hand. She’d left it when she and Selina visited Isabella’s tomb, though not before taking one petal and placing it in her pocket.

Selina grinned.

“My mom liked sunflowers because she thought we could both use them,” she said. “Gotham is so dark all the time. The days are short and rainy, the nights are long and cold.” She gestured to the bouquet of bright yellow blossoms rustling in her arms. “She told me that if you want a sun in Gotham, you have to grow it yourself.”

Sofia chuckled and nodded. She followed Selina to the morgue where she stopped in front of one engraving on the wall. Sofia stood beside her and read over the word, faded etching carefully: IN THE MEMORY OF MARIA KYLE. 1976—2004.

Sofia looked at Selina in the corner of her eye. Her sister was quiet, meditative, in the way that graves always made you. Sofia tried to imagine in her head what Maria Kyle may have looked like. She looked at Selina, tried to strip away Carmine’s features and see what was left, to find a portrait of women with the same dark skin and darker eyes, the same elegant figure and smokey voice.

“I haven’t visited her since I was last in the city,” Selina said.

Sofia pursed her lips and nodded. She visited her mother’s grave all the time, a privilege she didn’t realize she had until now.

“It must be nice to be back,” she said. “I’m sure she’s watching from above, happy to see you again.

“Yeah.” Then, Selina smirked. “She’d probably ask me why I keep bringing strangers with me when I visit.”

“You bring strangers here often?”

“Just you. And…one other person.”

Sofia raised an eyebrow.

“What other person?”

All of sudden, Selina went uncharacteristically shy. She bit down on her lower lip and tossed her gaze to the ground,

“I visited here right before I left for Gotham after the Riddler’s flood,” she said. “And…someone came and found me here. He…was the one who helped me find out that Falcone killed Annika.”

“Was he a cop?”

Selina shook her head.

“Not exactly. He was…a friend. Kind of. A friend, or something else too…

Sofia looked at Selina, who was twisting her leather glove in her hand like she was embarrassed. Sofia took a step closer.

“Well, who was he?” she asked.

“I…don’t really know his name.” “Well, how much of a friend is he if you don’t know his name?”

Selina chuckled and shook her head, then looked at Sofia.

“He calls him ‘The Batman,’” she said.

Sofia paused as her eyes widened and her lips parted.

“That masked freak with the cape who’s been beating up street urchins for the past two years?” she said. “You were getting close to that maniac?”

Selina wrapped her arms around herself and shrugged. There was a smile threatening to break onto her face and a heat crawling up her cheeks.

“He worked on the Riddler case,” she said. “Came by the Iceberg Lounge looking for Annika and we both got caught up in the whole thing.”

“I see.” Sofia stepped closer to her sister. “And based on your schoolgirl blush, I’m sensing you two got close.”

Selina grinned and turned to hide her face.

“Sort of,” she said.

“Did you get his name? See his face under the mask?” Sofia grinned and leaned closer to Selina. “Did you get him out of that suit?”

Selina flushed hot and pushed Sofia away.

“No,” she said. She paused and pursed her lips. “I kissed him once. That’s all he would allow for me.”

“A crime-fighter and a cat burglar,” Sofia said. “The kind of match only Gotham could make.”

Selina grinned. “You could say that.”

Sofia nodded then clucked her tongue.

“So, you lost Annika, and then you started making moves on the freak in the cape?”

Selina bit her lip.

“I mean…when you say it like that…”

Sofia laughed and nudged her sister in the side with her hip.

“I had no idea my own sister was such a player.”

Both of the women giggled. Sofia pressed her hands into her coat pockets.

“I haven’t heard as much from him recently. Mostly on the news, helping out with flood relief.”

A soft smile on Selina’s face.

“That sounds like him,” she said.

Her face was dreamy, and she kept pursing her lips as if remembering a taste.

“He’s been doing a lot less urchin-punching, lately,” Sofia said. “It’s nice to see someone doing it. Rich bastards like, I don’t know, Bruce Wayne or something, they give thousands of dollars to relief efforts while their mansions are untouched.” Then, Sofia paused. “Kind of like what my family does.”

Selina reached over and squeezed her sister’s arm.

“Hey,” she said. “Now that Carmine’s out, maybe you and your brother could do some good.”

Sofia snorted.

“You suggesting Alberto and I dress in leather and go out punching robbers?”

“I mean…your idea, not mine.”

The two women started laughing again, and suddenly the chilled late autumn air felt a bit warmer. For a moment, the two women felt like girls again. Doing what sisters do, exchanging secrets and jokes and a familiar pulse. The two of them stood together in silence for a long while, as the sun crept over the edge of the trees, turning the branches to silhouettes. The golden lift crept up to shine around Maria Kyle’s name.

Then, the silence was interrupted by a loud ring. Sofia reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Selina didn’t recognize the name on the screen, but she saw the dark look in Sofia’s eyes.

“It’s my cousin,” she said. “They must have found Carmine.”

She stared at the phone until it stopped ringing. Then, she pocketed it and turned to Selina.

“I need to go deal with them,” she said. “Make sure our story is straight.” “Let me go with you,” Selina said.

Sofia shook her head.

“They don’t know who you are. Don’t know you’re involved in any way. It’s best we keep it that way.” She took Selina’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s my family. I know how to deal with them. In the meantime, stay low for a while. Leave the city if you have to. You have my number, you can tell me if you’re not okay.”

Selina felt something tight in her chest. Neither of them had any idea what this fallout would look like. If they would buy the fake suicide, if they would figure out it was Sofia. The thought that Sofia would fall while she ran away made Selina feel sick. She just met her sister, why did they have to separate so soon?

Sofia must have sensed her thoughts. Because she took both of Selina’s hands and squeezed them in hers.

“I want to see you again,” she said. “You’re my sister. I have so much more to learn about you.” She cupped a hand on the back of Selina’s head and pressed their foreheads together. “You and I are going to meet in that shitty diner again, and we’re going to talk, and once Carmine is buried, we’re going to dance on his grave together.”

A small, soft smile curled on Selina’s face.

“Call me when I need to come back.” she said. “Whether you’re in trouble or not.”

“I promise.”

The sun peaked from over the trees, and the city of Gotham began to rumble to life. Cars and taxis wheeled into the streets, the trains rumbled underground, millions of footsteps emerged onto the streets. And at the gates of the cemetery, two sisters parted in separate directions, smelling of flowers and blood. THE END

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jamietarttsnorthernattitude · 6 months ago

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This is mesmerising. Thank you my lovely friend! It's not exactly the happy part yet of the loudest silence sequel but it's hopeful? maybe? (This is the post-series one. Not to be confused with the season 1 inspired version)

“How bad is it?” Jamie asked, his voice breaking. “Just fucking tell me, Roy. You’re the only one I can count on to just to tell me the fucking truth.”

Roy paused. Jamie’s words both hurt and touched him and he wanted to tell Jamie everything, but he’s barely been awake, Roy wasn’t sure if this was exactly the right time to do it, if he should wait until Jamie has some time to adjust to his injuries, some time to get used to the idea that his right leg was badly broken. Roy has had two weeks and he’s not sure he’s gotten used to it himself.

“Please,” Jamie begged, his voice hoarser currently than it was even earlier, the lack of use during the last two weeks becoming more evident with each word Jamie’s forced to speak.

“It’s bad,” Roy admitted. “It’ll take a lot of work, but you’ll be back out there on the pitch. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

It wasn’t said in an angry or accusing manner like it could have been. It was just a fact, same as if Jamie was saying what day of the week it was.

“Yes, I fucking can.”

“No. You fucking can’t, Roy,” Jamie said, voice now the strongest it’s sounded since he woke up, but the hoarseness still cut through Roy. ‘What did the doctor say?”

Where was the fucking doctor he thought. He shouldn’t have to be the one to tell Jamie his career might be over that he might never dribble a ball that he might never run that yeah he’ll probably walk without a limp but they couldn’t even guarantee that and they couldn’t give a time table of when he would even be able to put weight on his fucking leg again.

Jamie was humpy dumpty and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t guarantee he’d be put back together again.

Jamie looked at him expectantly, his grey eyes glassy but open for the first time in more than two weeks, and at that moment Roy was glad the doctor wasn’t there. He didn’t want Jamie to hear this from someone he didn’t know. He wanted Jamie to hear it from him if he had to hear anything at all.

It has to be me. It could be no one else.

“The doctor said he doesn’t know,” Roy said, and Jamie’s eyes searched him for answers. “They don’t know shit for all their fucking schooling. They couldn’t tell me anything. Your leg should heal, but they don’t know to what extent, if you’ll be able to play or at the same level you were at before. But he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t know because he doesn’t know you, not the same way I do. He doesn’t know what a stubborn prick you can be, what a hard worker you are, how far you’ve come, on and off the pitch. Your story doesn’t end here in this fucking hospital.”

Your story doesn’t end because of me.

He doesn’t say that part, but he means it. Maybe even means it the most. But Jamie doesn’t need his guilt on top of everything he’s already fighting through. Jamie’s saved Roy once, but he’s not going to make it so the lad has to save him again. No, this time, Roy is the one that will help Jamie, save him if he needs to. It’s the least he could do after all.

Jamie looked at him, and a small smile crept into his face, “You did make me better than Zava.”

“You made you better than Zava. I just got your arse out of bed for 4 am.”

#fic: the loudest silence #sequel #jamie tartt #roy kent #cw car accident #aftermath #thank you for the lovely rose my wonderful kind supportive friend #post series version #I haven’t decided exactly where yet #but I don’t want Jamie to have to miss the World Cup so probably at least after that so at least 7 months after the end #oh maybe right when he comes back from the World Cup?

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s0lairee · 10 months ago

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USUALLY i keep the incoherent rambling to @xanyiaz's dms, but y’all know how i feel about vincent. so, here: roughly 2000 words of me talking abt him and the house of solaire.

(also, all non-art, original posts that i make, whether they’re just me keysmashing or me actually dissecting a video will now be tagged as #jo speaks <3)

(possibly incomprehensible) spoilers for “questioning the king” underneath (and a bit from sam’s latest vid). this isn’t really theorising, it’s more “jo analyzes fictional characters and cries”

first of all. CAN we get a round of applause for the voicing and the thumbnail. erik did such a good job - i wasn’t actually expecting a william vid since hedral has been mia for two years, but this was INSANE. erik’s voice is much softer than hedral’s (i think it’s because erik is used to voicing younger characters?) and it really adds to the tone of the video. also, the thumbnail is so perfectly in style with the summit thumbnails. everything is wonderful i just needed a moment for that.

anyways. i did not expect the video to go like this? i mean, everyone expected vincent to call william out for everything at some point, but dude, this caught me so off-guard. and in hindsight, it shouldn’t have. obviously the fandom paints (or painted, before the summit) william as the vamp dad, but he’s a king. he’s going to be political, pragmatic, and sometimes callous. callousness is why he survived. if he was as feeling as vincent is, he wouldn’t have survived his maker.

but like. i completely expected william to stand his ground against vincent’s criticism and mention how it was the right thing to do, but i thought eventually he’d give in and (at the very least) apologise. what i DIDN’T expect was for william:

to not do that.

to pretty much only apologise for keeping vincent out of the loop

to emphasise that this was what being a vampire prince entailed - this was what politics meant

and to GIVE HIM AN ULTIMATUM. it didn’t seem like one, but “if you’re one of us, that’s part of the deal” very much implies “be a solaire and do what is expected of you, or leave.”

i’m glad that vin and william, in some way, found a middle ground. but (as much as i was on will’s side this whole time bc vin always seemed too naive for the rough politics), vincent is right. william shouldn’t have given that burden only to porter. that’s one vampire against dozens that are at least centuries old. also, not to mention, vincent would NOT have trusted porter. can you imagine the mental strength it took vincent to not only hear porter out, but hear stuff that his maker was supposed to tell him from the one person he couldn’t stand? can you imagine how porter felt to be the messenger caught between these two??? and somehow, it’s worse when william doesn’t back down and just accept that vincent was right. he can excuse everything else as politics, but he can’t excuse this. and it’s so weird that he tried so hard to brush past that.

also. william’s favouritism is incredibly obvious. it’s insane. like, this entire audio, he’s prioritising vincent (and lovely, to some extent). his literal first lines are him choosing to speak to vincent and lovely alone, when sam is RIGHT THERE. he refers to sam as samuel, being one of the only people who does that. he also took the time to explain himself to vincent, but to sam he just says “say what you will.” it gives the vibe of the older sibling that the parent knows will understand, and i know sam doesn’t care about the house like vincent does, but GOD it really rubs it in. i know there’s that convoluted father-son dynamic between vin and william, but william put the pack, their mates, sam and darlin’ into the firing line. porter only gave vincent and lovely an alibi. none of the others. this was the pack's first summit too. if sweetheart was caught eavesdropping, they would have been in SO much trouble. it’s pure dumb luck they escaped.

also. my brain ran away here. but porter, who isn't will's progeny but acts like his dutiful son, doing whatever is asked of his king because he saved his life - porter, who can't help but feel slighted when after everything, william still fights to justify his actions to vincent (while porter understands). porter who watches (in his mind, at least) vincent throw all of that away for what's "morally right". porter who is faultlessly loyal but so goddamn alone. are you picking up what im putting down <3

^ going off on that, the different reactions (or possible reactions) to will’s ultimatum have me frothing at the mouth.

i want to say porter is fiercely loyal to william and the house but i do think a lot of it is desperation and his own version of “morally right”? like to porter, the right thing is listening to whatever his king - the man that took him in and saved his life - says. or it could be cowardice. if he doesn’t do what will wants him to do, he would have to leave the house… and where would he go? to treasure? imagine explaining this shit to them. he literally has no choice.

to sam, it's the practical, good thing, and it's almost political. and this way of thinking is easy for sam, since he's not really as loyal to the house as vincent is. in fact, he's almost completely detached. so sam's idea of what's right is that william should've considered vincent’s opinion too, or have some kind of counsel, because they were the people who were most directly in the firing line. so when william so self-assuredly says he isn't wrong, and won't ever be wrong... he lost sam. (sam also never outright got the choice to leave like vincent did. he still made the decision. he's, like, 100% gone.)

and to vincent, it's almost completely emotional. he had this responsibility for the summit thrust onto him suddenly after william shielded him from a lot during his growing up as a vampire. he had so much information kept from him by his maker, his family, and he had to put up with the one person william knew he couldn't put up with. he also almost lost his partner, his brother and his friends in the whole mess.

+ need to add that vincent is very, very emotional. throughout the whole summit, there wasn’t one time when he was able to go with the (albeit fucked up) flow. partly, this is who he is; someone who feels everything in extremes, and partly because william had shielded him from the worst of the vampire world for so, so long. this isn’t a positive or negative character trait: it’s just a trait, and something will should have considered. then again, if not vincent, who would host the summit? not sam. certainly not alexis. and porter couldn’t.

(also, it’s precisely how emotional he is and how much importance he places on family that makes “a prince is supposed to answer to his king, not the other way around” STING.)

now the part that GUTTED me: the ultimatum, and why sam is most certainly leaving (and vincent might consider it, but GOD i fucking hope he doesn’t.)

erik has established both sam and darlin' as being completely self sufficient. like they've both expressed that they're better with each other, and that they've grown as people, but also they're not tied down by any obligations to anyone. darlin' may be fiercely protective of their pack and their identity as a wolf, but sam is heavily disconnected from the house. he might only be sticking around because of vincent, and those two are BROTHERS your honour. but like, he doesn't really feel anything emotional to them nor does he have an obligation to them, even as a vampire.

(especially as a vampire, a status he did not want and is going to give up some time in the future.)

but vincent has both emotional (and i wanna say political?) ties to the house. one, being turned saved his life. he didn't have the choice that lovely had, but he also doesn’t completely hate it like sam did (maybe bc he was unempowered before and the loss of power didn't hit as hard.) two, he's kinda reconciled with his status as a vampire prince. he really does love william. whatever relationship they have (had.) was good - there was some amount of trust there (that will broke now).

and also, being a vampire allowed him to save lovely. vin and lovely are COMPLETELY devoted to each other. they've had one of the most dramatic changes together.

more than that, the solaire house is family to vin. like, at least in the context of lore and the channel, it has been such a massive part of his life. he introduced his partner to his maker. he took them to the summit. he has confided in them abt princely duties. the house is, for better or for worse, his family.

(also, william bringing out all of vincent’s worst memories right in front of lovely (who was also there for those memories) is so fucking insane. wh. every argument he made in this video is so so insane.)

somehow, for all the analysing i'm doing, i can't predict lovely's emotions. i know they're gonna be angry in their own way: very soon after mastering their powers, they had it taken away from them; and very soon after being crowned in the house of solaire, they're watching it crumble.

will giving them an ultimatum felt very final. i know erik mentioned wanting to wrap up a few plotlines, and i’m totally ok with that (not . i need vincent. but i can make my peace w things) but if this is how it ends i will cry

in conclusion, will was fighting between politics and progeny. he tried, desperately, to have both. unfortunately, you can’t have both. fortunately, you can try to rebuild the relationship the choice broke. unfortunately, will didn’t do that. he wasn’t fair to a single person here. he still sees tasks and details as a privilege given to solaires, not something that is expected of him as vincent’s family.

most of erik’s plotlines have a theme, and this one seems to surround trust and choice and how the right thing isn’t always in black and white. so yeah it would fucking suck and i would bawl my ass off if vincent and lovely decide to leave the house …… i know it would be the right thing to do but also i wish porter could knock some sense into william or something.

i would love to see that, actually. feels shakespearean.

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revlischarm · 2 years ago

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Wouldn’t call this one of my most exciting edits for the Noodle Shop Ghost AU, but it’s what I was able to finish recently so it’s what y’all are getting since I’m impatient to share more details and have to divulge them NOW

More LMK Morro info under the cut

• Red Son’s nicknames for Morro include “Accursed witch” and “dead meat” (the witch one is due to Morro having spooky vibes and carrying around a broom)

-Deadass? The first time Red called Morro a witch, Morro did a full 180° and said “did you just call me a bitch?” (Credit to @breathlessmorro for this idea!)

•Morro’s still got some anger issues they’re working out

•Princess Iron Fan shows up with her wind and he’s like “bro I am unimpressed I could do that when I was like, ten”

-The teleporting à la wind gets his attention, tho, since he obviously can’t do that and is immediately jealous

•Morro was a big fan of JTTW Monkey King after reading the story, but then he meets Wukong irl and is just like “Oh. This is it?? That’s…disappointing.”

Wukong: “I haven’t even interacted with you yet and you already dislike me, what the hell.”

-Like Morro and Wukong definitely have some similar interests and hobbies, such as martial arts, protective over MK, a distain for rules…but Morro is still twitchy around him.

-Morro owns a JTTW shirt because he still thinks that the story slaps tho

•Morro thinks the Mayor has cool vibes upon first meeting

-Like, Morro respects how unhinged and creepy he is

•Morro does have a broom for a weapon I’ve decided! It’s comical and it works. He gets a new weapon during Season 3, tho!

-He absolutely 100% knows how to use a broom as a staff because he’s used a staff before. In Season 5 when he possessed Lloyd and was trying to steal Wu’s staff, in the tea shop fight he was kicking ass with it. He’s very proficient with a staff and you can fight me on that.

•Morro forgets that he’s mortal again and ends up walking into a lot of solid objects

•Morro strives for success and likes to be in the spotlight still honestly, he can’t help it.

-The man absolutely despises failing in any way; he doesn’t want to be seen as a disappointment.

-At least he’s ambitious!

•Morro’s working on his inability to let things go, and it’s going. Okay. Ish.

-He struggles so, so much with letting go of a grudge, he never forgets nor forgives but he’s trying to

-It’s part of his goal towards being a better person/not being evil lmao

-“I probably shouldn’t hold onto so much hate for what happened before, huh…well maybe I’ll hold onto a few things.”

•MK sometimes does morning exercises with Morro (stretches and stuff), so for the episode “Duplicination” he makes another clone to do said activities with Morro

-How would that go wrong? Contortionist clone is how. Motherfucker stretches himself into a creepy pretzel

-He crawls up a wall like a spider and gives MK nightmares

-“NOOOO!! MY WORST FEAR IS MANIFESTING!”

-He’s super flexible and very hard to catch; good at dodging!

•Morro definitely sees a lot of Lloyd in MK, but it’s not like he can go back to Ninjago rn (he doesn’t know how), and even then! Lloyd and he are on horrible terms. So Morro is inadvertently projecting onto MK to some extent the apology and like…just feeling guilty and almost responsible in a way

-They’re not doing it intentionally, they really aren’t

-MK just gives them Lloyd vibes that make Morro feel guilty

-Took one look at MK and went: “Is anyone gonna big brother that guy?” And didn’t wait for an answer (credit: @breathlessmonkie )

•Morro being referred to ironically as the “family pet” by Tang and the gang is a reoccurring gag in Season 1. It’s for comedy purposes.

-Pigsy: “This is my husband, Tang, our son, MK, and the family pet, Morro.”

MK: “He’s a rescue!”

-Morro just goes with it

•Morro has residual traits from being a former ghost and you can fight me on that

-For example, his teeth are just slightly more sharp than the average person’s. It’s barely even noticeable but it’s there.

-Morro’s eyes have eyeshine (tapetum lucidum?), basically if it’s dim lighting and you direct some light at him, his eyes seem to glow in the dark. That thing that some animals have, you know? Deer.

-On that note, Morro can see in the dark slightly better than the average person.

-There’s more stuff but I’ll go over it later

•Morro loves flying kites!!! He adores those super complex ones and is saving up money to buy one

•MK called Morro “responsible” one time/refers to him as his “responsible friend”, and Morro ends up having a whole new episode dedicated to him having a crisis over that

-Think a midlife crisis except more aggressive and despairing. Morro’s trying to find an outlet for aggression! He’s adamant he maintain his bad boy persona, and MK’s comment shook him

-Like, his whole thing was defying destiny, making his own path in life, beating the odds and being stubborn…and yet here MK is, saying that’s he’s responsible. It goes against what he thinks of himself and just sets him off. Man literally skips work (which he never does) and gets everyone worried about him.

-He’s just acting out to try and prove that he’s not some domesticated ex-villain, but it’s also about him having difficulty adjusting to this new norm

-Before, Morro was doomed to a cursed eternity for the longest time. He was pent up and bitter and focused on a whole lot of negative stuff, and now he’s waking up and going to work and living life like none of that happened. It’s jarring, and he’s realizing that it’s so far from how he once was.

-He’s thinking, “That angry person I used to be was me, that’s who I was. What changed?” When really he’d just been so bitter and upset for so, so long that that’s all he can think of himself as being—that’s who he was, that’s who Morro was. It’s just he wasn’t actively thinking about it or anything until MK prompted it. He’s changed, and he knows that, but now he’s like…he’s moreso conscious of it, like actually realizing it’s not just that he gave up being so spiteful and tried to redeem himself—he’s forgotten what he was like before he was a vengeful spirit.

-That was what defined them for so long. And now who are they?

-The other part of it is that he doesn’t want to feel like he’s conforming, doesn’t want to be responsible, that it feels like he’s just following along to fate’s rules. And he abhors that.

-Uhhhhhh anyways tl:dr Morro has an episode all his own about self-discovery and also demolishes some stuff along the way.

-OH ONE MORE THING Morro divulges some more about his past to MK and Mei in this episode and also I don’t have a title for the episode yet so suggestions/help with that is greatly appreciated

•Back to our regularly scheduled program

•Morro. Does not trust Wukong very much.

-Like, Morro already has past trauma with Wu, given how Wu told Morro he could be the Green Ninja and fed him a bunch of hopeful nonsense and all that. Morro knows that MK’s been told he has some big destiny and power and whatever by this mentor-figure.

-Also. The Golden Weapons’ parallels with Monkey King’s staff?? Fun stuff. The staff “chose” MK and all that jazz.

-Morro doesn’t trust him from the start, although it’s less of Morro being perceptive enough to pick up on Wukong’s crap and instead that his paranoia ended up being right

-Morro would definitely go “At this point I can’t tell if you or Wu are worse, and that’s fucking saying something.”

-There’s one instance in which Morro straight up punches Wukong square in the face. I’m keeping that scene to myself for now because I gotta have some secrets, you know? Heheh

•Mei’s green power startles Morro every now and then

-Like there’s a flash of glowing green in their peripheral and they jolt. Literally they don’t even do it on purpose, it’s a knee jerk response to glowing green powers.

•Morro drinks soy sauce. He’ll get a little dish and sip from it. Yes, I based this off of myself.

•Macaque is Morro’s dad now btw I should probably mention that /hj

•During the episode “Macaque”, Morro shows up when MK does and actually manages to like. Demonstrate a decently strong attack at Macaque’s shadow kaiju thing. Wind does wonders against smoke monsters (I think Mac called it that??)

-Anyways Macaque quickly takes an interest in Morro! Morro tags along with MK for the training stuff because they’re not letting the kid get taken to some secondary location

-…unless they goes too, lmao

-Plus Macaque doesn’t actually mind him coming along, Morro’s wind powers peaked his interest

•Oh also Morro @ Macaque: “You know back where I’m from, we have an elemental Master of Shadow—I bet they could kick your ass, lol”

Macaque:

Macaque: “a fucking what”

•Also Morro? Actually really vibes with Macaque’s teachings?? Like he definitely reminds MK to take breaks and take it easy every once in a while, but for the most part Morro is like “fuck yeah? This guy is straightforward and makes a good point. Although strategy is important to take into account first and foremost it also helps to actually have a sense of direction here”

-So Morro thinks that Macaque’s got superior skills as a teacher to MK here

-Up until the whole betrayal thing haha

•Macaque keeps a close eye on Morro throughout the episodes following all of this actually!

-Like Macaque checks in on him throughout Season 2 and so they cross paths again fairly quickly

-Morro is very apprehensive at first but begrudgingly understands that it isn’t anything personal against MK, what Mac did—Morro’s literally been in that kind of situation before, sort of. “Nothing personal, just doing this to achieve my goals, you just happen to be involved in this and got hurt.”

-Like Morro gets it. You do evil and fucked up shit because it’s fun at the time and you wanna get back at someone who hurt you

•He’s still very protective of MK but he genuinely understands where Mac is coming from when he pulled that stunt

•They both absolutely open up to each other about their respective deaths eventually, though it takes time

•Macaque shows Morro some cool fighting stuff! They spar together a lot

-Morro finds himself looking forward to those sessions (he can get an actual challenge lmao) and so does Macaque! Mac hasn’t had a sparring buddy in. Well. You know ;)

•Morro 100% picks up on the ex vibes Macaque and Wukong have

•But anyways Morro and Macaque have a great time training and sparring together! Neither of them are afraid to get aggressive, but not because they’re angry—it’s because they know the other one can take it!

•They just overall bond offscreen (and maybe onscreen too? Do I need to make another new episode dedicated to this??) during Season 2/end of Season 1

•Macaque and Morro have a fun dynamic that I’ll expound more upon in Season 3 stuff, but I’m saving anything s3 for a different post because spoilers

•I will divulge that LBD has some difficulty handling Morro for reasons that are ghost-related and that Morro wants to kick her ass

-Well, related to the fact that Morro used to be a ghost and I have a very specific headcanon about his new physical body in that regard

•Anyways

•The Macaque thing is pure self-indulgence on my end because he’s one of my favorite characters

•If it feels forced in, it’s because it probably is, but serotonin go brrrrr in my head and that overrules all logic

•I want to draw what Morro’s intro screen would look like for the opening but I don’t have the skill (can’t draw complex backgrounds well at ALL) rip

-Concept for seasons 1 + 2 would have him standing in the front with a clear shot like the other characters do, arms are crossed or he’s leaning on his broom, and in the background we see a cool dynamic shot of him flying one of those neat Chinese kites. Color scheme is mostly greens and grays? I’m not sure.

-My idea for the Season 3 intro I’m reserving for now

•Morro doesn’t know how to drive I should mention. Man needs to learn to, lol

•Mei and MK teach him lingo and Morro honestly picks it up shockingly fast.

-He can understand some things about it? But others he’s at a total loss for.

-For example Morro doesn’t understand surreal memes or deep-fried stuff, he just doesn’t get what’s funny about them

•Morro knows a lot of occult/spiritual info!! He’s your man if you’ve got some form of spooky trouble ailing you

-So for spooky or supernatural happenings, Morro can give some decent advice.

•Don’t get him wet, he despises water.

•Also he’s still absolutely unhinged. Redemption doesn’t mean he lost any of his violent tendencies, so that’s a lot of manic fun.

-The vibe of what he’ll be saying is all good stuff, but the way he says it sounds like he’s delivering a villain speech

-Oh and don’t get me started on his dramatics either because this man is the smuggest and most theatric bastard ever and I love him for it

-A sore loser and a sore winner.

-So a ton of similarities to Red Son’s behavior, just…toned down a bit more and he’s not trying to be a villain. That’s just how he is. He slips back into villain mode sometimes because he was a villain, and he’s also just kinda like that.

-Morro’s villain tendencies/vibes are always more…creepy? Dark? Than Red Son’s are. Macabre, I’d say. He could actually scare you if he wanted to? It’s hard to describe.

-To sum it up: trying to do good things, but his attitude about it is so diabolical and dramatic. Aaaaannnnd his methods aren’t entirely moral all the time, either. He’s trying, okay??

•Although on that note, Morro is still a master at manipulation when it comes to it. He’s very adept at twisting his words around and can occasionally fall back on old habits without meaning to

-Fucking watch out for him when he’s intentionally being manipulative though, you don’t wanna mess with that

•Morro 100% attends Mac’s shadow plays, they really enjoy them and are the most enthusiastic person in the stands

-Macaque: The hero and the warrior were like the sun and the moon—

Morro: FUCK YEAH LET’S GOOOOOO

Macaque, confused and embarrassed: Uh, anyways.

•Morro would either be very good or very bad at fighting Red Son; wind can either fuel fire or snuff it out. Depends on the oxygen and stuff.

•Anything involving flying/air/heights? Morro is adept at that. Man would kill for one of Wukong’s clouds

•Trans he/they Morro rights

•This post is long enough so I’ll end it here

#ninjago #art #lego ninjago #my art #lego monkie kid #lmk au #lmk #nsg au #nsg #noodle shop ghost au #noodle shop ghost #edit #screenshot edit #morro #ninjago morro

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olympeline · 10 months ago

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You ever get struck with an idea for a multi-chapter, 100k+ word fic out of nowhere and you’re just: Damn, son, if only I had the free time to devote to bringing this word child into the world. It would be glorious

I was going about real life and I suddenly thought: #ScotFrUK #Enemies to Lovers #medieval kings and princes AU #Slow Burn #Angst With A Happy Ending. It would be so mmm *chef’s kiss* So good

Like, imagine it’s the early days of the Auld Alliance but it was much more of a big deal than in our world. To the extent that the king of France sends one of his sons to wed the Scottish king, Alasdair, to cement their pact against the English. Francis is reluctant, but obeys. Happily, he and Alasdair turn out to have what TV Tropes would call a Perfectly Arranged Marriage. A real opposites attract deal. They had to marry out of necessity, but soon neither would be with anyone else.

So, there’s the lovers. Where’s the enemy?

Arthur: 🫡

There we go. Arthur is a prince too. But, unlike Francis, he’s both an only child and the heir. Meanwhile Francis is a second or third son. Hence why he was sent away to wed sexy scotsmen instead of staying home to rule. Anyway, Arthur’s father is still alive, but old and sick and noone expects him to live much longer. Arthur comes back from leading England’s army on the continent and his Evil Uncle™ (who has been de facto king thanks to Arthur’s dad’s illness) immediately sends him north to Scotland. Deliberately misleading Arthur about the strength of Alasdair’s forces in the hopes of getting his nephew killed. Then Evil Uncle™ just has to wait for the old king to die and presto: England’s throne is his

So, Arthur and his men get fed some story about Scottish barbarians pillaging northern English villages and cross the border to try and break up this ragtag bandit hoard. Only to be met with the full force of the highlands army, led by the dreaded King Alasdair himself (gee, I wonder who could have tipped them off? Oh Evil Uncle™ you incorrigible scamp, you).

The English troops are badly outnumbered and are soon crushed and scattered. Those that aren’t killed are sent fleeing desperately for the border, Arthur among them. But he’s captured before he can get to safety and dragged before Alasdair. Arthur is smart enough not to reveal his true identity and manages to pass as a knight. Alasdair takes him back to his castle as a “gift” for his beloved Francis

See, despite their instant connection, Alasdair still worries life in the highlands isn’t enough for Francis. That his love will eventually tire of a life that’s more rugged and spartan than he’s used to. Tire and long to return to the rich splendour of France. Spoiler: he won’t. But Alasdair still worries and so gives his king consort a captive English manservant to torment. Hoping it will distract Francis from his (imagined) homesickness. Oh Alasdair, you silly soft headed twit. Francis doesn’t need distracting. Not when he has you ❤️

Either way, Arthur - still hiding his true identity - is presented to Francis. After that it’s the slow burn, enemies to lovers between all three of them. With plenty of ups and downs, and tension and drama (relationship and political) mixed in. Francis, still so in love with Alasdair, but sweating bullets over how attracted he is to Arthur. Alasdair, trying to quash his own attraction to their “guest” while also drowning in longheld feelings of inadequacy that are only getting worse. And Arthur wrestling with the guilt and self-loathing over the fact that he is indeed falling for his captors: the enemies of his people. Give me all that angst and drama and other good stuff! Pretty please

And pretty please also give me the eventual first sexy time. With royal husbands Alasdair and Francis seducing Arthur together, Arthur getting the full 👉👌👈 losing all his inhibitions, and loving every minute of it

Urggh. I want to write it. I really do. I shouldn’t, but I really, really want to

#hetalia #fruk #scotfra #scoteng #scotfruk #hws scotland #hws france #hws england #aph scotland #aph france #aph england #my posts

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ackerfics · 1 year ago

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FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc

act one, chapter three: little boy gone (wc: 8.4k) | masterlist

113 AC

The royal wedding between his half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra, and one Lord Laenor is the first marriage Aegon will witness as a lad of six name days. (However, that won’t be the case since the children are not given the signal to attend any single one of the one-week celebrations except for the wedding itself, being too young for an affair that invited almost all of the Houses in King’s Landing.) It also means having to stand on a platform and have fabrics fitted to you and have pins poking through, which is something he doesn’t want. One silver lining, however, is seeing his Aesira being fitted for her gowns. He overhears Mother saying that since Aesira and her brothers are now staying under her and Father’s careful watch, they would receive pieces of clothing that will suit their liking.

“Aegon, what are you still doing here?” Mother asks him after he makes himself comfortable on one of the chairs in her solar, a poorly-concealed look of confusion begins pulling on the muscles under her skin. Aether has already long gone to tend to Daemian (in extension, Daeron, Aegon’s newest sibling), seeing as the girls are having their turns choosing their favourite colours from the variety of fabrics. She bites her cheek before continuing, “Shouldn’t you be with Aether heading back to the nursery? I assume you two are going to prepare for the day’s schedule because I do not recall receiving requests of permission for the Maesters to take a day off.”

Of course, how can Aegon forget his daily lessons on history and sums? Purely boring rubbish, honestly. Maester Orwyle talks a lot (though Aegon is thankful that he’s not as forceful as some of the Maesters loitering around the Keep) and is definitely not pretty to look at. Aegon tilts his head and outwardly stares at Aesira pouting at all the fabrics laid out on the cleared-out low table. He watches as she slowly reaches out for a fabric with flower embroideries before retracting her hand and placing it under her chin for further contemplation. She then turns to Helaena, who is on the side examining a dragonfly perching on the other side of the window, to ask for her opinion. The two girls converse in hushed tones and Aegon wants to hear what they are talking about, unconsciously leaning forward as if that will aid him in having to hear a conversation a couple of feet away from him. He wants to know what causes Aesira to giggle like that.

“Aegon.”

“Huh?” He blinks away from avidly admiring his Aesira and finds himself under Mother’s scrutiny. “W-What is it, Mother?”

Mother sighs, never forgetting to roll her eyes. Aegon bites the inside of his cheek. She proceeds to tell him, “Why are you not in your tutoring?”

“Oh,” Aegon breathes, looking down at his lap and giving Aesira one glance. His entire face burns with the heat of the sun and reaches to the tips of his ears when Mother furrows her brows and follows where his eyes are being called upon. He tightly closes his eyes the moment Mother looks at him again. He is expecting another scolding so all he can hear is his breathing. Mother is awfully quiet for no reason but she lets out a light laugh, a sound that is almost like a breath but Aegon is sure it is a laugh. He’s heard Ser Criston do it countless times before when he finds something outrageously funny yet he cannot do anything to fully express his emotions. Aegon opens one eye. Mother is shaking her head. “Mother?”

“I suppose you can have this short amount of time to relax in my solar, Aegon,” Mother says with the same straight posture she always does as if that laugh never happened. “Only during the extent of the girls’ fitting. Do go back to learning once this is done. Understood?”

Aegon nods, still not used to Mother letting him go after an opportunity of scolding.

“Princess Helaena, Lady Aesira, we have dresses in the trunk that you can try on,” the seamstress chirps. “All of the fabrics you like will be reflected on the dresses after some mending. Go on, you can choose whatever you like, Your Highness, my Lady.”

Helaena looks at Mother for permission. Just a tilt of her head is all it takes for Helaena to pick up her skirts and pick out a dress that she may like. Aegon rolls his eyes when his sister asks for some bugs to be embroidered on her final dresses. The seamstress seems taken aback, glancing at Mother, who exasperatedly sighs before waving her hand regally in the air. He hears the seamstress trying to convince his weird sister about putting butterflies on the textiles instead of spiders but being the odd one that she is, Helaena bargains to have one dress with beetles instead since they don’t look scary. Aegon snickers when the seamstress defeatedly purses her lips and resigns to making the dress that will be the Princess’s favourite for the season. If Helaena has her creepy bugs, what will Aesira have on her dresses?

The boy of six once again gazes at the object of his affection. He may be young but he knows that he and Aesira bear connections with each other — not as strong as hers and Aether’s, but it is there. Aegon can’t seem to look away whenever she’s around; hair so perfectly styled with braids and ribbons (sometimes bows), chubby cheeks he wants to pinch between his fingers (maybe kiss but he doesn’t have any opportunity yet), tiny hands that are begging for him to take in his, dresses complimenting her in every way possible, and a presence that seems to call for his full attention. Looking at her is akin to looking at his favourite food; his eyes would gain that sheen of appreciation and his lips would curl in an unconscious smile. He once asked Maester Orwyle if what he feels around Aesira is considered normal and not an impending disease. The learned man simply laughed and said to wait it out until he becomes a man grown, and if the symptoms persist, Aegon can come back to him and inquire about them again. It is only at that time Maester Orwyle will truly answer his question. That sounds like a lot of time to wait out, so Aegon grumbled the rest of the lesson while the Maester chuckled in front of him. But one thing’s for sure, Aesira is his princess; his one and only maiden.

And when it’s Aesira’s turn to pick a dress to measure, she twirls in a peach (the seamstress said something about it being the colour coral orange) dress that has Helaena clapping in glee, Aegon stares and stares — all thoughts inside his flying in the air except for her.

“A soft princess whose world is the colour of pearls will have it dripped with the sunrise,” Helaena remarks, a smile even visible in her voice even though Aegon is not looking at her. “You look so pretty, Sira! Just like in my dreams.” She bounces from Mother’s side to where Aesira is standing on the platform. Helaena moves to help Aesira down from the low stool to spin with her, admiring the shimmering details on the skirts and bodice. The two girls turn to pick other dresses for each other and Mother looks down with a sad smile.

Six name days is too young to decide who you’re going to marry but Aegon can only name a single person that he wants to see wear white and stand with him in the Grand Sept. And it just so happens his Aesira is trying on an ivory dress that has puffy sleeves on the upper arms and fitted ones covering her forearms and wrists. He doesn’t care that Aesira will never wear this dress for his half-sister’s wedding nor the pleased hums coming from Mother at the sight of it. Seeing her in it is enough to solidify what’s running through the constant thought in his mind for the past couple of days. Aegon is practically vibrating in his seat, his little legs kicking in the air. He can’t wait to ask this one thing from Mother and maybe, Father, if he’s being lucky. The old man Aegon sees nowadays is a large contrast to the man walking around the court; he can’t blame Father, when he sees Aesira, he smiles as well.

So, at the supper before the wedding festivities, he manages to make everyone stop as he shouts with stars for eyes, “I want my wedding with Aesira to be as grand as this!”

Father laughs openly in front of his family, purple eyes alight with nostalgia. Mother looks bewildered that she drops her spoon onto the plate of chicken and peas she has been trying to take tiny bites from. His half-sister raises her eyebrows in mild amusement, making Aegon the first person she ever looks in the eye the entire supper. Helaena is being weird again, muttering things with a smile on her face. Aemond’s eyebrows meet, giving the little twat the villainous look that he can muster at three name days. Aether nearly spits out the juice he’s been drinking like he swallowed down the wrong pipe before gawking at him — scandalised.

But all that matters is Aesira, whose flustered face should be painted for the castle’s atelier, and he is the one responsible for it. Pride settles in his bones as Aegon goes back to eating, giggling the butterflies away as if he didn’t spark the idea of a new royal wedding after Rhaenyra.

Daemon can vividly envision his first wedding each time he closes his eyes.

It was a sad event; not at all revered like the impending royal wedding that will take place at the end of the week. His act of taking Aellara Arryn to wife was nothing more than a stepping stone to further establish his claim as the previous Heir to his brother, which soured because his birthright was stolen right under his nose. Now, it was more like a pathetic call to make his older brother look his way. See, I finally married the most sought-out woman in the realm, surely you are going to acknowledge me as your equal, brother. Viserys never did. And so, he simply married the Siren because it was truly long overdue that he didn't take someone as his wife, preferring the company of whores to the shackles brought by marriage.

Though beautiful in her own right, Aellara, his beloved lady wife, never possessed the correct shade of their Valyrian root in her hair nor she held the violet hues in her eyes — instead of the lavender pair he dreamed of and was plagued with every night without fail, her eyes were a reminder that she wasn’t the true Valyrian bride he wished to bed and plant heirs in. It all added to his well-concealed disappointment.

However, he never expected the warmth this marriage carried.

Aellara wasn’t just the Siren he lusted for at first sight, she was a companion — a friend Daemon poured his heart out to when the subtle scent of the night called for memories to be at their height. He found himself craving for the small, dainty palm she would cup his cheek with or the forehead she would gently place on his in a promise that he was the most heartfelt man she ever came across. Daemon searched the windows of Dragonstone every chance he got, hoping to catch the sight of his wife—he couldn’t believe it, Aellara was his wife—overlooking his training with that fucking smile of hers. She had him questioning the tickling sensation happening in every inch of his body. He could map out every single constellation etched on her skin; he could perfectly say the exact shade of her eyes without even looking; he could listen to her childhood tales …

Daemon Targaryen knew this meeting was fated when he found meaning in each of the words they exchanged, in every moment they shared. Aellara took every bit of his being and made them hers to care for.

At some point, the line was blurred — duty became love and meshed into one messy masterpiece without them knowing.

And ignorance of this continued to be bliss for Daemon.

His precious niece’s wedding will be as sad as his once was.

He had a plan, always has. There was a reason why their sigil was a three-headed dragon. Aegon the Conqueror chose to take two wives during his reign. Who was to refuse him, the Targaryen rumoured to have surpassed The Conqueror in terms of bloodlust and fire, to take a second wife? You would dare disgrace your wife and children, Daemon’s cowardly brother spat in his face after begging him to give his innocent, delightful niece for him to wed after coming back to give the crown of the Stepstones in the name of the King. He never begged. Taking Rhaenyra as his second wife would have been the pinnacle of the Targaryen dynasty they worked so hard to maintain; a Valyrian match so pure no one would dare oppose it (if tongues wagged, they’d be cut). It was the one thing he truly wanted. Daemon already had heirs to his bloodline (two gorgeous babes who never stopped crying for their mother; he had enough of hearing their wails from daybreak to the hour of the bat). He would give the Iron Throne trueborn sons as well.

“Think of the glory, wife,” he told Aellara a year after being exiled because of his foolish decision of suggesting a polygamous relationship to Viserys. He never had a stopper when it came to telling his wife his plans, so the words flowed freely from his mouth without even thinking of the consequences. “You would be Queen when Rhaenyra takes the throne — a beautiful ruler who will wear Rhaenys’ crown on her pretty head.”

“Is this your way of confessing your disloyalty to our marriage, Daemon?”

Daemon — she called him Daemon. It was always ‘husband’.

He never imagined his pliant wife would possess that Targaryen fire. Maybe he didn’t delve deeper into how she was as a person, always seeing her through a shallow lens that many men wore while looking at her from afar. It took him by surprise that Aellara could look menacing enough to breathe blue fire. Her eyes were wide, nearly dead with no thoughts flashing behind the pupils, and her jaw tight from the clenching. Daemon, for the love of him, smiled despite the impending doom he would get from his very pregnant wife.

The Rogue Prince chuckled. “You really are a Targaryen—”

“Daemon. Answer me truthfully. Did you or did you not take Rhaenyra to the Streets of Silk the year prior? Was it you who people saw planting his lips on his—our—very own niece or they were just delusional to have seen such a sight?” She took a breath. “Tell me the truth, Daemon.”

He has never seen his wife this broken. And angry.

(If he paid closer attention and played the part of the besotted husband every person saw him as, he would have seen it.

Aellara was described as the embodiment of youth by Aemma and was a much beloved younger sibling to all her older brothers and sisters. Nothing of it remained when she was taken from the Eyrie at the mere age of nine and ten to be wed to Daemon Targaryen, a man that would leer at her the same way fat Lords would fix their eyes at her figure and the man who would wrong her in so many ways that she was starting to see it as a normal occurrence. The youthful Aellara the Vale had the honour of seeing, drowned in the depths of the seas with the man she married being the large waves pushing her underneath the waters. If Daemon has any shred of chivalry in him, maybe then he could be the one to relit that Targaryen flame Aellara inherited from her mother.)

Daemon was a man of murky actions, more of a man borne from hubris and less of a man of honour. Why would he answer to this pesky questioning when he provided this lowly woman (the youngest daughter, not even in line to inherit the Eyrie seat) everything he could possibly give? At the start of this horrendous pregnancy, she was always pecking at his entrails, pulling them apart as if she was finding the smallest of faults in the process. He stayed with her, right? Why would she bring up a thing of the past that was supposed to be tightly closed in a chest somewhere in the depths of the Narrow Seas? Was this her way of torturing his poor mind to submit to a life he didn’t want? Daemon was a seeker of glory and fuck him to the Seven Hells and back if he was going to throw it away right when he was so close to taking his precious niece as his wife. Not even the fucking Siren of the Vale could stop him from having the honour that should have been his since Rhaenyra breathed her first cry.

She had the gall to look at him in such a way that she was the god and he was the grovelling idiot. He earned the title of the King of the Narrow Seas, how dare his wife appear to be above him than anyone else. Not even Viserys looked at him like this. Those who did stare at him with such contempt was primarily a fucking cunt who paraded as the Hand of the King, a person who longed nothing but his banishment from King’s Landing. And now, this woman, a fucking woman, held her chin up high as if she was granted the position to do so. Aellara would be nothing without him.

At that moment, he was overtaken by rage, a rage so deep that it grated his long bones and travelled in a shivering cloud toward his mind.

“What do you want me to say?!” Daemon roared, with Caraxes feeling his bonded’s plight in the Dragonmont — the beast breathing dragonfire into the brewing storm around Dragonstone. “That I nearly took my niece’s virtue in a pleasure house? That I nearly planted an heir in her in the throes of my long-awaited need to have her?” He took thundering steps toward their marital bed, her shoulders flinching with each resounding stomp he made on the hard floor. Daemon wore wrath well; he might have been the walking deity for it. “I truly hope this will help you sleep at night the way the Milk of the Poppy tranquilises patients. Yes, it was I who took Rhaenyra to that fucking brothel but I never finished the act.” He laughed—cackled—an ugly sound in their chambers. “How I regretted that. Still, you doubted me and pointed fingers that I took her virtue when I flew us back here and fucked another child for you to pamper right away.

“If this is how you see me even when I didn’t stick my dick into her, I might as well supplant her heirs right then and there!”

A crack rang and Daemon’s head flew to the side.

And she had to squirm to appear strong, too. Fucking pathetic.

They spent a few moments in the eye of the storm until Daemon returned the gesture with a backhanded slap that pierced through her skin and threw her off her chair.

“You bitch!” Daemon spat at the wide-eyed, cowering form of his wife, her hand shaking over her protruding belly. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “If someone should be accused as a whore who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, it should be you, you fucking wench! Do you think of me blind with the way you walk through these halls relishing in the eyes of the men lingering just to get a glimpse of you? I’ve heard about you entertaining my fucking Gold Cloaks while I was giving you my back.”

Frantic cornflower blue irises rose to finally look at him. He thanked the Gods that the lilac shade he was lusting over since their birth wasn’t under this much strain. His pliant wife was a fucking sight. What would the men who lusted for her say now?

“When,” her voice was hoarse, “have I ever done that, Daemon?” He kept quiet, still staring at her with those dead eyes, only one emotion swirling in them. “Tell me when did I entertain men—your men—while you were training?” He forgot he wore his rings until a single trail of her blood ran down her cheek. Not the perfect shade. Never a god in her right. She was not worthy of him. “I was giving them the courtesy of being the Lady of Dragonstone. What would you want me to do? Sit still and look pretty like everyone expects me?”

“Truth?” Daemon’s tone gained belittlement. “Yes.”

Her face wasn’t beautiful anymore. A pity.

He kneeled in front of her, his forefinger and thumb pinching her chin. She yelped at the pressure. “Because that’s all you are, wife. A fucking pretty face with a cunt in between her legs, asking for every man to fuck her with a bat of her eyelashes.” He flicked her head to the side before standing up.

“And you—do you think I wanted to be born this way?” She now hugged her pregnant belly, eyes not seeing anything yet focused on a single speck on the rug that gave her knees burns. There was a guttural tilt to her next words, resentment present in each syllable, “Do you think I wanted to be presented as the seducer who took away husbands from wives?! That I am tossed away by my father just to be a fucking broodmare to birth out sons?! Do you think I don’t feel repulsed by how men see me?! I want to skin myself! I never asked to be like this! If I could have taken my life just to experience serenity and never the married life I have right now, I would have with a single heartbe—”

“I never wanted this either!” Daemon yelled. “This union was the last thing on my mind. If I had known you were this fucking difficult, I would have let you be assaulted by the Lords you enjoy the attention of!”

She shook her head. “You don’t mean that.”

Daemon scoffed. “I do. Wedding you was never an option because my heart, body, and soul already belonged to another. But you looked so desperate to be betrothed to me that I gave you my hand when I could have given it to—”

“My niece,” she breathed out.

“She is the one the Gods gave me to have. Every morrow I wake up to is spent longing for her. It has been that way since I held her in my arms and when she first opened her eyes to see me. You will never hold a candle to the love I feel for Rhaenyra. You don’t even begin to compare to her.”

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish in need of water, not finding the words to say. She was a master of crafting masks and she did it so perfectly that Daemon truly felt the magnitude of disgust displayed on her face. He wanted to slap her to erase such a degrading expression presented to him, a person who was born with both of his parents’ divinity in his veins. She made it seem like he needed his cock cut off. “You are a vile being, husband.”

“Say that again.”

That was all it took for her to prove that she, in fact, had the dragons’ blood in her veins. “You disgust me!”

He had never felt the intense need to handle a woman this way. Daemon saw opaque red; he didn’t even see the shred of fear on his wife’s face when he raised his hand to hit her again; this time, maybe she would be quiet now, giving him the silver lining of finally taking Rhaenyra as his wife and be done with it. What he never expected was the tiny body getting in between his palm and the subject of his ire, the smack of skin against skin echoing in the chambers like the chilly ringing of the Sept’s bells. A softer thud belonging to a body lighter than a pregnant woman came soon after.

“Aether!”

Abysmal waters enveloped every fibre of his being. It was then that he realised the position he was in. On his hands was the blood of his wife and firstborn. They were mere splatters on his pristine, calloused palms but it was enough to make his son see him for who he truly was. Daemon remained standing in front of the hearth, the tangerine reflection of the flames licking on one side of his profile. It wasn’t enough to unfreeze himself.

In a fit of childish rage, the boy of five stood from the ground and pounded his tiny fists against the garments of Daemon’s night trousers. He couldn’t feel anything; he kept staring at the spot in between his wife’s body and his son’s. The boy had angry tears streaming down his face, snarls taking root in his throat. “You hurt Mother! You’re bad! I hate you!”

“Boy—”

“You’re not my father anymore!”

Again, that deep-rooted fury in his soul erupted. “You fucking brat—!”

“Aether!” She was successful in clutching the boy close to her, halting his attempts in bruising the man who rode his dragon to war. “Don’t you dare lay your hands on my son!”

They were looking at him like he was not a husband or a father. They were looking at him like he was a monster void of reason.

Now, he knew which side his coin landed on when the Gods watched it flip.

He fails at taking Rhaenyra as his wife after witnessing the bloodbath that has taken place at the first wedding feast of the celebrations. Instead, he has seen a new prospective bride in the untouched, tumultuous daughter of the Sea Snake. Laena Velaryon. Just her very name sparks his blood, very much like when he first saw his first wife peering through that window in the Eyrie. That look on Lady Laena’s face is a mirror to how Aellara saw him for the first time — curious and demanding attention. Though he may not be the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror for taking two wives during his reign as a Prince, he follows through by marrying both of his wives due to desire — never duty, however. Both of them are pretty, alluring little things, with one bearing the name of the Siren until her days come to an end while the other is gaining the reputation for her eligibility.

And now, Daemon lurks in the secret tunnels of the Keep with one purpose in mind. Upon arriving at a fork, he takes no hesitation whatsoever to turn to the right. He walks and walks until he comes face to face with a loose section of the brick wall, shaped to fit into the intricate stone arcs on the other side. Right beyond this wall is the very last thing he is going to collect. For someone with a bravado that can fit the entire realm, Daemon hesitates, hand flexing and fingers itching to fiddle with the handle of the hidden dagger inside the lapels of his tunic. His eyelashes flutter with an unnecessary need to turn back.

He takes the time to draw a huge breath, exhaling it into the night air. Then, he opens the door.

The nursery is a drab thing to be inside. The paintings aren’t hilarious like they are around the Keep; rather, they portray woodland creatures prancing with their wooden instruments while women with otherworldly features on their skin and hair dance to their tune. None of the dragons fucking each other and dragons fucking humans around here. The dragons presented in the painting of the nursery are a fucking joke; dragons aren’t this adorable. He pushes the paintings to the back of his mind and carefully stalks on the rugged floors of the chambers. Thank the Gods that people installed such a feature — it is making his job easier. He creeps into the dark, lilac eyes appearing like the sharpest gems while assessing the children asleep on the mattresses.

He passes by that Hightower bitch’s children, all with the Targaryen colouring. What a fucking waste. If Viserys married any other woman, Daemon would have been proud of his brother’s wife for bringing another generation of Targaryens to keep the bloodline secure. But, alas, such a pity that that woman is the once innocent daughter of the Hightower cunt. Anything miserable revolving around that fucking House is a pure delight to him — it’s just the right amount of entertainment. Then, he notices an odd thing.

The eldest of the Hightower brats is hugging someone close to his rising and falling chest.

Daemon has to dig his fingernails in his palms to physically prevent himself from tearing the pompous brat (Aegon is his name, blegh) away from his precious daughter — the light of his life, the object of his true affection, one of the only good things that came out of him. He peers over Aegon's small body and the sight nearly buckles his knees, eyes stinging with an unknown emotion.

She is still so perfect. Aether truly inherited his fire, that rowdy little boy, but it was Aesira that he rarely stopped carrying every minute spent in Dragonstone. His Gold Cloaks even remarked that the babe could have been a part of his armour, a jest that always elicited a bellied laugh from deep in his stomach, with his beloved baby giggling along with him. Aesira is the best of him. Even he was baffled that he helped create such a lovely, beautiful thing from a marriage not borne from love. Daemon can’t help himself; he kneels right beside the mattress and simply gazes at Aesira sleeping peacefully in the arms of another boy that is not her brother. His hands are itching to caress her chubby cheeks, playfully biting them until she kisses his nose with unconditional care. Aesira is still the prettiest baby he has ever seen. He’s captured a glimpse of that Hightower bitch’s daughter a few minutes ago and she is as plain-looking as her mother. She doesn’t hold a spark to the babe who managed to make him love something so acutely at first sight.

The shade of her hair remains the same. Daemon wishes that she would at least open her eyes. Her tiny fists still grip the nearest thing she has on her side while she sleeps. During their time in Dragonstone, the twins would sleep in between their parents and Aesira would never let go of Daemon’s nightshirt through the dead of the night. Now, raw anger pulls at his stomach because he has been replaced by a babe unworthy of the Targaryen name. It melts away after one look at his slumbering daughter. The Rogue Prince has to hold back a chuckle at the little nose scrunch Aesira does when she dreams of something — an adorable little thing.

He certainly has a favourite out of all his children as much as his first wife had hers. Shame his favourite doesn’t have a cock swinging between her legs.

Daemon forces himself to peel away from the reverie his daughter created and shifts his attention to the true reason why he sneaked into the nursery. On the mattress beside his daughter’s is his reflection. Limbs askew and covers tossed around, Aether Targaryen is Daemon’s miniature copy. His little shadow. The boy made it his personal mission to trail after him like a little dragon following the warmth of its parents. He was always entranced by Dark Sister’s glare under the height of the sun, with him declaring that he would be the third Targaryen to wield it. The boy could dream as high as the stars. If Aesira was the doll he would boast to the court, Aether was the son he would flaunt to the Lords — the son they all wanted. When Aether would become a man grown, he would be the perfect weapon to utilise upon the calls of war and the perfect bachelor Houses would want their daughters to be married to and taste the ferocity of House Targaryen. Daemon was the luminary for Aether and just like any satellite, the latter basks under his glow, borrowing his light to shine in his own right.

But after that night, Daemon guesses that he is the most hated person on this boy’s list.

Then again, he doesn’t care about other people’s feelings other than himself and those who he wants to impress.

Daemon swiftly stands up from his haunches and scoops the boy to hang over his shoulder. With one look over his little girl and the babe in the crib who killed his wife, he slinks through the nursery and into the tunnels, darkness his companion once again.

He dreams of flying.

There are no land masses in sight, only azure waters spanning the entire realm. He can feel jolts while soaring in between cloud formations but he never stops flying. Time stands still in this dream. Maybe he has been flying for hours or mere seconds, he may never know. All that matters is that he is big enough to dive closer to the surface of the ocean and taste the puffs of clouds in his skin. He is swaying, though — head lolling to the side yet he can never explain why. All this time his vision is showing nothing while letting his draconic beast guide him through his first flight. He tries opening his eyes to further feel the experience but it isn’t the glorious sky he is so in awe of.

Aether wakes up to a moving floor.

He is not flying but he is in the air due to someone carrying him over their shoulder. There is no dragon and vast skies; there is just this one person and the walls caving in around him. Aether blinks his eyes to erase the bleariness before turning his head to see who is taking him. Suddenly, fear wraps up his throat again and he is transported to the front of the crackling fireplace with a split-up lip and a bruised cheek.

“Father?”

“Shit.”

Questions start pouring into Aether’s mind like a never-ending water pump the maidservants use while hustling for the day’s meals. Where is Father taking him? How did he get inside the nursery? Aether remembers there being a Kingsguard stationed by the doors of the chambers, having known that they were sworn to protect anybody of Uncle’s blood. Can Father even go past them? He’s seen the Kingsguard train by the main courtyard of the Keep and they are capable of defeating men twice their size. They are adults and they tower over little Aether like he is one of the insects Helaena enjoys watching as they crawl on the ground or the ridges of her palm. All this thinking is making him squirm but Father keeps a firm hand over his body.

What about Aesira and Daemian then?

Oh, no.

Aesira and Daemian are all alone in the Keep if Father finishes taking him away from them. Who’s going to protect them more closely without him? Aegon has already announced that he was going to marry Aesira last night during supper with the royal family, so Aether wants to be there to prevent him from tainting his sister any further (his hugs and kisses on the cheeks and forehead are dirty enough to soil Aesira; Aether doesn’t want more of that from happening, not on his watch). Then, little Daemian. He’s just a babe; still in his swaddle and is clueless yet so pure as to what the world truly is to children like them — abandoned. Aesira won’t have the help to take care of him if Aether’s not there. Yes, there are going to be wetnurses and maidservants but they are not what the babe craves from time to time. Their baby brother at least needs more family members than Uncle’s side of the family. He should have both his big sister and big brother to guide him while living his childhood.

Aether grunts, fully kicking his feet in the air. “L-Let me go!”

Father answers with pained groans of his own. It looks like Aether kicked him in the cheek and the side of his neck. “Can you keep still?” He struggles with saying the words with all the commotion Aether is making.

“Not until you tell me where we are going!” Aether screams while continuing his assault on Father. The more he fights back, the angrier Father gets; but he’ll take his chances at the moment. Anything to escape this man who hit Mother and made her cry on the floor. Aether is only calling him Father because he doesn’t know what else to call him. Maybe he’ll learn the more colourful terms from Ser Criston during his training. He doesn’t get to hear them often because he’s surrounded by Lords who take the time to bet on the winner of the sword fight; the words get muddled and mould into one that it becomes hard to fully register what they mean. He never stops squirming until all he can hear from Father are words in High Valyrian, a language Aether is going to learn with the Maesters. “Put me down! Bring me to Aesira and Daemian now! I hate you, Father, I hate you!”

“Seven Hells!” Father yells when Aether finally gets his eye.

“I will kick more if you don’t return me to Sira and Damy! So, let me go!” He screams every word, the sound echoing in the tunnels. He’s not scared if there’s a monster waiting to pounce in the shadows, he has to get away from Father and hug Aesira and Daemian in the nursery, wordlessly vowing to himself to never sleep tonight for fear of Father returning and separating them for good. Besides, Father is scarier than any monster depicted in the tales crafted to spook children into behaving themselves. The Rogue Prince has defeated the man who took away the Stepstones according to Mother’s stories and he rides the most dangerous beast known to mankind. At first, Aether is all starry-eyed but after seeing Father that cruel, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near him.

Father still goes unsuccessful in keeping him in place. “Fucking brat!”

“I hate you, I hate you! I want Sira and Damy! Return me to the nursery!”

Father clamps both of his large hands around Aether’s arm, holding them so tightly that they will most likely bloom purples and reds the next morning. The ground touches his bare feet, the dirt digging into his skin and clinging to the seams of his soles. The screams morph into cries of pain for Father only worsens his hold around him. Air becomes non-existent in this suffocating tunnel, the world caving in around him like gnarly arms piercing through his brain. Aether raises his hands to wretchedly claw his way out because it hurts — everything hurts. He just wants to bury himself in that mattress Queen Alicent gave him out of the goodness of her heart, let the scent of freshly-washed sheets cover his senses, and introduce him to another series of dreams that he doesn’t want to wake up from. He just wants to take in that innate baby smell coming from Daemian while Aesira chatters in his ear about the latest book she manages to borrow from one of the desolate libraries of the Keep. He just wants to get away. Aether never realises that the wetness on his cheeks starts making drop tracks on the floor, glinting a brilliant silver against this darkness that Father takes a deep breath, loosening that monstrous grip he has over his arms.

The tunnels are eerily silent. There’s no breeze making the curtains flutter in the high moonlight. There are no signs of Aegon letting out low snores on his mattress or Helaena’s mutterings, not even the two babes fussing in their cribs. Gooseflesh erupts on every visible part of Aether’s skin when he hears the slight scuttle of small feet on the edges of the floor, the squeaking only adding to the haunting whispers of the walls. The tear tracks in between him and Father appear like blood under the mellow lighting brought by the lantern that is discarded at the side, the glass preventing a fire from happening. The silence rings in his ears the moment Father’s pair of lilacs clashes with his wide eyes. His chest rises and falls rapidly and he hopes this is a nightmare because Father has never been this mad.

Aether seems to forget another one of his wishes — he just wants to cry.

��I won’t be returning you to the nursery nor letting you see this castle once again,” Father starts with a steady voice. But that doesn’t help in calming Aether down. Father might as well resort to taming a dragon than face a rattling child like him. “You are coming with me, boy.”

“I-I don’t understand, Father.”

Father narrows his eyes and Aether expects the hand with rings around the fingers to make him tumble to the ground. The man in front of the boy doesn’t make a move in wiping the tears on the latter’s cheek like any other parent, like what Mother did when Aether was terrified of the boom of thunder or what Uncle Viserys did to Aesira when she cried one time during their meetings in his solar. Father never cared; he simply said that he should brave his fears because he would be a man, the example for his siblings. “I’m going to Essos to make a new life there. I choose you to be a part of it.”

Aether still doesn’t understand what Father is talking about. “Why me? What about Aesira and Daemian? Don’t you have a life here, Father? Why are you choosing Essos instead?”

The man clicks his tongue as if everything irritates him. “Carrying three children is something I don’t see myself doing in the middle of the night. Daemian is still a babe; it makes it even harder to do if I want to come out of this castle unscathed. Then, there’s you. You will help me in creating this new life across the Narrow Seas.” Something is brewing inside Father’s eyes and Aether doesn’t like it one bit. His lips are quivering to smile but he maintains the stoicness that will have Aether following his every word. And listen, Aether does best. “There, you can be whoever you want to be. No excessive grandeur that the court expects you to do just because you are my firstborn son. You can even fly your dragon there without direct supervision of the dragonkeepers, blasted old farts. I can teach you the ways of our history, our Mother Tongue, and how to wield Dark Sister. Now, stop your moping and get your shit together.” He stands up but Aether keeps on staring at a random circle of his tears on the dirt floor. Again, Father scoffs. “Boy, don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I—” Aether sniffles. He roughly wipes off the remnants of a sob from his face and stares up at Father. “I won’t leave Aesira and Daemian here.”

Father rolls his eyes. “We will come back for them, I promise.”

“You have to swear it on a pinky.”

A bark of laughter erupts from Father. Aether slowly retreats into his shell. Father seems to be doing a lot of that lately — sucking every piece of bravery from the eldest of the family. He should be the protector of his little siblings but in the presence of Father, he wilts like a blossom that stands too close to the sun. “I forgot how stupid being a child is,” Father murmurs under his breath. He thinks Aether doesn’t hear. The silence in the secret tunnels opposes it to be a secret. The boy tearfully stares at his pinky. All the promises that Aesira kept were forged with their intertwined pinkies. For their little tradition to be called stupid makes him rethink doing it anymore. It was Mother who taught them to honour their oaths and promises with their pinkies, even kissing them when she was the one doing the pinky promises. Aether’s tears resurface. Father keeps talking while the boy spirals, “Who taught you that?”

Aether inhales a sharp breath. “Mother.”

“Fuck,” Father curses. “Of course, she did.” The boy stares at him with a glare. “Remember what I said about having a new family in Essos? It includes a new mother and new siblings.”

The fire spreading through his limbs is redolent of the flames in the fireplace of Mother and Father’s room in Dragonstone. The dirt floor tickling his toes transforms into the rug scraping his skin. The eeriness of the tunnels brings back Mother’s cries and screams of his name. Don’t you dare lay your hands on my son! They say that fathers are supposed to be the protectors of their Houses but it was Mother who hugged Aether close to her pacing heartbeat, protecting him from Father’s wrath. It was Mother who vowed to always shield them from any harm and that once their baby sibling comes into the world, they would be flying away from Dragonstone and back to the Vale. It was Mother who secured a love for them, telling them that they were already so loved by her even before they were born. Father wasn’t in the picture at all. He was out training but he was almost like a ghost. Aether only sought him out and followed him because he was taught to be like Father when he grows up — strong and daring, fierce and loyal; a perfect mix of darkness and light in one person.

How can he force Aether to forget Mother? Mother who was the best hugger in the world, Mother who had the arms that held him and his sister, Mother who had the most beautiful smile around the realm, Mother who was the kindest and most courageous of all.

How dare he?

Aether explodes. “I HATE YOU!” He hit Father just like the man hit Mother all those nights ago. He may not have the rings but he makes up for how fast he punches. Aether knows he’s doing a great job when he hears the pained grunts coming from Father’s mouth. “I don’t want to go with you! I won’t ever leave Aesira and Daemian here alone with no one to protect them! I will never replace Mother with a stranger because I love her the most! I hate you and I hate the girl you’re going to marry! I hate the family you’re making in Essos! I hate you for hurting our family!”

He tastes the dirt from the floor, his pupils shaking from all the adrenaline. His cheek is numb at first but then, it erupts in blooming pain that has him crying more tracks on the ground. A glacial chill runs down from his face to his spine, making his heart spike up and his breathing to hasten. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Everything hurts. The slap Father gave him makes his head ring, blaring warning signs that he is about to sink into this abysmal pool of loathing all his life. A trickle of something thicker than water runs down from a jagged line making itself known to the ghosts howling their frustrations in the night. Aether looks up and sees a monster — a beast wearing Father’s face. From outside, he can faintly hear a dragon’s roar, probably Caraxes. His Achilles is not that big enough to terrorise King’s Landing with its shrieking.

“I gave you the easy way out, boy,” Father says in a hauntingly calm voice. “You can have everything you want if you would just be the obedient dog that you were to your mother. It would seem I have left you with the fucking Hightowers for too long.” Aether scrambles back when Father sits on his haunches to meet his eyes. “If you wish to live here and be manipulated by that Hightower bitch, then by my guest. I expected more from you — it seems like I should have expected nothing at all.” He stands up and takes the lantern from the ground.

“F-Father?” Aether voices out, watching him start to walk away. “W-Where are you going?”

Father looks over his shoulder. “I don’t see the point in staying.”

Panic grips his throat, never letting the air pass through but is on its way to welcome the incoming rise of bile. Father’s figure becomes smaller, the darkness swallowing him from all planes of his body. Aether can hear the squeaking of the rats and the grates of the invisible hands on the bricks. “Father!” He croaks but Father doesn’t hear (or he is pretending). A cold breeze wraps around his back, sparking all hair on his skin to stand on end. An invisible mouth is whispering sweet nothings to him, telling him to take the dagger on Father’s thigh and drive it into the skin until the sinews of the muscles scream, with the edges of an imaginary lip curling in a devilish smile. He ignores the voices and screams, “Father, don’t leave me here!” Father is still walking away, the small pinprick of light in the lantern swaying from all the movement. Fear is still shackling Aether to the floor but if he doesn’t move, he will go ballistic with the thought of being alone in this tunnel. So, he stands on shaky legs and braves himself to take the first step. “FATHER!”

“Farewell, Aether.”

The world caves in and the ghosts consume him whole, piece by piece, with only a scar from Father left behind.

It takes three whole days for the Kingsguard to find the young Lord, staring at nothing and dirty from head to toe right at the base of the castle. The King orders everyone to search for the one responsible for endangering his blood and while the Queen attempts to hug the young Lord in her arms, he releases the most spine-chilling scream, only one emotion present in his face for the first time since he was found — terror.

and with this chapter, i established my side and i am ready for battle.

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#— rory's passages 🌼#— family line | hotd ☀️#aegon ii x oc #aegon x oc #hotd x oc #hotd x reader #aegon targaryen x oc #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii fic #hotd aegon

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