#turns out shoving all my grief down and refusing to process it in fear of experiencing negative emotions is detrimental to me

[orcelito]

I've gone through a character arc today. I'm... better(?) now

[medicus-mortem]

Drabble // A Survivor, Again.

Preface: This drabble is how I am processing what has happened to the Hearts in the recent One Piece Chapter (1081). It is a heart-breaking loss, especially for someone like Law who has a pattern of losing the people he cares about. There is devastation at his home being gone again, of him being a survivor when so many others have been taken from him. But, as you’ll see in the drabble, I don’t think this is the end of the Hearts. Bepo tells Law to believe in his crew and I stand with Bepo. There is hope here and a chance for them to grow. I feel like this loss is for the Hearts what Sabaody was for the Straw Hats. The Straw Hats were demolished then too but came back stronger. The Hearts will do the same, and so will Eustass Kid and his Kid Pirates. This is Oda shaping them into rivals that are worthy of the Pirate King.

                              ------------------------------------------------------

   A gasping breath, ragged and aching. Eyes snap open, turning a crushing darkness into light filtering through a mesh of leaves. His gaze darts about, mind sluggish for a moment. Then it all comes back. The pain, the shriek of shattering metal, the shouts from his crew, the looming, grinning face of that overweight bastard.

   Law sits up, throwing aside his cloak and staggering to his feet. His body protests, screaming for him to lay still once more but he can’t. Mind is racing, his heart pounding in his chest. He feels the grief beginning to constrict around his throat, feels that familiar tearing pain in the core of his being and it demands he move. That he does something, anything to make the loss no longer real. A shattered heart clinging so desperately to whatever pieces it has left. He pushes out of the makeshift shelter, a lean-to put together with whatever refuse the builder could find. Distantly his mind asks who made it but other questions drown that out. Law staggers, desperate gaze searching the sandy beach he comes to.

   “Captain!” comes a shout to his right. It’s followed by the clattering of wood being dropped.

   He turns to see a grinning Polar Bear Mink bearing down on him. Bepo goes for the hug, clearly delighted to see his best friend awake and moving around, but stops himself short as he remembers just how injured he is. Instead, a heavy paw settles on Law’s shoulder, the Mink trying to guide him back towards the shelter and rest. Bepo’s smile does fade when he sees Law’s face, sees the panic in his eyes and tension in his jaw.

   “Bepo,” he croaks, a shaky hand rising to grab onto the fur of Bepo’s forearm. “Where,” he starts, pausing to wet his cracked lips and force the questions free. “Where is everyone? Where is my ship?”

   “Erm,” Bepo starts, his stomach dropping. He knew this would be hard. “The … The Tang is gone and the others aren’t … aren’t here. You really should lay down and rest, Captain.”

   Law goes rigid. His breath catching in his throat. Bepo tries to push him along gently but he is immovable. Bepo grimaces. He doesn’t want to force Law to move for fear of opening his wounds so he stops, waiting for the explosion he knows will come.

   “We … left them,” Law starts, voice low and shaking. “We can’t have.” Then those golden eyes focus on Bepo and the Mink flinches, pulling his paw away. Except Law moves faster. His hands come up and grab onto the fur near Bepo’s neck. He pulls him down and Bepo whines in pain. “We left them to die! I told you to go back! I gave you an order!”

   “Captain, I had to protect you,” Bepo mutters, trying to calm Law’s rage, Law’s grief.

   “No! No, that’s not how this fucking goes!” Law shouts, shoving Bepo back. He takes an aggressive step forward, his breathing becoming rapid. “I’m supposed to protect you, protect them! How the fuck can I do that when I’m so far away! God, fucking damn it! I should be the one dead on that cursed fucking island! Not them! Not them. Anything but them.

   “My Hearts. Shachi. Penguin,” he continues, his hoarse voice losing the anger and dissolving solely into pain. He turns his gaze to the lapping waves, the open ocean beyond. His body sags, the pirate captain dropping to the sand. Now the tears are coming freely. “Ikkaku, Uni, Clione, Bart, Hakugan, all of them. My family. Again. … I can’t do this. I can’t survive them again.”

   Law lets out a heaving sob, shoulders shaking. He hears himself cry and he does the same thing he’s always done since the loss of Corazon, his saviour. His hands come up to his mouth, muffling the sob as he begins to crumple in on himself. It hurts so much and it never gets easier, this pain. This loss. He wants to create a Room so he can reach inside his chest and crush his own heart to make it stop. Would fate intervene then? Would the world continue to force him on, alone, once more? As it has done for so long.

   A big, furry body blocks out his view of the ocean. Bepo crouches before him, his adorable face serious and caring. Those big paws with their rough but warm pads take Law’s head, the pads pushing into his cheeks. Law’s hands lower, eyes focusing on the beady but deep black eyes of his best friend. So, he’s not alone in his grief this time.

   “It’ll be okay, Captain … Law,” Bepo says, rumbling voice soft. He grins, showing those teeth that can crush a man’s forearm. “They’re not gone. The Hearts aren’t dead. I’m sure of it. We’ll see them again.”

   “How?” Law croaks, his arms going limp. “How can you say that? You can’t know if they’re alive or not.”

   “Maybe not but I believe in every one of your Hearts,” Bepo continues, leaning in to rub a fluffy cheek against Law’s forehead. “Because you picked them. You led us. You trained us. You gave us a path and something to fight for. I have faith in you, so I have faith in all of them and faith that they’ll survive. We’re all survivors. Just like you are.”

   “But,” Law starts before his words are cut off by a grunt. It’s hard to argue with an affectionate Mink all in your face. Law’s hands rise then, pushing Bepo’s face away from him a little. “I failed you, I failed all of you.”

   “No, you didn’t,” Bepo says, actually giving a low chuckle. He grins, paws now dropping to Law’s shoulders. “You were practically dying and the last thing you wanted to do was help us. That’s exactly what I expect from you, Law. … So, do you think you can have faith in your Hearts?”

   Law blinks at Bepo, at this precious bear that has seen everything bad in him and everything good. This last tether to keep him away from true despair. He looks into that face that has experienced the same devastation he has and yet still looks on with hope and faith. And Law realises he’s not crying anymore. That it doesn’t quite hurt like it did. He takes a deep breath and just leans forwards, pressing his face into the warm fur of Bepo’s chest. There is a muffled scream and Bepo chuckles, hugging his captain. They linger for a moment before Law taps Bepo’s arm, telling him to release him. The Mink does and Law gets back to his feet. Again, concern is on Bepo’s face and he moves to help but Law manages on his own. His gaze turns back to the ocean.

   “Faith,” he mutters. “I had that once. I suppose I can have that again.” Another moment of silence, then a deep breath and those sagging shoulders square. Law pulls himself back together, pulling himself up to his full height and looking like the leader Bepo knows him to be. The Mink’s paws come together, an excitement coming off of him as he watches Trafalgar D Water Law go from broken, shattered man, to determined, unstoppable mastermind. The gears are indeed turning in that wonderful and terrible brain.

   “You’ve had time to read the stars?” Law asks, eyes still on the horizon. “You know where we are?”

   “Aye, captain,” Bepo says, saluting.

   “Did you see where the Tang sank?” he asks, his heart constricting for a moment. That loss still hurts.

   “I did. We’ll be able to salvage as much as we can from her,” said with a touch of ache in the Mink’s voice.

   “Good. I’m gonna need you to plan out a route for us,” Law says, sounding sure of himself.

   “Where to captain? I can guide us back to Zou, we’ll be safe there and everyone knows how to reach the elephant now,” Bepo offers, thinking regroup and recover is the best strategy.

   “No,” Law says, turning his gaze back to Bepo. The Mink sees a light in those golden eyes that tells him his captain is thinking big picture. It only stokes the fire of devotion in his chest all the more. “We’re going to Wano. They have something I want.”

[writersmorgue]

Something Immortal

word count - 3k

warnings: suicide attempt, drug use, addiction, cursing, teenagers being gross

pairing: model!Todoroki x canon!Bakugo

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Holy shit guys he posted!!" Mina squeals, vaulting herself over the couch to reach the rest of the Bakusquad sitting on the common room carpet. An old original copy of Monopoly splayed out in the center of their group.

"Ooh, show us! Show us!" Kaminari leans forward, swiping half of the properties off the board in the process.

Sero groans, "Dude you do this every time!!"

The blond pouts, "Hey it's your fault I was losing."

Kirishima just chuckles, picking up his dog piece from jail and throwing it into the box.

"Your smart people game can wait," Mina tugs on Sero's ponytail, "He hasn't posted in weeks."

"Oh my god he's so fucking hot," Kaminari's knee-jerk reaction is whispered as soon as he sees the post.

Todoroki Shouto, one of Japan- and America's- most well-known models. The teenager, who happens to be their age, regularly models for magazines like Vogue, Joker, and Elle. The teenager who has starred in countless American and Japanese short and independent films. The teenager who just so happens to be the son of the number one hero, Endeavor.

No one knows his quirk, but it just adds to the mystery. Some people theorize he's quirkless, but others think he's got a crazy dangerous quirk, which is why he's a model instead of an aspiring hero. Not like he's not perfect for the job, with his gorgeous bi-colored hair and heterochromatic eyes. The scar on his left side somehow only adds to his beauty. It doesn't matter what your sexuality is, you simp for Todoroki Shouto.

But that's the obvious, now this photo- this photo.

"It's ethereal, I've never seen him look so serene before."

"He's an actual angel."

"How is he only eighteen?!"

Mina nods as Sero, Kaminari, and Kirishima go through the seven stages of grief just looking at the photo.

Kirishima's eyes dart to Todoroki's username... which is just Shouto. In fact, the Todoroki name isn't mentioned once on his account, a fact that has hundreds of conspiracy theories on its own.

"Hey Meens, can we stalk him real quick? I wanna see who he's following."

She grins, "Well anything for you, munchkin."

Sero snorts. Their couple nicknames never fail to amuse anyone within hearing range.

"Ugh gross," Kaminari gags as Mina giggles, swiping off of the picture (which already has over 600,000) and onto his main page.

It's simple, plain yet elegant in the way only a PR manager could manage.

The bio is a link to his most recent shoot with some magazine that Kirishima doesn't recognize, the profile picture is a rare shot of him smiling, a blue checkmark, and a follower count of over four million.

His following count, however, is the shocker.

"He only follows fourteen people?" Sero whispers, clicking on the number.

"Huh," Mina turns the phone slightly so she can see, "Who is he following?"

"Let's see," Sero squints, eyes scrolling down the list, "Hawks... his siblings... Mirko... some American models... his agency's profile... and- wait, isn't that Bakugo?"

"HAH?" Mina yells, whipping the phone around and clicking on the profile.

Sure enough, a slew of photos shows up on her screen, all of their resident blond pomeranian glaring at the camera in various locations.

"He- WHAT?? It must be a glitch!" Mina scrambles frantically, eyes darting across the screen.

"Uh, yeah," Kirishima chuckles, "a glitch."

Mina scrolls up numerous times as if refreshing the page will help.

"I mean what other explanation can you think of?! It's not like Thee Todoroki Shouto would know our Bakugou, they're totally in different leagues." Mina sounds absolutely scandalized, causing Sero to laugh.

"I don't know, Meens, the proof is right there. We should ask him about it!"

"And what- DIE?" Kaminari reasons.

Sero nods, "Fair point."

"Pussies." Mina stands, planting her manicured hands on the edge of the couch, "I'll ask him myself."

-

"I REFUSE." A fourteen-year-old Shouto screams at his father.

"what do you mean you refuse? Shouto she's a lovely girl, and you need to procreate while you're still young if you're not going to become a hero like I want. You get one or the other." Todoroki Enji grabs his youngest child by the arm to lead him out of the kitchen, but Shouto jerks out of his grip. "Wh- SHOUTO."

"I'm going to live with Fuyumi. She'll take care of me." He holds his ground, shaking his father off when he tries once again to physically lead him out of the room.

"OH?" Enji bellows a laugh, "And how do you expect she'll find the money to take you in? Raising a teenager is expensive, you know, and she's only a simple school teacher."

"She's not a simple anything. And I- I'll find a way. We'll be fine. I already talked to several agencies."

"...agencies?"

-

"Wait, Mina!!" Kaminari calls after the girl, but she's a woman on a mission and there's no stopping her.

They arrive at Bakugo's door in a heap, Kaminari clawing at Mina while she knocks calmly. Kirishima and Sero stand to watch because they have no idea what else to do. (They're just as nervous as Kaminari but they're more afraid of Mina if they're being honest.)

A crash comes from inside the room, but soon their resident angry boy is slamming open his door and glaring at them. The normalcy is comforting.

"Do you fuckers realize what fucking time it is?"

"Yes~" Mina coos sweetly, "I know old men need their sleep but it's only 8:30 and we have a question."

He sighs aggressively and stretches his arms behind his back, cracking his shoulders and then his neck, Kaminari whimpers in fear.

"Alright, what do you want pinky?"

She's practically vibrating with excitement at this point.

"Why is Todoroki Shouto following you on Instagram?"

Bakugo seems to mull over this for a moment, and then he just shrugs.

Mina nods like this answers any part of her question, "That's what I thought, funny glitch. He's pretty hot though, right?"

The rest of the group nods emphatically.

Bakugo scratches his leg with his other heel, "He's not ugly, I guess."

Mina waves her arms around in Bakugo's general direction, "See!!? Even the straight guy agrees!!"

"No one was disagreeing with you, Mina." Sero snickers.

Bakugo grunts, then promptly slams the door in their faces.

"Well I guess that was more than he'd usually do at this time, we're lucky we didn't get exploded." Kirishima muses.

Kaminari nods, shuddering at the thought.

"Welp! That answers our question!" Although it really didn't, no one was about to argue with Mina, "Anyway I'm going to bed."

"Say hi to your vibe for me!" Sero whispers after her.

She waves as she marches away, humming to herself.

-

Shouto stares at the street below.

He wonders if he'd die falling from a height like this. He hopes he doesn't hit anyone.

Slowly, he removes his expensive sneakers, dropping them on the modelling agency's roof beside him. It's breezy tonight, and Shouto, freshly sixteen, has nothing to live for anymore. So he won't.

Stepping carefully over the guardrail, not sure why since he's about to jump. Maybe part of him is still afraid.

Whatever he can get over it.

His thin frame wobbles in the wind, and he breathes deeply, too focused on relaxing to notice the roof door opening, and hurried steps coming up behind him.

A warm hand grabs him, almost startling him off the side of the building.

The interruption heaves heavy breaths in his ear as they both topple down onto the concrete floor.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" Oh, it's Bakugo.

The only child of his manager, Mitsuki Bakugo, who happens to be a nosy little shit who can't stay out of other people's business.

"Get OFF" Shouto shoves him, frantically scrambling toward the railing again. He needs this.

"NO! Todoroki get the fuck back-"

"It's SHOUTO." blood spurts onto his gray sweater and he realizes with muted horror that he just elbowed his employer's son in the nose.

"Fuck I'm so sorry, are you okay?" He bends down, removing his trashed pullover, and holds it to his friend's nose.

Bakugo snorts, "Sorry- Shouto I mean." He winces when Shouto presses harder into his face, "I'll forgive you if you don't jump."

Shouto sighs, "You know why I was going to."

Bakugo visibly calms at the use of past tense, the outburst must have snapped him out of it.

"Your mom, right?" Shouto tenses.

"Yeah I- he barred me from ever seeing her again and I- I don't know what to do." He shudders and pulls his pills from his pants pocket.

He wonders what his mom would say if she found out her baby was addicted to drugs.

Bakugou frowns but lets his friend take the pill, not sure what to say.

"Fucking piece of shit. Is that even legal?"

"Legally the number two hero can do whatever the fuck he wants. We live in a flawed world, Bakugo.

"I- Shouto."

"Hmm?" Shouto collapses onto the ground, crunching the pill and sighing as he feels the effects start to take almost immediately.

"I care- I care about you, okay? So please let me help you. Let me get you help."

A tear slips down to Shouto's ear without his permission, he wipes it away as quickly as it came.

"I don't know, Bakugo. You haven't exactly seemed to like me in the past. Even though I like to think we're friends I know you don't feel the same." He frowns, admiring the shine of wetness on his palm in the moonlight.

Bakugo grumbles, "Don't fuckin' tell me what I do and don't feel. I really fuckin' care about you even though I'm an ass about it, okay? I'm not good with emotions so don't expect much from me. But I do want you to be happy and I don't think the uh- the pills are helping."

The blond holds out a hand and reluctantly Shouto slaps the container into it.

"Fine," he mumbles, "you're uh- not as bad as I thought."

Bakugo snorts, "You're just as bad as I thought, but I like you anyway."

Against his will, Shouto finds himself blushing, thankful that it's mostly hidden in the dark.

"C'mon," Bakugo gestures to his own chest, "I know you could use one."

Shouto whimpers as he curls himself into the blond's strong frame. He's built a lot of muscle since starting at UA this year.

A strong hand rubs along his back and Shouto finds he can't hold back his tears any longer as the shock starts to set in.

Fuck he almost just killed himself.

"Thanks, Bakugo."

"I almost just watched you die, you can call me Katsuki."

"Thanks, Katsuki."

"No problem, Shouto."

-

The Bakusquad once again finds themselves playing a game on the common room floor, this time Sorry, much to Sero's chagrin.

"Sorry!" Kirishima grins cheekily as he kicks Sero's piece back to his home base.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuck you guys-" He groans, flopping back onto the loveseat behind him, only to get an eyeful of Bakugo Katsuki's ass, "Oh hey Bakugou!"

"Wh- OI TAPE FACE WATCH WHERE THE HELL YOU'RE LOOKING-"

Sero snickers, patting Bakugou on the hip, "Sorry dude, it was literally right there."

Small explosions popped from Bakugo's hands as he growled down at Sero.

"Aw come on blasty he's just playing and WHERE are you going dressed like that???!!!"

Bakugo blushes and tugs his light blue blazer down farther.

"I have a date." He mutters, tugging his sleeves.

“Sorry,” Kaminari laughs, “I think I misheard you. Sounded like you said ‘I have a date.’”

Bakugo rolls his eyes, “Because I do, dipshit.” He sighs, checking his -expensive-looking- watch, “Just watch the independent film awards when they’re on. I think it’s like four hours from now that it starts.”

“Whyyyy would you have anything to do with that?” Kirishima groans, very lost.

“Shut the fuck up.” Bakugo grunts, digging his phone out of his pocket when it vibrates and checking something before humming and striding towards the front door.

He looks unusually elegant, hair slicked back probably as well as Bakugo’s hair can be, shirt tucked in, a few rings on his fingers, barely visible and yet beautifully drawn eyeliner. He’s… pretty.

The three remaining members of the Bakusquad, as well as the rest of the common room, sit there in awe as he shoves a permission slip in Iida’s blubbering face.

“I- Wh- Bakugo is this from Aizawa? You cannot just leave!!”

“Fuck off glasses, I have his fuckin’ blessing or whatever.”

“Bakugo!”

The blond shoots a middle finger off behind him and slams the door shut, leaving a stunned common room in his wake.

“Uh, well, that happened.” Jirou drones blandly from her place on the couch with Momo.

“Awards show watch party, anyone?!” Uraraka grins, standing, “I’ll get the mochi!!”

“I’ll make tea,” Momo stands as well, dusting off her perfectly clean jeans. Jirou groans at the loss of her girlfriend’s warmth and flops over on the couch.

“This is stupid, he probably got invited by some pro hero and he’s just going to yell at the paparazzi if he’s even gonna be there.” She pouts.

“Well,” Sero grins, “anyone wanna play Monopoly while we wait?”

Kaminari throws the Sorry board at his head.

-

“Alright, is everyone ready!!? The red carpet is about to start!!” Hagakure squeals, even though the entirety of class 3-A (minus Bakugo) is there.

“So… what exactly are we watching this for?” Shinsou scratches the back of his neck.

“Bakugo’s going to be in it apparently, the study group earlier saw him in the common room wearing a suit.” Ojiro answers.

“Not just a suit!!” Mina holds her hands out as if to deliver groundbreaking news, “A fancy suit.”

“Aren’t all suits fancy?”

“Shut up.”

“OOH LOOK there’s Arai Itō and Chiba Yoshida!! Aww, they’re so cute!” Uraraka swoons, clasping her hands together.

“I wonder when Kacchan is gonna come out, these things can take a while.”

“I honestly don’t even care, I heard Todoroki Shouto is nominated for an award this year!! Do you remember that really sad short film he was in about having an overdose? Gosh, I hope he wins.” Hagakure’s hair bow vibrates excitedly.

“THERE HE IS THERE HE IS!!!!!” She points at the bottom of the screen where a man in a pale blue dress has stepped out of a limo and onto the carpet, a heeled foot gracefully raising him to his full 6’2”.

“Holy shit he’s gorgeous.” Sero breathes, the reporters on screen basically saying the same thing.

Shouto reaches behind him and holds out a hand for the second person stepping out of the limo, broad shoulders, a shorter stature than Shouto especially with the heels, spiky blond hair, piercing red eyes-

…

“HOLY SHIT IS THAT BAKUGOU??”

The aerial camera pans down toward the blond, showing off his suit- which matches Shouto’s dress perfectly- and his, what appears to be professionally done hair.

“Holy shit does he have an undercut now!!?? We just saw him a few hours ago!” Mina screeches.

Momo shrugs, “They do that sort of thing for celebrities.” She sips her tea, unphased.

“Okay okay, we’re all ignoring the most important part. Kacchan is Todoroki’s date.” Izuku frantically waves his arms around.

“I didn’t know they knew each other,” Tokoyami muses.

“What the fuck is happening?” Sero asks no one in particular.

“Wait everyone SHUT UP they’re announcing awards!!!! Todoroki might win one! We can ask Bakugo about this when he gets back. Surely there’s an interesting story.” Uraraka chimes in, handing out mochi and popcorn.

The tv’s voice is muffled under the muttering of several class 3-A members, but Mina turns it up as the male announcer reads the winners of the award Todoroki is nominated for.

“AAAAAAAAND THE WINNER FOR BEST ACTOR IN A DRAMA SHORT ISSSSSSSSS…

TODOROKI SHOUTO!!! For his work in The End of Me and the incredible performance that shocked-”

Cheers ring through the dorms, popcorn goes flying, and Mina frantically shushes everyone as Shouto makes his way gracefully onto the stage. He accepts the award from the previous winner, bowing elegantly and stepping up to the mic.

“Hello everyone,” He begins, shooting a shy smile directly into the camera. It has always perplexed his fans how nervous he can be in real life compared to in his photoshoots. “This is a really important award to me, not only am I incredibly grateful to the panel for gracing this title upon me, but as of yesterday,” He smiles at the ground, taking a deep breath, “I’m two years clean.”

Shocked gasps ricochet through the award hall as well as through the crowd gathered around the tv.

“He did drugs, kero?” Tsu whispers.

“Mon dieux,” Aoyama shakes his head, pressing a hand to his chest, “how brave.”

Shouto clears his breath and continues, “In fact, that wasn’t the worst of it at the time, and I’m incredibly grateful to all who have supported me through my career. You keep me sane, and you keep me going. But especially, I’d like to thank my sister, brother, and my wonderful boyfriend-”

He holds an arm out to someone in the audience, and the camera pans to none other than Bakugou Katsuki, “who quite literally saved my life, and helped me drive myself back on track. I love you Katsuki, and you continue to improve my life every second that you’re in it.”

Most of 3-A are in tears at this point, and as Bakugo half-heartedly scowls into the camera, they can tell his eyes are shining too.

Shouto glances back at the camera as if directing his words to someone in particular.

“Thank you.”

And then he’s walking back down to his seat as the audience provides him with a standing ovation.

“THEY’RE DATING,” Mina sobs, shaking Kirishima’s shoulders as he sits, staring slack-jawed at the television.

“Yeah, yeah they are.”

-

Katsuki does NOT wipe tears from his eyes as he helps Shouto sit back down in his seat, but his boyfriend definitely does. His mascara, thankfully waterproof, still holds strong.

Shouto shoots him a watery smile, rubbing his arm as he pulls the blond into a hug.

“Happy two years, Katsuki.”

[speechlessxx]

Bring Him Light - xiv (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: When one threat is resolved, another makes presents itself. 

Warnings: character deaths, reference to sexual assault, ptsd, implied smut, shitty writing but we’re not gonna mention it ok, time jump!

Word Count: 2.7k

<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->

Confused, angry, annoyed murmurs filled the courtyard as people were ushered outside by the kingsguard. The summer sun had already risen and beat down unforgivingly on the crowd that began to form. An eerie feeling clung to the air – similar to the early morning sunrise when Sister Mary was beheaded. The people had not forgotten about the large army that gathered outside their castle gates this morning. They wondered in fear – had their king been overthrown? Or perhaps… the king was prepared to be a widow once more?

To their relief, King Steven stood at the platform. He was rather calm with his brows furrowed, lost in his thoughts. To their surprise, you weren’t dressed in the traditional execution black, nor were you cowering in the crowd in fear of your husband. Instead, their queen stood tall with her husband’s hand clasped in hers and a crown on her head, reminding them of who you were – reminding you of who you were: an angry queen seeking revenge.

The stoic expression on your face unsettled them. The last time you made a public appearance as queen was when you were struck by your husband. After then, the only time you had been relevant was when guards were storming the castle early in the morning in search of their runaway queen. Though they knew you were back and rested, they had expected your duties to be minimal – that you were to be hidden away, locked in the castle as a crowned prisoner.

They were wrong.

Behind you, stood your father, the invader from this morning. Though he did not seem to pose a threat to you or the king, his army was still sprawled out around the courtyard. Any attempt would be thwarted with ease with both Brooken and York standing together like this.

“Bring them forth,” Steven called out. The crescendo of the people’s chatter became louder and louder as the two criminals were finally revealed.

Brock Rumlow and Alexander Pierce trudged through the crowd, being led by guards. Shock was expressed on many noble’s faces. Confused muttering shook the crowd as they stared on at the two men who wore black.

“What is he doing?” “Has he finally lost his mind?” “That’s his cousin!” “That’s his father’s sister’s boy!” “Pierce has been an ally to the crown for decades!” “It’s the queen’s doing!” “She’s manipulating him.” “She’s made him a monster.” “No… He’s already been one for years.” “That’s his cousin, his father’s sister’s son!” “He wouldn’t dare.” “He’s a monster.”

The whispers didn’t stop. It felt as if the people were turning their back on Steven, losing hope, respect, and trust. He had yet to say a word that was heard by the crowd. Their mutterings became louder and louder, drowning him out, calling him a monster, saying he shouldn’t wear the crown. They called him mad and cruel, saying he lashed out – disguising his insanity and using treason as an excuse to blindly kill.

It wouldn’t stop. The vile accusations against him were deafening. You stared at the crowd, listening to every word spat out. It sounded like a long continuous scream.

The wails bringing you back to the violent sways of the boat. The nausea induced by the mercenary’s poor command of the boat. Seeing the man on top of Wanda. Hearing her screams of pain and pleads for help. The sticky blood on your hands as you stabbed him. You remembered the sharp shove he gave to your stomach – to your child. The ripping of your dress as he spat, “I should’ve raped you first” with his hands wrapped around your throat. The metallic taste of blood after Wanda slit the man’s throat open. You remembered her falling to the ground and the haunting lifeless look on her face. The terrible cramping pain in your stomach and the discomfort in your back. You remember the blood pooling underneath you as you lost your child.

Everything hitting you all at once. The anger. The hurt. The betrayal. The loss. It all spiraled together, morphing into one hideous feeling that you couldn’t describe. It bubbled in your throat, demanding to be let out.

“SILENCE!” You didn’t even recognize your own voice that bounced throughout the kingdom. It was so loud that you were sure your mother could’ve heard it in York. Maybe the true Mad King heard it from wherever he was.

The entire crowd fell into silence, surprised at your outburst. Steven looked over to you. His own frustration and anger melted into pure concern as he watched your shoulders rise and fall with every breath you took. He called your name but you didn’t hear it, basking in the silence as you wordlessly commanded the respect and attention of everyone in attendance.

Steven couldn’t help but smirk proudly at his queen as you stepped forward from your position, glaring at the crowd.

“You want to call your king a monster?” You asked them. “You have no idea what he has done to protect this kingdom… He has done nothing but protect each and every one of you. Whether the threat be my own father or foreign invaders,” you glared at the two bound men in black, “or lords who plot and conspire for his demise. He’s on the frontline of every battle when he could simply cower in the castle along with the rest of you. And you want to call him the monster?”

You gestured to the chained men. “Brock Rumlow and Alexander Pierce are the true monsters. They’re the shadows that lurk in the dark. Their the ghosts that haunt the castle. They prey on your fears, they isolate you, they manipulate you.”

You walked to the de-tongued Pierce, a shell of the noble he once was – thanks to your father. “Alexander Pierce brought King Steven two wives. Both from the same house. Both who have died. Everyone’s quick to tell the story that the king murdered his wives. They refused to give him an heir, so he ridded himself of their incompetency, right? I believed that story, too. But no one tells the truth of how Pierce deliberately chose wives of a house who swore allegiance to King Thanos.

“Brock Rumlow manipulated his way into my circle. He fed me lies of how Steven murdered his wives, confirmed untrue rumors – all to turn me against my own husband.” You looked over to Steven, who had a proud look on his face as he watched his wife take control of the situation. “I should’ve believed you, my love. For that, I am truly sorry.”

“These two men orchestrated to have me and my ladies murdered. They posted as people I could trust, promised me protection from a man they said was a threat. They arranged for my friends and I to be murdered on a boat. They hired a mercenary who rap – “you stopped yourself. The word had a foul taste that you could not stomach. “They hired a mercenary who murdered Lady Wanda Maximoff before my eyes. They’re responsible for the death of my child, the heir to Brooken.”

That fact alone stunned many. They were all quick to resent their queen because you had spent months childless… Little did they know they lost their heir they were so desperate to have.

“They’re monsters and if you cannot see that for yourselves, then you, too, will be on this platform next. Call me a killer. Call me ruthless. Call me the monster. I’ll accept it all. I’ve lost a friend and I’ve lost a child. And if their executions and your spiteful rumors are what I must pay for a moment of vengeance, then so be it.”

The crowd remained silent as they took in every word. They may never know what fact is and what is fiction, but everyone can agree that the hurt and the pain in your voice was completely genuine. No one could feign that type of grief.

Steven took a step forward, grabbing your hand and rubbing soothing circles onto the back of it. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles before turning towards the two men.

“We needn’t relive the torment you’ve brought upon my wife. You both are guilty of treason, and everyone knows it,” Steven told them, directly. “I, King Steven Rogers of Brooken, with the witnesses of my wife, Queen (Y/N) Rogers and King Anthony Stark of York, sentence you to death for your treason.”

Brock had called your name. He begged for his life. He begged for mercy. He stared into your eyes, pleading for a shred of empathy or compassion. He knew you had it in you – he saw it when you defended your friends fiercely, when you tried to stop your husband from executing the old crone. But he was met with angry, cold eyes as he heard his cousin call for his sword.

Pierce was the first to go. He was brought to the executioner’s block with no hassle – he did not fight. He knew when he had lost and he would lose with any dignity he had left. Steven’s blow was quick and neat. The head fell into the basket with a soft thud as the body was removed from the block.

Rumlow thrashed in the guards’ arms. He begged and he called for your name. He sputtered out apologizes for his crimes in hopes for any ounce of mercy that could be thrown his way.

“Stop.” You said before your husband could lift his sword. “Get him on his feet.”

“(Y/N).” Steven warned, but you repeated your order. The king sent you a weary look before gesturing for the guards to lift his cousin.

Steven watched as you marched over and gave Brock a kind smile. Relief flooded through Rumlow as you fixed the black collar of his shirt.

“You don’t deserve a fast death.” You told him. Though your voice was soft, it was heard throughout the eerily silent courtyard.

Before he could process your words, you gave a swift, deep cut to his throat with a dagger no one knew you were hiding. After the attempt on your life, you always ensured that you had some form of a weapon on your person.

He choked on his own blood as the crimson spurted out from the deep gash. You watched with little remorse as he fell to the ground, clawing at his neck. You didn’t shift your eyes away as you did when Sister Mary was beheaded. No. You wanted to see your enemies fall.

Once he laid lifeless on the platform, you turned and made your way off the platform and back into the castle.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Your farewells with your father were bittersweet and fast. You wished him safe travels as you gave him a sword – specially made for your little brother’s name day. You noticed the saddened look on your father’s face upon hearing Harvey’s name, but you decided not to press him about it.

You watched from the balcony as he and his army disappeared into the horizon. Your hands were still shaking – something you hadn’t thought would happen once you took Brock’s life. Though you have bathed – and re-bathed – immediately after the executions, your hands still felt sticky even if you only had a few splatters of blood on them.

You were too lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear Steven slowly walk over to your position. You jumped when his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him as he pressed a kiss onto the crown of your head. “Are you alright?” He asked you. He noticed how you were still trembling.

“I killed him.” You said. “I looked him in his eyes and took his life.”

“If you weren’t shaking, I would ask myself if I had married a coldblooded killer.” He joked lightly, but you scoffed at him. He kissed your temple. “But I know you are not a murderer.”

“As I know you are not a monster.” You whispered. “I couldn’t stand there and listen to them whispering anymore,” you shook your head. “I do apologize for thinking such things.”

“You had reason to believe it. I do not blame you.”

“You should be angry.”

“I am not.” Steven assured. “I love you.”

“As I love you.” You responded, leaning into him. “Is it over? Is this unrest finally over?”

“It never is.” Steven sighed. “But now, everyone knows… They can’t turn us against each other. We stand together. King and Queen. We are a force to be reckoned with. We are taking strides to a brighter Brooken. Together.”

You smiled at the thought. You basked in Steven’s arms. The security the bring. The feeling of home.

You turned to face him and pulled him down for a kiss. Sweet and passionate. Lips melting together as if they had always belonged there. You pushed Steven backwards towards the room. He broke the kiss as he watched you close the balcony doors. You smiled at him before you cupped his jaw with your hands to reconnect the kiss.

You kept pushing and pushing until the back of Steven’s knees hit the back of the bed. He pulled away from you, combing the loose strands away from your face before placing a chaste kiss to your lips. “We needn’t do this if you aren’t ready.” He told you. He was afraid that his desire for you would overwhelm you. Though some time had passed since the incident, he did not want to make you feel pressured in any way.

You shook your head. You tried to bring his lips back to yours, but he thwarted your attempt. “Steven…” You whined.

He chuckled, cupping your face with his large hands. “You needn’t give me an heir… Not yet. Not if you’re not ready.”

“Steven…” you frowned. “I want this. I want you.”

He shook his head. “We don’t need an heir… Not yet. I am happy with just you.”

You groaned at him. “If we have a child this night or the next, it makes little difference to me. I’m not trying to have an heir. I want to make love to you because I love you.”

He smiled. That warm smile that sent butterflies to your stomach. He kissed your lips once. Twice. And a third kiss one from an eager husband ready to make love to his wife. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Six Months Later…

You let out an erotic moan, one that quite possibly awoke the entire castle. Not that you nor your husband minded as your hips rutted against his as you both came down from your highs. Exhausted, you slumped down to his chest and allowed his arms to wrap around you. He pressed a kiss to your glistening forehead as you both tried to catch your breaths.

“I love you.” You whispered.

“I love you, too.”

Three sharp knocks were stamped into the wood of your bedchamber’s doors. You and Steven frowned at one another. It was late at night, who could it be?

You quickly got off your husband and wrapped yourself in a robe as he did the same. He walked over to the door to find Lord Barnes, who was supposed to be vacationing in his chateau with his new wife, Lady Natasha. “What’s wrong, James?” Steven asked the obviously exhausted lord.

“Your majesties…” He said, winded. “There’s an emergency. Please. Come to the throne room now.” Steven asked for privacy so that you both may properly dress.

Your bare feet padded against the tiles as you hurried walked hand in hand with Steven. “What’s happened?” You asked Lord Barnes as he rounded the corner towards the throne room. When he didn’t answer, you asked again. He pushed the doors open and you gasped. “Mother?”

“Oh, my sweet child,” your mother sighed out in relief. She held baby Morgan in her hands, the infant had grown in your time away. You rushed to her side and gave her a hug, cooing at your baby sister who babbled happily as she recognized your voice.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Your husband asked.

“Always great to see you, Steve.” Your mother smiled.

“Pepper,” he greeted, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “As much as I find your company a delight, it’s in the middle of the night… It’s winter. Travel is rather troublesome in the north, even for a three-day journey.”

“Where’s father?” You asked. “And Harvey?”

Your mother sighed sadly. Your face dropping. You looked to Natasha who stood with her husband and the guards you recognized belonged to your father’s kingsguard. “What’s happened?” You asked.

“York’s been invaded by Thanos.”

[always-and-forever-a-killjoy]

Hey y'all! So I wrote a relatively long oneshot (for me) in 24 hours or so (breaking my record for most words written in one day in the process), and I decided to dump it all on you. This is minimally edited and was posted with a cat on my lap, so if you spot any errors, please let me know. 

Also, while it's not technically necessary to read all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me and all the things that you never ever told me, which are the fics which this is an alternate ending for, it will be really really helpful to understanding this. (All the smiles is here and all the things is here.) Do be careful of the warnings for those two, as they're quite dark fics. But then again, so is this, so...y'know.

Oh and please don’t question why the Cherri POV is present tense and the Newsie POV is past tense, idk either it just felt right.

Title: if i died we’d be together

Wordcount: 5316

Summary: Cherri Cola dies. NewsAGoGo refuses to accept this.

The Phoenix Witch is unhelpful (and an asshole, if you ask Newsie.)

Warnings: major character death, implied/referenced suicide, implied self harm, minor violence, an extraordinary amount of swearing.

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia @dagger-queen (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

(Actual fic under the cut)

In this universe, the Phoenix Witch doesn’t come for Cherri Cola. He lies in the sand, alone and in pain, unable to move himself a single step further. He would get up if he could, he would go home, but he’s helpless. Alone and afraid, truly afraid for the first time in years. He doesn’t want to die alone. He doesn’t want to die knowing the people in his life will never know what happened to him. D, Pony, Newsie…

Cherri doesn’t want to die. Not like this. He was supposed to die helping his friends, not because he decided that life wasn’t worth living and let himself fade away into the heat of the desert. He doesn’t want to leave his friends, he doesn’t want to leave his family. Did they even know he counted them as a family? Does Newsie know he loves them like a sibling?

Cherri Cola dies alone, and the last words on his lips are “I’m sorry, Newsie.”

-

Cherri didn’t come back. Not after the mask discussion, not after Newsie’s talk with the Phoenix Witch, and certainly not any earlier than that. It was another week of silent dinners and endless, hopeless searching before Pony put eir foot down. 

“Cola is dead.”

That was what ey said, breaking the silence of that morning’s breakfast. 

Newsie couldn’t even manage the energy to snap at em. “No.”

“Cola’s gone, Newsie. You know it, just like me.”

“He can’t be fucking dead. I won’t- I won’t let it happen.” She hated that her voice shook. 

“He is, though. Nothing we can do about it.” Pony’s usually cheerful voice was quiet, beaten-down. 

“No!”

“Yes! We gotta accept it!”

“No, we don’t!”

“Maybe-“ eir voice broke on the word. “Maybe it was his time. Or fate or something.”

“Well fuck fate then! Fuck the Phoenix Witch and fuck her ‘plans’! It can’t just be right to fucking take him away, he’s got a fucking family!”

“Well- well- maybe you’re right, but what are we going to do about it?” Pony’s voice had gone quiet again, and ey was staring at the table like it might have the answers somehow.

“We’re going to find the Phoenix Witch and tell her to go fuck herself,” Newsie declared. 

D sighed. “I don’t think that’s possible, Newsie.”

“Why not? Cherri’s met the Phoenix Witch, it can’t be that hard.” She got up from her seat, tossing the empty power pup can into the sink.

“I mean…they’ve got a point,” Pony said as D sighed again. 

“See? Pone knows I’m right.” She made those words as firm as she could, filling them with all the confidence that she didn’t have but wished she did. “I’m going to go find the Phoenix Witch, flip her off, and get Cherri back.”

“Newsie-“

They ignored D’s worried voice as they went tromping into the back of the radio station, back to the room that used to be theirs and Cherri’s- and still would be, Newsie vowed. She packed up a messenger bag with a few supplies and located Cherri’s mask and ray gun, picking up the ray gun first. It was pink like hers, but a heavier weight in her hands. If she had been poetic like her brother, she would have said it was the weight of the task she was about to take on.

But they were no Cherri Cola, and they knew the real reason was that Cherri’s ray gun was a nicer one than theirs, taken from an exterminator he had fought back in the Analog Wars. It certainly wasn’t the newest model anymore, but it remained a high-quality weapon. Not that he ever used it anymore. Still, even however long after he had last held it, she thought she could feel the ghost of his hands on it, warm and rough as they guided her hands into place the first time she had ever fired a ray gun.

Newsie slid the ray gun into her spare holster and picked up Cherri’s mask. They debated putting it away into their bag, but that felt too much like they were bringing it to the mailbox for a final goodbye. Instead, they put it around their neck, where it bounced against their collarbone as they donned their own mask. 

“Alright, Cherri. Let’s go bring you back from the dead.”

Show Pony and Dr. Death Defying didn’t try to stop her when she walked back through the main living space. D reached out as if to grab her wrist, but stopped himself in midair. “Newsie.”

“Don’t try to stop me.”

“I won’t, but I want you to take this.” He held out a crow feather, shining a gorgeous glossy black in the sunlight that streamed in from the window. “I met the Witch, once. During the Analog Wars. And she gave me this.”

“So you think it will help?”

D’s smile was dreadfully sad. “Worth a shot.”

Newsie hesitated a moment and took the feather. It was smooth under her fingers as she tucked it into her bag. “Thanks, D.”

“Of course.” He didn’t tell her to come back safe, and Newsie didn’t promise she would.

Pony skated up before she could walk out the door, handing her a packet of what looked vaguely like glitter. “I don’t have a fancy Witch feather like D, but take some glitter for the road. Because sparkles…”

“Make everything better.” Newsie’s throat burned. “Thanks, Pone.”

“Of course, GoGo.” Ey shot her a grin. “Bring back our Cola. Oh, and give him some shit for dying, would ya?”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Newsie muttered. They paused in the doorway, looking back at the other two. “Thanks, Pone. Thanks, D. Love you.”

“We love you too.” D’s face was sad as he watched them go.

Newsie hopped onto their motorcycle, grinning a bit to themself at the familiar noise of the engine. “Come on, baby, we’ve got an idiot brother to retrieve.”

What had once been called Death Valley was silent as Newsie hopped back off the bike, only a few caws of crows to welcome her. It was said that here, the lines between reality and wherever the Phoenix Witch was were even thinner than they were for the rest of the Zones, practically non-existent. No one could quite agree if it was because the Phoenix Witch lived here, or if the Phoenix Witch lived here because the lines were so blurred, but either way, she was said to dwell here in this aptly named valley. It wasn’t a place many people went by choice, not unless they wanted to risk the wrath of the Witch.

Newsie figured the Witch, her wrath, and all the superstition could all go fuck themselves. She was uneasy, yes, but the valley held no great fear for her. Only great fucking heat, given that the sun was blazing down and the air was almost unnaturally still. Couldn’t the Phoenix Witch have picked a nicer home? This was the closest thing you could get to hell on earth, with the exception of possibly whatever was beyond the Zones entirely. Not that Newsie particularly believed in hell, but she imagined it would be something like this. Blazing sun, still air, the faint haze of radiation, and the omnipresent sting of grief.

“Hey, Phoenix Witch lady! Asshole! Where are you?” The words didn’t even echo, absorbed into the stifling heat, and Newsie took another couple of steps. “I know this is your home- and you picked a pretty hellish one, if you ask me- so come on out and fight me!”

There was no reply, and Newsie dug through their bag to see if they had anything useful. Their hands brushed against a smooth…something, and they pulled out the feather D had given them. “Hey! Asshole! This is your feather, so come and get it!”

Once again, there was no reply, but the feather strained against Newsie’s grip, despite there being no wind. She reluctantly let it go, and it hovered above her hand, turning to point further into the valley. 

“Holy shit. I guess I’m supposed to go this way?” She took a few cautious steps, and the feather almost seemed to bob in approval. “Okay, let’s go then.”

They zipped their bag closed again and started walking, following the lead of the feather. It was a longer trek than they really appreciated, across shifting sand through the hazy day. Every so often, the feather changed directions, and Newsie had to turn to follow it. Despite the fact that she guessed she must be out in Zone Seven by now, or possibly even further, the landscape never seemed to change. Rocks and sand and endless, burning heat, matching the burning of her eyes as the sand stung them. She would have been lost in a second if she didn’t have the feather, wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t lost anyways. They certainly didn’t know their way back. 

Newsie shoved that concern to the back of their mind. Right now, all they needed to focus on was finding Cherri. The rest could come later. Still, there was no sign of Cherri- or anyone else for that matter- as they made their way further into the dusty valley. It should have been lonely, but the faint hovering presence of someone or something next to her kept away that particular anguish. She really should have been more alarmed by whatever was in the corner of her eye, vanishing when she looked right at it, but the presence felt safe. Almost familiar. So Newsie kept walking. 

They walked, and walked, and walked and walked and walked until the steps all blurred together under the infinite sun. It seemed like it should be nearly nightfall by now, but the sun didn’t seem to move, no matter how many steps she took. The landscape didn’t seem like it was moving much either, even though they must have walked miles and miles by now. Every step was harder than the last, sand stinging her eyes and nose and throat as her feet ached.

Still, Newsie was too damn stubborn to give up now. She followed the feather until the landscape did start to shift, the feather pointing towards…a tree? On a hill? It wasn’t like the tiny, scraggly trees that clung to existence in the wettest parts of the desert. No, this was what Newsie vaguely thought might have been called an oak, once upon a time, branches stretching towards the sky as the tree stood proud. The leaves were dark green, striking a sharp contrast to the faded blue of the desert sky and the endless beige sand, and the branches were thick and steady, growing in a pattern Newsie hadn’t seen before. It definitely wasn’t a tree that was meant to be in the desert, but...shade was shade. 

She staggered over and flopped down underneath it, every muscle in her body screaming at her. “Hey, Witch, asshole, why do I have to walk so fucking far?”

The only reply she got was the rustling of leaves above her. They didn’t think the Witch was actually watching, but they flipped off the tree anyways, just in case. 

She could have sworn she heard faint laughter at that, but it was probably her mind playing tricks on her. Water, she could really use some fucking water. Thank the Witch, or maybe just Pony’s quick thinking, they found a bottle of water when they reached into their bag. It was warmed by the sun and tasted vaguely of rust, but then again, most water in the desert did. Newsie was used to it.

She only got a few minutes to rest before the silence was shattered by a cry. “Help! Help!” It was a young-sounding voice, and Newsie groaned as they climbed to their feet. Having a moral compass was a real pain in the ass sometimes; they couldn’t just ignore a kid in need.

The presence by their shoulder seemed to have grown stronger as Newsie came around the tree and saw a few dracs holding a struggling killjoy who looked to be maybe thirteen or fourteen. She would have to be very careful in order not to hurt the ‘joy, given their close proximity to the dracs. Their hands shook as they pulled out their ray gun, reconsidered, and took out Cherri’s instead. They were pretty sure it had that gyroscope stabilizer (or whatever it was called) that some of the nicer ones were built with, and she would need every advantage she could get. This time, she was almost certain there were ghostly hands over hers as she took careful aim.

“Steady. Breathe,” a voice murmured in Newsie’s ear as they tilted the ray gun carefully. It would be only seconds before the young killjoy was dragged off, so she had to act now. 

Newsie took a deep breath, releasing it fully before she pulled the trigger and took out one of the dracs holding the ‘joy, who was able to break free from the other one’s grasp as Newsie took that one down too. She might not have been Cherri Cola, but she was by no means a bad shot, and she grinned a bit to herself. Drac down, drac down, and that was the last of them!

“Fuck yeah, NewsAGoGo, you kick ass.” They figured they might as well encourage themself, since there was no one else around to do it.

That was met by what she could have sworn was another faint chuckle, but there wasn’t anyone else around to be laughing. Well, except the younger killjoy, but they were way too far away to have heard her. 

Newsie shrugged and accepted that weird shit was going to happen on a quest in Death Valley. They had to keep moving, they decided, but first they should check on that ‘joy they’d saved. 

“Hey, kid! You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Thanks to you, I think.” Their voice was hoarse, and Newsie sighed as she handed them her water bottle. Cherri was getting his ass kicked for this, she decided. It wasn’t technically his fault that she was thirsty, but if he hadn’t up and died, she wouldn’t have had to quest after him and then she wouldn’t have ended up giving her water to some random ‘joy.

“Thanks,” the teen said, handing them back the water bottle.

She shrugged. “No problem. You going somewhere?”

“Yes, but not the same way as you.” Their head was tilted curiously. “You’ll have to go that way. Until you see the building.”

Newsie debated for a second if this kid was trustworthy, but ultimately decided it was no worse than following a fucking feather. “Thanks, kid. Good luck, keep running.”

“Keep running!” They flashed a smile and wandered away.

Newsie sighed and started walking again, this time in the direction the kid had pointed. Again, Cherri was so getting an ass-kicking for this. Their feet hurt. 

Thank the Phoenix Witch- no, thank Destroya, she wasn’t thanking the Phoenix Witch for fucking anything right now- she wasn’t back on her feet for long. Compared to her earlier trek, it was quite a short distance, maybe a mile or so, to what must have been the building that kid was talking about. It was a small shack which looked vaguely familiar, even from a distance, and Newsie sped up a little as they headed towards it. Shade! Maybe even a place to sit that wasn’t sand! Of course, knowing her luck, the Phoenix Witch would show up and demand she go run some errand or walk another hundred fucking miles or something. 

The presence that had been following her this whole time seemed stronger and easier to catch a glimpse of, now, but the was the least of their worries as Newsie approached the building and found it familiar. They could peer in through the window and find D and Pony sitting there in the living room, talking about music (she assumed, given that the only time D gestured so broadly was when he was giving opinions about music).

“D! Pone!”

They didn’t seem to hear her, and Newsie felt her eyes stinging from both sand and grief as she knocked on the door. There was still no reply, no Pony at the door or even sound from inside. But the two carried on their conversation, gesturing and laughing away.

"D, Pony…” If they were back here, that meant they had failed. They hadn’t gotten to the Witch after all. 

Newsie gave up her knocking and turned her back to the door, sliding down to sit on the hard ground. Their feet hurt from standing and their legs hurt from walking and their hands hurt from clutching Cherri’s ray gun so tightly. The sun was still blazing, and their throat was dry and sore. Her collarbones were banged up where Cherri’s mask had been bouncing against them, and her hip was bruised from the bag bouncing against it, and everything fucking hurt. They had promised themself they weren’t going to cry, but now they were breaking that promise because their goddamn brother was dead and they couldn’t fucking do anything about it. 

“I’m sorry, Cherri,” they choked.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” The words were only a whisper, but the voice was familiar. 

Newsie’s heart skipped a beat. “Cherri?”

“I’m here,” the air next to her whispered, right where that presence had been hovering. “Not exactly, but close enough.” If they squinted, they could make out an outline of a familiar killjoy, smiling a soft, sad smile as he pushed his hair out of his face.

“Fucking bastard! Fuck! Fucking hell! You just fucking died on me and do you know how far I fucking walked?”

“Technically, you didn’t walk at all.” That was a different voice, belonging to the cloaked figured who was suddenly in front of Newsie. They could have sworn the person hadn’t been there just a second ago, which was damn inconvenient. Right as she was trying to catch up with her fucking brother? Really?

“Who the fuck are you?” They demanded.

“The deity you came to find, NewsAGoGo.”

Newsie hopped to her feet so she could stand on level with the bird creature, ignoring the ache in every part of their body. “Fuck you! Fuck you, Witch lady! Fuck you and your fate and your cryptic ways! What the fuck do you mean I didn’t walk?”

The Witch seemed faintly amused by her swearing. “I mean that in real-world distance, you went nowhere. You’re on the border, the boundary between this world and the next. Which is how your lovely brother is here, by the way. He belongs to the spirit world, and you belong to the ordinary one, but on this border and this border only, you can see and hear each other.”

“Great, now I’m taking him back to the real world.”

The Phoenix Witch tsked disapprovingly. “I’m afraid you can’t do that, NewsAGoGo. You see, Cherri Cola is dead. He belongs to my domain now.”

“Well fuck that! I’m not letting him go.” Newsie hadn’t walked however many fucking miles to give up now.

“Fine, fine, you can have him.” Newsie’s heart soared. “For a price,” The Witch added. 

“And what’s the price?”

“The price is the people in that house behind you.”

“What?”

“Well, technically they aren’t there, per se. That’s not Dr. Death Defying and Show Pony, although it seems that way to you.” The Witch’s voice was annoyingly calm. “But my point being, if you can give up one of them, you can have your Cherri back.”

“Newsie, no,” Cherri whispered from beside her.

“Can you do it?” The Witch was still smiling. “Can you sacrifice one friend to save another? Could you live with yourself if you killed your friend to save your brother? And could you live with yourself if you left him here to save the others?”

“No, I can’t do it.” They knew their voice must sound very small and very tired as they leaned a little against the radio shack that wasn’t the radio shack. “I can’t choose the life of one of my friends over another. I won’t make that choice. I refuse.”

“So do you choose to leave him here? I’ll take good care of him, you know.”

“No. I choose to not choose. I refuse to choose.” She had no idea what she was doing, only that she wasn’t leaving without the lives of all of her family. “I won’t put Cherri’s life over D’s, or Pony’s. I won’t put D or Pony’s life over Cherri’s. They all deserve to live.”

“Oh, hon, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Well I’ll make it work that way!” A thought niggled Newsie’s brain. “What if…What if I gave you something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like my life.”

“No!” That was Cherri again, his spirit form flickering fiercely. “No! Newsie, just leave without me. Please.”

The Phoenix Witch was smirking, but she shook her head. “Sorry, NewsAGoGo. I can’t accept that offer, selfless as it might be. You’ve got things ahead of you, I can’t just mess up my plans like that.”

“Fine, then something else.” Newsie rooted around in her bag, desperately trying to find something to trade with the Witch. Empty water bottle, no. Can of power pup that she never touched, no. Their hand collided with a small, slightly squished packet of something, which they pulled out triumphantly. “Glitter. I’ll give you glitter for my brother’s life.” Newsie knew she sounded ridiculous, but it really was all she had to offer.

The Phoenix Witch threw her head back and cackled; it was almost more of a caw than a laugh but clearly a sound of amusement nonetheless. “Glitter! Glitter! I haven’t laughed so hard in years.”

Their hand was shaking. “Pony gave it to me. Because sparkles- because sparkles-“ Their voice wobbled and they couldn’t finish that sentence.

“Sparkles make everything better,” Cherri whispered softly from next to her. Newsie nodded, trying not to cry.

The mirth on the Witch’s face was gone, replaced by true, genuine pity. “You care so much.”

“Yeah, of course I fucking do. He’s my brother, asshole.”

Cherri’s form was flickering again, and Newsie wished she knew what that meant as the Witch smiled softly. It was a bit of a sad, pitying smile, which they really didn’t appreciate, but they guessed they did make for a pitiful sight. Sandy and dusty, tear tracks on their face as they leaned against a wall and offered a pitiful little pack of glitter in exchange for the person they loved most in the world. 

“So…are you going to take the glitter?” Maybe it was dumb, maybe she should know the Witch would never accept glitter, but she had to try. 

“Yes.” 

Newsie gaped at her. 

“Yes, I’ll take the glitter. Not as a reward, but as a symbol. You, NewsAGoGo, traveled uncountable miles of unreality, fought a squad of dracs, and dared defy me, a literal deity, for your brother. I am not a cruel goddess, I do not need to be. The world is cruel enough for me. And your Cherri did not deserve to die. Oh, he was asking for it, he was taunting me into swooping down to take that bracelet you gave him off his wrist and taking his soul on with me just the same, but he still didn’t deserve to die.”  

The Witch flicked Cherri on the nose, or where Newsie thought his nose ought to be. “We’ve had some conversations about it, haven’t we? Because you didn’t want to die, Cherri Cola. You wanted to not be in pain. Something everyone wants. And your sister cares so much, so I’ll give you one more chance. This is your last one, lovely.”

“I understand.”

“Of course you do, hon.” The Witch turned back to Newsie. “Keep an eye on this one. He’s a bit prone to wandering off, but he’s yours again. He belongs to the land of the living. I’ll be keeping this, though.” She tapped the bracelet on her wrist, which Newsie recognized as the one they had given Cherri. “And the glitter, just for the hell of it. Tell your friend Pony they have good taste in décor, will you?”

And just like that, she was gone. Newsie was standing alone at the entrance to Death Valley, her faithful motorcycle next to her. At first, she thought the Witch had lied, since she did seem to be utterly alone, but before long, footsteps sounded from within the valley. 

Newsie turned as a figure approached, her breath catching at the familiar face. Cherri Cola was exactly how he had been the day Newsie had left him at the radio station, not knowing she would come back to find him gone. His battered green jacket was just as ripped and dusty as ever, and there was a small scar across his right cheek, as always. The only immediately visible difference between Cherri of a few weeks ago and this Cherri was the pure white streak in his hair, white like bones and death and the salt crusted on some parts of the desert. Yet when she looked closer, she could also see a tiny spark of determination in his eyes that had been missing for a very long time.

Cherri came to a stop in front of her, smiling cautiously. “Hey.” 

Newsie didn’t know if they should cry, yell at him, or hug him. They settled for a mixture of all three, sprinting over to hug him tightly as they unleashed all the bottled swear words and tears of the past few weeks. “Fuck you, Cherri! Dipshit! Bitch boy! Fucking rat bastard, you left me! You left me alone and I- and I was scared.” Their voice dropped on the last few words.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Cherri’s voice was very soft. “I should never have left.”

A bit of her fierceness came back at that, with another couple of swear words to unleash. “No, you fucking shouldn’t have! Asshole. Little shit! You died, you fucker! You died and I had to walk so fucking far to get you back, fuckface!”

“I’m sorry, Newsie. I’m so sorry.” 

She sniffled, unable to stay mad for long. “Just never do that again. Ever. I’m not fighting a squad of dracs to save some child so I can get directions to a fucking fake radio shack and talk to a cryptic deity next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Cherri said softly. “I promise.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

He crossed his heart, giving her a very serious look. “I swear on my best poetry and Show Pony’s glitter stash.”

They let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Now you can never break it, Pone would never forgive you if something happened to their glitter stash.”

“Exactly.” His eyes were glimmering with tears as well, but he was smiling as Newsie led him back to her motorcycle with a “Hop on, fuckface.”

It felt safe to have Cherri’s arms wrapped around her again, his head leaning on her shoulder as she revved the engine. He was a warm, safe presence, just as he had been in the unreality-reality place, but this time he was a solid one. A real one.

They might have been tired as all fuck, but that didn’t stop them from grinning as Cherri muttered something about it probably not being safe for her to drive while this tired. “Hang on, fucker. We’re going home.” 

Home was, as it had been for quite a while now, a (mostly) structurally sound radio station in the middle of the desert. It was almost nightfall by the time they pulled up in front of the radio shack, and Newsie was yawning as she climbed off the bike with another huge yawn. Cherri practically had to carry her to the door, but in her defense, he wasn’t the one who had walked however many miles, got in a firefight, and argued with a deity today. So they felt no guilt in leaning against him as he paused on the porch, using his free hand to knock gently on the door.

They were met by an exhausted-looking Show Pony, eyes red-rimmed and blood-shot as ey opened the door. “I’m sorry, no visitors today- Newsie?! Cherri?!?”

Cherri waved with his free hand. “Hey.”

“Am I just seeing things?” Pony’s voice was as shocked as eir face, which was very.

“Not seeing things, bastard,” Newsie yawned. “I said I was getting Cherri, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but you’ve been missing a month, Gogo! D and I thought you were ghosted like your bro!”

It probably was not an appropriate reaction, but the first thing out of her mouth was “No wonder I’m so thirsty.”

Cherri started laughing at that, and after a second so did Pony, half-hysterically. “Well, we’ve got water, that’s for sure. D’ll give you plenty, he’ll be so glad you’re alive!” Ey led them inside, still laughing in a somewhat hysterical way. “D, we’ve got some rat bastards alive and back on our hands!”

“Fuck you, Pone.” 

“She’s kidding, we love you,” Cherri yawned.

“And I love you too, but you can’t just- just up and disappear! The lot of you, honestly.” 

D’s face was only slightly less shocked than Pony’s when he rolled into the living room, and Newsie had a feeling that was only because he was even more exhausted than em. 

“Hey,” Cherri said again. 

“Cherri- Newsie- Witch, you both, we thought you were dead!”

“Well we’re not, deal with it.” She was too tired for this shit. Shouldn’t arguing with a deity give you a pass? “Also, sorry, Pone, I traded your glitter away to the Witch.”

Ey only looked shocked for a second before eir usual grin returned. “Well, it was meant to be used somehow! Plus, sparkles…”

“Make everything better!” Newsie, Pony, and Cherri all chorused. 

D sighed. “Welcome home, you two. Never scare us like that again, alright, Newsie?”

“I wasn’t the one who wandered off and died!”

“To be fair, you kinda threatened to fight the Phoenix Witch and then vanished, sugar,” Pony put in.

Newsie flipped em off, flopping down on the sofa. “My point was, give Cherri shit instead. I’m too tired for this.”

“Oh, I plan on it.” D’s voice was vaguely threatening, but his face cracked into a smile as he turned to Cherri. “You scared the hell out of all of us.”

Cherri stared at the ground. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“And we love you so much,” D added.

Newsie grinned at her brother’s shocked face. “Uh-huh, fuckface. We love you, even if you’re a rat bastard. Now I’m going to sleep for a week, see you all later.”

“Goodnight, Newsie,” Cherri said with a smile. If anyone else said anything after that, Newsie didn’t hear it. They were out like a light within seconds.

-

In this universe, the radio station is peaceful that evening, the family reunited at long last. Cherri Cola smiles to himself as he lifts Newsie off the sofa, giving D and Pony a thumbs up as he wanders into the back of the radio station. Their room is quiet, and Newsie barely shifts when he sets her down gently on the mattress.  They do move, however, when Cherri tries to pull away, reaching out to snatch his wrist. Trapped, he has no choice but to lay down next to Newsie, earning a sleepy noise that sounds vaguely happy.

Cherri grins softly, even if she can’t see it, running his hand along the new set of scars on his arm. There will be time to think about those later, time for the conversations that have to come with that, but for now all they are is a reminder. A reminder that he’s a survivor, a reminder of what matters. 

Cherri Cola falls asleep with Newsie by his side, and the last words on his lips that night are “I love you, Newsie.”

[jane-the-zombie]

Untrust Us || Marley & Jane

TIMING: Present-ish LOCATION: Cece, Jane, & Camille’s House PARTIES: @detectivedreameater & @jane-the-zombie SUMMARY: Jane and Marley talk, finally. It goes.  CONTENT: Mentions of gun use.

Marley stood outside of Jane’s door for longer than she anticipated. She lived with Cece and someone else now and having others around for a conversation Marley knew was going to be rough didn’t sound fun. If they were even home. But that wasn’t what was keeping her from knocking. From going in. It was what it meant when she did. If they talked, it meant she’d have to actually confront the real reason she was mad at Jane. And she didn’t know how to explain that. But they were partners, they needed to be on the same page about things. Being mad at each other meant stupid shit could happen. If they didn’t trust each other, then there was no reason for them to be partners. And what if that’s what Jane wanted? Marley swallowed back the lump in her throat and finally raised her hand to knock. She knew what she was feeling wasn’t quite fear-- she understood fear on a visceral level, after all, she consumed it-- but saying it was simply nerves didn’t seem to fit. Maybe it was just...something she didn’t know yet. Maybe her mind was still too clouded with the loss of Sarge. There was a hole and she didn’t know how to fill it. But whatever it was, she needed to figure it out. She knocked on the door, and waited.

Jane swung Cece’s door open after what felt like forever. She had seen Marley from her room coming up the walkway, and she went down to meet her… Except she took so long that Jane was fairly certain she was just going to walk away. Her suspension hadn’t been going well - that damned counselor could shove his head up his ass -  and with her returning to active duty next week, Jane knew they needed to talk far more than they had in the past. So much had happened since she had died. Marley got attacked by a bear, Erin had lost her home, and in the same incident, Roland had died, and he wasn ever, ever coming back. Jane shouldn’t have been as broken up about Roland as she was - people were going to die. People died. And she would still be here, eating brains. That was how this whole thing worked. Jane stood to the side to let Marley in. “Cece and Camille aren’t here right now,” Jane said, shutting the door behind her. She turned to examine Marley, try and get some semblance to how she was feeling, how she was, what was happening… And Jane realized the only thing she could really register was the low feeling of panic in her chest where her heart should have been racing. Jane shook it off, running her hands along the denim of her jeans nervously. “Do you want to sit?” Jane gestured to the living room.

Jane looked...normal. Paler, but so...normal. No bags beneath her eyes, no disheveled hair, no weariness. Marley had always imagined dying would make you look like death, but the reality was that it made you look more alive, possibly. If you couldn’t get tired, you couldn’t look tired. She shuffled inside behind Jane and watched her close the door. It was a relief to know it was just them for the night, but Marley still felt that tightness in her chest. She glanced around the house-- she’d never been to Cece’s place before, but it somehow looked exactly like she thought it would-- before looking back at Jane. Her offer hung in the air. “Not really,” she said. The bandages on her face suddenly felt so much more apparent when Jane’s eyes fell on her. She furrowed her brows. “You look...okay,” she said suddenly, turning to face her. Jane’s body language was nervous, sweaty palms wiped on pants, taught muscles making her move stiffly. Marley tilted her head slightly. “I sorta figured dying would make you look, I dunno...not good.”

She refused to stare at the bandages on Marley’s face . When Jane had first gotten the horrible scar on her neck, she had been all too aware of people staring at her and her neck and she didn’t want Marley to think like that. So she turned to get a glass of water. Neither of them needed water anymore - at least, she was pretty sure Marley didn’t need to drink water - but the action and the feeling of the water sliding down her dead throat made her feel a little better. Jane gave Marley a shrug. “Nothing a really long shower can’t fix.” Jane thought about the burning hot shower she had taken in Felix and Bea’s apartment, and wondered vaguely if she owed them money for how much hot water she used to scrub the blood and dirt off her skin. Absentmindedly, she touched the spot over her heart, where she got shot. “Maybe a scar or two,” she conceded. Jane had been shot a long time ago. Well, her and Daniel joked - she had been grazed. There was no need to be dramatic, it was just a flesh wound. She looked at Marley, shoulder’s slumping slightly as she sipped her water, trying to think of something she was supposed to say. “How’s work?” Jane finally settled on.

“Right,” Marley mumbled, looking away as Jane turned to grab the glass of water, “a shower.” She was sure there was more to it than that. You could wash away the blood and grime, but you couldn’t wash away the memories. There was something Jane wasn’t saying. “Seriously?” Marley suddenly said, “that’s what you’re asking? After everything that’s happened, you’re just asking me how work is?” She grit her teeth. Her anger didn’t feel justified-- she was essentially mad at Jane for things she herself did. Erin had very thoroughly pointed that out to her. “If you must know, it’s shit. I’m missing my partner, my face hurts all the time, people keep staring at me, and now Sarge is--” she stopped mid sentence, snapping her jaw shut. Glared at Jane. “It’s not good, Jane. None of this is. I’m--” she forced her to wipe away the anger in her eyes, “--I’m mad at you and I don’t want to be. I just don’t know...why I’m angry.”

Jane was strangely unfazed by Marley’s anger. Everyone reacted to grief and misfortune in their own way, after all, and they were both trying to make their way through it. “You can be angry,” Jane said with a shrug, leaning against the counter. “It makes sense. I figured work was the easiest thing to talk about right now. Unless you want to talk about…” There were so many unsaid things they could talk about. Jane’s disappearance and death, Marley’s fist fight with a bear, Roland’s death… They could cherrypick any of them out of the air and still be worse for wear afterwards. She touched the scar on her neck, fingertips tracing the indented skin almost a little nervously. “Anything else.” Jane finally finished her sentence after a moment, looking at Marley closely. “But if you want to yell or be angry, I don’t think I have that right to stop you.”

Anger was easy. It was so easy to just yell and be upset and get mad. Even easier when Jane wasn’t even protesting or trying to stop her. But Marley looked at her leaning against the counter and suddenly knew that it wasn’t anger she was feeling-- even if she did still want to yell a little bit. It was grief. It was rushing and painful and it was trying to choke her. Why wasn’t Jane more upset? Why wasn’t she angry or hurt or sad? Why couldn’t Marley read her as easily as everyone else? “See? That’s just it, Jane. You’re not-- you’re acting like you don’t feel anything! Like you’re just fine! And I know you’re not! You-- you died. I can’t possibly know what that’s like, but you went off by yourself on some stupid kamikaze mission and got yourself killed, and I thought--” she hadn’t realized she was waving her arms around until the pain set in, a little too late. Bruises healed, but apparently bruises one acquired from getting crushed by a bear took longer to heal. “--I had no idea if you were going to come back or not. I didn’t know if Roy knew what you were. I didn’t know what had happened. You didn’t tell me anything. And we’re supposed to be partners, and tell each other these things, and you-- I didn’t know if you were ever coming back and that scared the shit out of me, Jane. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I'm sorry, Marley.” But maybe she was sorry for the wrong reasons. She was sorry for scaring her, and she felt horrible for putting her through that unknown process, but she wasn't sorry for not taking her with her to investigate the warehouse. Marley wasn't as invincible as she thought, and the incident with the bear - bugbear, she reminded herself - proved that. Jane wouldn't let anyone else get hurt, and she especially wouldn't let another partner get hurt. Marley was right, though, and in more than one way, too. “I know I'm not okay,” Jane said, quietly. Finally she looked away, sipping more of her water. “Things feel different. I can’t hear my heart beat, and it’s…” Jane wasn’t sure what to say. “Strange.” It was strange how much that bothered her. The dulled feeling of material objects had been strange, but it didn't cause her distress like not being able to feel the adrenaline rushing through her veins or hear her hurt pounding in her ears. All she felt was terror. “But I will be. Okay, I mean,” Jane said, looking back at her as she repeated Felix’s words like she had been since that night in the woods. In her own way Jane supposed she was going through her own grieving process, and she settled somewhere between acceptance of the inevitable and anger at herself and everyone else. “Not now. Maybe not even this year. But I will be. And that might be the only thing that has me grounded right now. With what happened to me, with Sarge and you and everything.”

“You lied to me, Jane,” Marley said, but the wind from her anger was quickly dying out. It wasn’t that Jane looked sad or pitiful, but hearing her say the words made Marley’s heart constrict, like how she felt when she’d seen the tears on Anita’s face that she’d cried when she thought Marley was dead. It wasn’t a feeling she was used to, but she’d been feeling it more every day. “You said you had a plan, but you didn’t. And it-- you didn’t trust me to help with that and you didn’t trust me to check out that lead with you. I get it, alright? I kept the Erin thing from you, but I just thought-- I thought we were good.” She felt that pulling inside of her again. She unfurled her arms, but was then wholly unsure of what to do with them next. Of course Jane wasn’t okay, but Marley didn’t know how to comfort people. That wasn’t anything she did. “I think...it’d be worse if you were okay. I-- fuck, Jane.” She went over to the couch and sank down, pressing her palms to her eyes, wincing all the more. “This is all so fucked.” She remembered the men that she and Felix had overheard, had dragged into the alley. She remembered the satisfaction in feeling their breath leave their bodies, and she looked up at Jane. When had she come to care so much about another person? Enough that she’d kill for them? And now it wasn’t just one, it was three. “I just-- I know you’re not okay. No one is right now. I just wish I could do something about it.”

“Yes, I did. I’m sorry, Marley. If I could do it again, I would. The only thing I get to do again is… well…” Jane fell silent, knowing Marley could follow her train of thought without her needing to say the horrible cliche out loud. Jane was wrong about a lot of things, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Her fate was decided from the moment she climbed in through the window - from the moment she found the location in Erin Nichols’ journal. She let out a low sigh. “What happened - me following up on that lead… it wasn’t a matter of trust. Of course I trust you. You’re my partner.” Even if Marley keeping Erin’s secret had hurt a little more than she wanted to admit, Jane could still see the logic behind why she did it. “It was a matter of…” She pressed her lips together, knowing that Marley wasn’t going to like what she had to say. But it was better than keeping secrets, wasn’t it? It was better than Marley thinking that she didn’t trust her. “It was a matter of you not being able to come back after getting shot in the head, Marley. What I did was stupid and dangerous and -” And done for the feeling she missed most. Jane was still coming to terms with never feeling the raw adrenaline pumping through her veins ever again. “- I didn’t want you to get hurt or worse because of something stupid and dangerous.” Jane finished. She sucked in a deep breath she no longer needed, and wondered how long she could hold her breath. If it was forever - it had to be forever, right? - Jane could go scuba diving as low as she wanted. Weird time to think about that, though. Jane closed her eyes tightly, trying to reorient herself so she would stop deflecting. “And now the only thing I can do…” Jane said quietly. “The only thing we all can do is to get through all of this.” All of it. Roy, Roland’s death, Erin, Bears, and whatever other misfortune was waiting for them. Where the rush was supposed to be at the thought of danger was pure terror. Her hands tightened on the glass. “Together, this time.”

Marley, admittedly, hadn’t thought of it like that. Up until her encounter with Tommy, she’d thought herself pretty much invincible, so long as she made sure to go out at night, but-- no, it was before that, wasn’t it? The thing that still haunted her. The monster, that house, the narrow hallways they’d sloshed down. And now she was alone with those memories. Marley clenched her jaw, refocused. “If you’d trusted me enough, you never would’ve gone there in the first place,” she found herself saying quietly, “we could’ve worked out a plan together. You know that I’m invincible at night, and yet you still--” she paused, shaking her head. “It wasn’t even about trust or anything, was it?” She had a hunch why Jane had opted to go alone, but she wasn’t going to say it outloud. Jane could tell her herself if she wanted, and if she didn’t, well-- then Marley would understand that. She also didn’t like to talk about her emotions or her bad habits or the fact that she still often felt like a monster, placed on this Earth only to suffer and make others suffer. She deflated, sinking onto the couch. Put her head in her hands. Her whole body felt exhausted and the lines on her face burned. What she would give for some of Jane’s infinite energy right now. “Next time just…talk to me, okay?” she said quietly, her voice stiff, “I can’t go through that again.”

There was more to say, but perhaps it would be better to wait. They were both exhausted, and if they pushed any further it might lead to a fight. Jane was certain neither of them wanted that. They could hash through the details of that night and Jane’s decisions another time. It was more important to Jane that Marley felt comfortable enough to flop down onto the couch - it meant she would stay. Even if they totally weren’t okay, Marley would stay. “I will,” Jane promised, settling down onto the couch next to her, putting her water down on a coaster. “I won’t be the cause of that again.” There was so much to think about, especially since her suspension was up and she was heading back into work. Roland was gone. Jane wouldn’t spend time thinking about it. She couldn’t. She would change it if she could. If she could give her life up again… Well, that was a foolish thought, wasn’t it? It was what got her into this horrible mess in the first place. Marley and her… Well, they weren’t necessarily okay yet, but they could at least repair what was broken, and they could take a moment’s rest from the fire surrounding this godforsaken town.

[gaycharr]

Stages of Grief

A bit different than my usual writing style i think, just a quick(ish) thing. Do the stages of grief apply to a life? When you lose your way, that is also a sort of grief, is it not ?

Vetrius and, in a way, resolutions. Initially inspired by @tyrias-library ‘s resolutions prompt but idk if it follows that theme enough to still count 

warning for themes of depression and talk of suicide

Shock and Denial

Childhood is innocent, yes, but at what point does that naivete start to change into a painful awareness of those around you? Vetrius could pinpoint the exact moment.

She’d never given much thought to her own image until here. She was happy, and sociable. She enjoyed chatting with the others in her Fahrar and never thought twice about offering a hand to another.

It seemed this very thing was what would bring her new revelation around. Practicing in the yard (swords today) after a heavy rain. When her sparring partner slipped backwards, falling heavily to the ground as their sword thudded away, there was no hesitation on her end. She dropped her sword, stepped forward to offer her hand to her friend, and froze at the look on their face.

They sneered up at her angrily, eyes glittering. Vet felt numb as they slapped her paw from them and scrambled to their paws themself. She didn’t react even as the smaller cub shoved at her shoulders, making her take a step back as she blinked at them, still processing.

“Burn it! You’re so...so..SOFT! Can’t you just be normal?” The other cub hissed at her before stalking away. Vet felt her ears burning under the weight of the stares of the others. Her stomach churned. How had she missed this? Now that she looked, she noticed the pattern of slit gazes and twitching tails. How bodies angled from her and the line of the shoulders grew tense and flat.

Vet clenched her fangs. No, no, this was fine. This was normal. Nothing had happened.

Pain and Guilt

In the wake of her newfound hyper vigilance of others, Vetrius seemed to see evidence of her wrongness everywhere. Always too ready to offer a smile, to compromise, to lend a hand. These came naturally to her, but now it was soured by the jarring realization that these weren’t strengths, but weaknesses. It sat heavy within her, writhing and occasionally growing overwhelming and clawing up her throat.

At night she curled up on her bunk in a tight ball hugging her knees to her chest, tail wrapped around her. She clenched her teeth against the cresting waves of despair within her, clawed at the sheets in the breathless pain of emotion. What had she done to be so alone?

Anger 

Slowly, so slowly, Vet’s pain and despair started to boil into anger. Why was it so hard for others to just accept each other, to be kind? Why was SHE the odd one out, for having fucking compassion? How dare she give a shit, how dare they treat her like this!

She withdrew ever further within herself. No longer attempting to bridge the gap between her and others, what was the point, she didn’t matter to them and she didn’t want to. No longer was she content either, to ignore snide remarks made against her, and her claws and fangs became ready to bear as she growled back.

She thought it was ironic, in a blood boiling way, how before she was too soft, but now she seemed too harsh, too prickly. The others avoided her now, not out of second hand embarrassment but out of a sort of discomfiting fear that the dog they’d beat might bite back now. She felt too big in her fur these days, felt as if she was always clenching her fangs against something- she didn't know what, just that it would be horrible to unleash.

Wasn’t she perfect now though? She thought with a snarl. Big and angry and ready to fight. 

(and Bargaining)

She didn’t need them to accept her though. She could just- run away. Start a new life.

This thought manifested in different ways, but quickly took a turn for unhealthy. To fantasize of a new life is okay, but not when you stray into the territory of ‘can i just die now so i can have a new life’. The thought turned into claws over skin, an increasing recklessness with herself, an always prickling sense of being prepared for a fight against her peers.

And then it happened. A heavy storm that her band was caught in, trekking back home after some field practice. Heavier than normal. Vet foolishly remarked this out loud, and instantly remembered herself as another scoffed. “Scared of a little water?” was the sneered reply.

Vet felt her fur grow hot, start to bristle at the shoulders. Felt that ugly something rear up in her, ready to bite. And just as she opened her mouth, a flash of lightning blinded her. In the receding bright and boom of thunder, they all stared in shocked awe as a large portal opened in front of them.

Instantly her band began to bicker about what to do. Vet felt her anger fade as she considered. “We should go back and tell the others, see what they want to do about this.” It seemed sensible to her, what were they gonna do, step through it? Nothing else to do but find someone who could at least take a proper look.

Except- to her band- it translated into cowardice, a want to leave the situation and have someone else handle it. “You would say that! Hah! Why dont you just run along for us, we’ll stay here and do the hard work.” And suddenly the anger was back and boiling up and finally, Vetrius could no longer bared it. 

It radiated off her, heavy and palpable, and even the storm seemed to quiet as everyone hushed and stared at her, waiting for the wave to crest. Her clenched fists trembled, blood mixing with the rain where her claws dug into her own skin.

She thought about turning around. Though about ripping into every single one, fighting until they had no choice but to admit that she was Strong, Stronger than them even. Distantly, breathlessly, and almost furiously disappointed in herself for it, she knew that she wasn’t going to do that.

Instead, she took a deep breath, and stepped through the portal. She would have a new life, one way or another.

Depression

The mists were unlike anything Vetrius had ever thought to expect. They were...ineffable, indescribable, in a way that sometimes struck an odd chord of nostalgia within her.

They were dangerous too, she quickly learned. When she first stepped into the mists from the portal, still  dripping with rain water as it snapped shut behind her, she’d felt only a numb angry sort of joy. She’d stuck it to them! Except...what now?

Time passed, or at least Vetrius thought it did. It was hard to tell, some areas seemed to lack any sort of sun or moon even. She could measure it only by her hunger, which stopped being effective as she slowly began to starve, the small meals she was able to catch not quite enough.

Often she could feel the weight of a gaze on her, or would snap her head around looking for the source of an imagine whisper. She must be going crazy. She must be dying. The thought came almost as a relief to her. Or...she wanted it to be a relief, so she refused to admit that it wasn’t.

She struggled on and on and on. The worse her shape became, the more she struggled, the more the panic within her started to rise. Her admittance was just on the tip of her tongue but still she couldn’t let it out.

It was in the dead of night. She’d come across some berries and, starving, had eaten them. It was the wrong choice, she could feel her stomach rolling. By the time the cold sweat of fear had reached her, she knew it was too late, whatever she had eaten was undeniably poison and finally she was faced with the reality that she was going to die, possibly any moment.

Her limbs began to tingle, her vision growing hazy. She shook her head dizzily, trying to stay in focus. Her breaths came in harsh pants. And finally, FINALLY, her realization hit her in a bright burst of light.

(the upward turn)

She...she didn’t want to die! She could feel the thought fill her, breaking through the walls she’d built against her own self. She didn’t want to die, she wanted to live! She WANTED to live.

Her teeth creaked as she clenched them, heaving breaths through her nose desperately as she crumbled but suddenly unwilling to give up. 

But it was too late, wasn’t it? Her arms shook, her mouth watered sickeningly. And- and-

Her vision was growing bright, so bright! She could barely see through the blinding light now. She was supposed to stay AWAY from the light, right? She stumbled back, not realizing that her vision had suddenly cleared, her limbs quickly regaining control.

“Be not afraid.” The voice sounded amused, and comforting. Vet could taste a spring breeze, despite the dusty crumbling walls of some mist castle around her. The light started to recede, and finally Vet realized that she wasn’t going to die, actually.

She looked up at the being of light, and it caused a weird feeling to squirm through her.  Vet was kneeling, she realized, looking up at this angel (what else could it be?) with teary eyes. The Angel extended a hand down to her, the limb solidifying within the fluctuating light.

Unthinking, Vet blinked away her tears as she reached up, took the hand, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

Reconstruction 

“You want to leave this place.” Hearing Angel’s voice wasn’t always a common thing. Even now that they had learned some of their bond, Angel usually spoke through impressions of emotions or flashes of images in Vet’s mind.

Vet faltered. Much time had passed now, Vet was positive. She wasn’t a cub anymore. After Angel saved her, the two had just seemed to be entwined. Their bond wasn’t an instant thing after that, but it grew quickly as Angel followed and watched over Vet. The two grew together, and it was...nice, despite it all, Vet thought at least. She’d had a lot of growing to do, she’d realized.

Vet hadn’t had a home in a long time, but this place still wasn’t it. If Angel had asked before now, the fear of facing reality might have driven Vet to deny the statement, but intuitive as their connection was now she must have sensed that Vet was ready  to face these issues.

Acceptance and Hope

Vet didn’t vocally accept, but Angel’s presence brightened at the responding emotion of agreement and acceptance reflected from Vetrius. And excitement, even. 

A part of Vetrius felt terrified, as Angel steered her towards a portal that would spit her back out into Tyria after so long. But it was overpowered by the thrill of hope running through her.

She’d gone through so much, but she’d also learned so much. She was ready to accept the pain she’d been through: in her childhood, in the mists, the pain she may yet be to face. As long as she keeps growing, she’ll be okay. 

[blightmantra]

@dlishmagi​ said: Anchor in meltdown and Taeros in constant pain, he watches the Qunari rush through the eluvian, and he only gives pause to his chase to look back at Symphony. Eyes focus on hers and he bites his lip. Will he be back? No, he will come back; he must. But still, he doesn’t leave without an “I love you”, accompanied with a quick signing before leaving through the eluvian. And when he returns... It’s after what feels like ages, legs giving out almost immediately. His left arm, gone.

       he promised her a life together, away from all this after years of putting her fragile heart through so much suffering. symphony never thought it possible, if she were being completely honest. she never thought there would ever be a future with him. why would there be? his life was not his own to promise to another, it had always belonged to the inquisition and even mythal herself. he was unafraid and forever prepared to lay down his life on his whim for his cause, of course he would die young. she need not be shocked on the day of his death, because it was forever looming around every corner like a shadow. what a terrible thing it was mourn her love when he still yet lived.

       it wasn’t until he asked to marry her that she realized he had intentions of living past tomorrow. he wanted to devote his life to her happiness and share a lifetime with each other. he wanted to live for her.

       maybe it was finally time to put her guard down. she was to be his wife one day, and she had a life together to look forward to. they need only brave this storm together and only then will nothing ever tear them apart again. they would marry under the stars with their families at their sides, they would share a home and have children, and if the creators were kind they would grow old together.

       he PROMISED her this.

       blood trickled down her temple as they all regained their footing and caught their breath. after defeating on onslaught of demons, qunari, a monstrous beast such as saarath, as well as the shockwaves that taeros’ mark that sent her back hitting the pavement over and over again... her body finally said no more. her bones ached with every movement she made and she was only able to stand with the help of bull. their road ended here. in their weakened state, viddasala would surely kill them all one by one before killing solas. they needed to look for some other way to help him before his arm killed him and everyone around him.

       as her mind raised to think of something, anything in that moment, eyes drifted towards taeros who stood in front of the final eluvian. his own eyes cast an apologetic look at the three, but mainly at symphony. not once had she ever seen that look. it was a new one, and everything in her PRAYED it wasn’t what she think it was.

       she slowly shook her head. ‘ no... ’ she continued to shake her head. ‘ you’ll die. she’ll kill you... ’ she assumed her fear had vanished when he had promised a life together. the nightmare was finally over and she need not fear anything in this world ever again. this is what he had promised to her.

       i love you, he signed. and just like that he turned away from her, possibly turning away from the life they could have shared and the memories they could have formed. he turned it all away because it was something that world demanded he do. the world was being plunged into chaos yet again and he was the only choice they had, even if he had no chance to stop any of it all. even if it would could kill him.

       she gaped at his figure as he disappeared into the mirror, frozen in place as if she could not believe what she was witnessing. in a matter of seconds the once glowing mirror shattered and instead grew murky and unusable. taeros was gone. all three of them were left baffled.

       ‘ no... ’ she was the first to break the silence, moving to make her way closer to the eluvian only to be held back by bull. ‘ let go of me! ’ she shoved his arms away, causing her to stumble to the floor momentarily. she struggled to get on her feet again, but the moment she did she climbed the stone rubble that doubled as steps to the broken eluvian. heart pounded in her ears until it was all she could hear as she climbed, scraping her knees and hands in the process. 

       once she had finally reached to the top, all she was met with was her own teary reflection. her reflection shifted and swayed almost like bloody water, and she watched her own face fall, the gravity of the situation dawning on her. taeros was actually gone.

       ‘ no... no, no, no, no, this can’t be, ’ her breath grew rapid as she pressed her hands against the mirror, unable to enter it. after several attempts she began to pound on the mirror. ‘ no, this can’t be, this isn’t right! he... ’ the lump in her throat grew larger and larger until she could no longer speak. she dug her nails into the edges in an attempt to tear out the frames, searched the back of the mirrors as if it would hold to key to reopening it once again. it was an upsetting sight watching her scramble to do the impossible.

       ‘ please... ’ she squeaked out, pounding on the mirror one final time. ‘ he promised we would be together forever. ’

       she fell to her knees, wracked with grief. defeated. that could have been possibly the very last time she would ever see him again, and she just stood there and watched him do it. allowed him to walk into his own death without berating him and telling him how stupid of an idea that was. did she also have a share in the blame of all of this? she would never forgive herself if that was the case. the world had finally gotten what it wanted.

       ‘ come back... ’ she watched her reflection let out a mournful weep. 

       cole sat cross legged beside her, mourning with her as she buried her face in her hands. the sun was quick to set as they waited until it grew cold and uncomfortable. she would wait an eternity for him if she could. she would plant herself like an unmovable tree, watching and waiting for him to come back to her just like he always did. flowers would sooner bloom from her bones before she would ever leave this mirror.

       and an eternity they waited, or something similar in feeling, before there grew a stir within the mirror’s murky reflection. ‘ symphony, look! ’ cole let out an excited gasp, gently shaking her shoulder after momentarily forgetting that she could not hear him. for a second she considered ignoring him, afraid that he would suggest finally leaving the mirror, accepting his fatal fate. but she spared a glance upward, almost blinding herself as they all watched the eluvian flicker and shimmer until it lit up the darken environment, breathing back to life.

       the first thing that they noticed was his arm extending outwards, before a foot came to lead him out. ‘ taeros... ’ she let out a gasp, but unfortunately it was a short lived excitement as he came stumbling to the floor, landing right on her lap as she was ready to catch his fall. ‘ love, i’m here, ’ she cupped his cheeks, investigating his face to see if she could notice any recognition in his eyes. it seems he was falling in and out of consciousness.

       ‘ he’s badly hurt... ’ cole’s voice shook as he pointed at his arm. symphony tore her eyes away from his face to look at... his arm. it was gone, even his mark. his warm blood trickled and stained her legs. it was than that her instincts as a healer kicked in.

       ‘ bull, we need to leave now, ’ she commanded, calling on her magic to at least help slow the bleeding for now. making quick work to remove of her armor and top, she tore at her clothes until only her undershirt protected her from the cold. she used the torn cloth to stop the bleeding further as bull made his way closer to him. her heart raced but she refused to let panic set in. ‘ we need to get him back to the winter palace this instant. ’ thankfully the qunari didn’t need to be told twice, watching him as he effortlessly lifted him into his arms, careful not to disturb the bandaged stump that was once his arm.

       it was an intensive procedure but they were quite lucky that taeros wasn’t awake for most of it. he had lost of a lot of blood and needed several stitches to help seal off the severe wound. he would be weak for several weeks, but knowing her love, sym had a feeling that he would be walking by tomorrow.

       his return caused such a dramatic uproar between the notabilities in attendance but at the very least they had the common decency to allow him time to recover in peace without having nations hounding him with questions and demanding answers from his still recovering mind.

       her heart was weak by the end of it all, and refused to leave his side until he opened his eyes again whenever that may be. she watched his pale face as he struggled to breathe in his slumber and she couldn’t help but feel guilt slowly creep into the back of her mind. she was afraid of what his reaction would be, knowing he would not take the news of his missing limb well.

       ‘ i’m so sorry, my love, ’ she whispered to him, hoping he could somehow hear her from the fade. she leaned down to press a hard kiss to his forehead before resting her head on his chest, drifting off into her own slumber.

       it had been a handful of hours since she had last slept, but really, it had been YEARS since she had last rested.

[ofgoodmenarchive]

Blighted Empire: Ch. 1

Sins of Our Fathers

Dorian hated travelling by sea.

It was a long, lurching journey between Tevinter and Ferelden. He lamented Orlais rejected their ship- Orlesian Circles already overburdened by the first wave. Now all of Thedas struggled to house them.

Curled up on his cot in the gloom, he twitched and turned as his vision spun. There was nothing left in his stomach to heave and the shakes were so intense, in his delirium he worried he'd caught Blight. He wasn't one to run scared for his father and the constant groaning and swaying of the ship did not welcome him- but he felt desperate for a second pair of eyes.

 Do I look sick? Are there sores? Everything is dancing, I can't see.

Stumbling out of the cabin and into the narrow hall, he rocked with the ship and more fell than walked. Magister Pavus couldn't have gone far. He listened intently for his voice through the ceaseless noise of their vessel. The boxed environment had an eerie, dream-like quality. He was unnerved almost beyond reason but couldn't understand why.

 “It can still be done. Take him now- there's no reason to wait.”

He froze, straining to process hushed conversation.

 “The boy has lost his mother and is being taken far from his homeland. This is not the time for such a discussion.” He wasn't certain on the identity of the first voice but this was his father.

 “What discussion? Simply take him now and have it done. Whether in his homeland or Ferelden, he will still be cursed by this affliction. You would prefer he embarrass us in front of outsiders by flirting with inferiors, as he does everywhere?”

An exaggeration to be sure but it still stung. His stomach churned, especially unsettled as he pieced together their discussion. They weren't just griping about his rebellious nature- his father aimed to rid him of his rumoured predispositions before they had a chance to shame his bloodline more than they had.

 “I doubt such things will be on his mind.” He defended his son that much.

 “A fixation of this extent is a disease, Magister Pavus, it does not reason. If he's brought with us as he is he'll be a nuisance at best and at worst, a complete embarrassment.”

Unable to support his weight any longer, knees buckled and he slumped against the door. It held but as his mind spiraled he heard his father.

 “Is someone there?”

Insides tied into knots, time slowed. Habit told him to run but an outrage was stirring. How could his father even consider this? Was it so impossible to love his son as he was? His pulse in his ears, he shoved open the door and stood there, uneven.

What he saw made no discernible sense and he knew something was terribly wrong.

Magister Pavus was present, a statue in the small, dank space. But the disembodied voice belonged to nothing but black- an inky mass that lurked in the corner, watching without eyes. Everything was still, as if the ocean itself had been swallowed.

 This can't be real.

When he'd overheard his father speak of this plan, he'd retreated and hid for the rest of the voyage. The voice was never identified so the demon simply did not know what to replace it with. Perhaps it never expected Dorian to confront his father.

The reflection of Halward Pavus glowered at Dorian, sinister lines ageing his face. Dorian's heart leapt from his chest as he backed into the hall, seasickness replaced by fear.

 “Dorian! Please- wait!” It almost sounded like his father. Tone too exaggerated in concern, intentionally plucking at emotion. Even in such circumstance, his father certainly would not be so frantic. A puppet of Halward Pavus, features seeming to sprout in webs and distort.

Devoid of thought, he ran. He had to get away from that ghoul, that's all that mattered. Mania took him away from the unnaturally lifeless ship- up several ladders and above deck. Retreat gave him time to compose himself, noticing and being thankful that even the ship was built to a rough specification of his memory.

If there had ever been an ocean, it was indeed swallowed. The ship was half-buried in endless piles of scorched stone. Destruction stretched as far as the eye could see; buildings ravaged by green flame, noxious clouds blotted the sky, rot covered a land strewn with bodies.

 The Tevinter Imperium.

They said that on the final retreat, half of the Imperium burned. It could not even be estimated how much was caused by Darkspawn and how much was a defeated army laying waste to everything as it fled.

Dizzy, he steadied on the edge of the ship. If this was the Fade as he suspected and forgetting was a part of it, the Black City should be visible. Nauseous, he scanned the polluted sky and made out dark towers floating in mist.

 The good news, this is certainly not real.

He consoled, straightening himself. Banishing the demon was his only priority and the easiest way was with a weapon from the Fade to channel his will. He could possibly locate one from the ship but didn't want to risk a trap within the narrow space. Feeling more decisive, he hoisted himself over the side and skittered down rubble.

 “Don't you want to speak to your father, Dorian?” A voice taunted as he went.

Trudging through the decay was difficult, it stuck to his limbs, tar-like. He tried not to think of the layers of decomposition he waded through or how many people comprised that sludge. He reminded himself incessantly it was not real. Even if Tevinter looked something like this now, it was a nightmare enhanced by his unconscious.

Toppled structures around him took shape- he recognised fragments of architecture from Minrathous and home- even pieces of the Ferelden Tower, different times and places stitched together in awful tapestry. Legs met less resistance now, a solid ground littered with corpses in place of a swamp.

 “Ah, if it isn't the very fortunate Dorian Pavus! To escape the cleansing of his deviant homeland with limbs, health and sanity while so many fled with nothing! For many, even less than nothing.” It echoed from everywhere, from inside. The unending landscape felt small.

Dismissing it, he plunged onward. He couldn't entertain the demon, not for a moment. His path was clear- it had to remain so.

 “You don't want to talk to me, Dorian?” The voice chided, warbling as it fought for consistency.

 “No, not really, thank you!” A nervous whisper escaped. His next step met an obstacle, something cold and unrelenting around his leg. Yanking, he refused to see but it was so tenacious he had to steal a glance to thump it in the face with his opposite boot.

Maybe it had been the face of someone he knew, back at the 'Forgotten District of Minrathous', he dared not allow the image to set. Perhaps the voice that scratched from tattered chords would be familiar if his thoughts were not persistently screaming to drown it.

 “You wonder what makes you so much better, don't you? You wonder why you deserved to live.”

 “It wasn't my choice!” He couldn't help yelling while he kicked, over and over until the arm severed. He broke into a sprint.

 “None of it was my choice!”  He had to scream it. He needed it to be known. He needed to believe it. The demon would not relent, striking before he could recover.

 “And what of your choices, my son?” Unmistakably familiar though she croaked so dry.

They said on the final retreat, half of the Imperium burned.

 Dorian, I don't think she'll be there.

 Mournful words as the great silhouettes of the harbour stood almost grandly against blood-streaked horizons.

There was no escape from it, was there? With a grave turn, he faced the blackened corpse of his mother. Grief buried so deep the demon failed to reconstruct her appearance. How fortunate most of Tevinter lay in ashes.

 “Fooling around while your betters prepare, shirking responsibilities, drinking and joking, losing your amulet, fraternising with inferiors. And do you think people can't tell why you look at Felix that way? Why you drag him into playing house and act like it was his notion?”

 “You're very chatty for a woman who burned to death.” He mocked with an edge of hysteria and in equally hysterical motion, threw his hand, willing a shape that obliterated the area. Shards of ice pierced the land where the nightmare once stood. Dorian hadn't even realised what form he cast- reflex became his strategy.

 “Why don't you want to talk to your family, Dorian? Don't you miss them?”  The voice underwent more grotesque transformation, sampling whatever fruits Dorian's vulnerable mind bore. The spot of ice pulsed and grew, temperature falling dramatically, unforgiving winds howled through the nightmare. He tried to outmaneuver the frost and slipped.

 “But you would speak to me, would you not?”

Keeper Lavellan cast a long shadow. Lightbringer's sharp glow aimed at Dorian's throat. His reaction to this was more visceral than towards the ghoul of his father. Heart drummed painfully against rib cage as he swiveled on ice and skid over harsh terrain. He couldn't find a grip but managed to swerve behind a spire.

The real Lavellan was already uncompromising and only half-reasonable, he could only imagine a demonic figment to be merciless. Thoughts screamed as he tried to organise a plan of attack.

Relaxed steps clicked after him. One set, two set, three sets.

 “Does it shame you to face me, Tevinter?”

 “Does it make you feel small, stupid, unworthy?”

 “Does it make you feel unclean?”

Hands clasped ears, blocking the trio of Lavellans as best he could. Of course there would be three! Except these brothers were the same person and all their malice crept towards Dorian. He risked a glance around; poor mimics of Lavellan, really. He was not quite that sharp, not quite that towering, not quite that cold. Lightbringer wasn't even accurate!- He couldn't recall the runes seamlessly but enough to know they were wrong!

Listing these discrepancies brought little comfort. How could he face three demonic, mad elves on his own, even if they were fade-forms?

It dawned on him- he didn't have to. The Fade wasn't just home to nightmares but benevolent spirits. If he chose cautiously and inscribed correctly, one might give aid.

They were edging towards him but no matter how Dorian scribbled on ice, he couldn't remember the rune for Valour. It was like trying to recite a melody and losing yourself in another, akin but different. He couldn't comprehend these intruding runes but they were all he could think as he drew summoning circle after summoning circle.

 “Tell me something.”

He was out of time.

Tearing his gaze away from cryptic doodles, he met the nightmarish Lavellan in the eye.

He remembered the last time they spoke, Lavellan grieved his people. Now he loomed like a harbinger of death, an immense figure with a triplet at each side and mockery of a celestial blade.

 “Do you ever consider that what was left of my family died so that the rest of yours may live? Do you ever consider that I may die in your place, reclaiming your homeland? Does your existence not shame you, Dorian Pavus?”

Despair strangled him, an incredible weakness overpowered his limbs. Through tears he looked between the fake Lavellan and his juvenile circles.

 “Lavellan...I shame myself...” Delirious and sapped of reason, he placed fingers on the initially-drawn summon. It felt right, somehow. All of his will poured into those etchings until they came alive, submitting himself to the Fade.

Light blinded him. He processed the outline of a straight-backed figure atop the circle, rejuvenating warmth shielding them both.

 “How repulsive.” It stated tepidly and there was a slice of movement. With discoloured vision, it looked as though the demon Lavellans were squeezed by invisible hands, causing them to burst like firecrackers.

His mind swirled, colour tinted the scene in patches.

 “Valour?”

 “No.”

When eyes readjusted it was still Lavellan but the contrast between him and the others was night and day. The chill was present but did not overwhelm and Lightbringer rested, the weight of it at his belt much less threatening.

 “You're not Lavellan either.” He thought aloud. “Lavellan is fighting Darkspawn in Tevinter.”

It was not, could not be Lavellan but still the familiar scrutinisation was uncanny.

 “I am remembered here. Why do you summon me?”

Whatever he'd drawn, Dorian concluded it reached not only into his memory but into those of the Dalish turned Circle Mages- it was the only way to account for the accuracy. He wondered if the spirit who answered was aware of its situation.

 “To defeat the demon, of course.”

 “That is not what I meant.”

 “I was trying to summon Valour.” He repeated and considered that spirit Lavellan was still rather draining.

 “You are a bad liar, Dorian Pavus.” The way he said it was so human it caught him off guard, going on the defensive.

 “I won't stand in this Fade-pit and be lectured by a fake Lavellan! Tell me your real name and I might oblige you!”

The imitative spirit became static, pupils unmoving. He wondered if he'd broken it, if it was searching within the Fade, or struggled with the conundrum on whether to respond to a question the true Lavellan rejected. Well, good!

Eyes blinked into animation, a name finally decided upon.

 “Evallan.”

 “You made that up.” He said reflexively and the spirit only looked at him, humourless. Though he might have wanted to continue testing, a darkness crawled over everything. He made some sound in alarm but the spirit's voice hushed him, gentle.

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[creepypastashavecomittedtaxfraud]

Hi. Can u do a hc to CP reaction to their s/o taking a bullet for them. Sorry I just need some sweetness in my life ( Jeff the killer, Ej, Lj, hoodie, masky u could do as much as u like. TY

SWEETNESS?!… ;_; THIS REALLY HURTS…. but i’ll do it…for the fans…

under the cut in case anyone doesnt want to read my sads…..

warning for. angst. probably pretty gorey/violent.  and reader death. IM SORRY..

Jeff the killer: 

he hated when you insisted on going killing with him, but he had once again given in, even though it always put him extra on edge. he worried so much for you. for good reason

things were going fine, you had been assigned to a particularly big house so you were both being extra careful. watching each other backs best you could while walking through it as calmly as possible

you had a funny feeling in your stomach, so you took a moment to freeze and scan the area around you, when you noticed the person crouched behind a table aiming at you two,

you screamed and roughly shoved jeff out of the way as a shot went off, right into your side,

jeff was unfazed, having gone through this before, he expertly dashes over to the person and butchers them before they can fire off another one, not even realizing you’ve been hit

he wipes the fresh blood off on the front of his hoodie, laughing lowly to himself and turning around, “good. let’s get the fuck out of-” he sees you flat on the ground bleeding out and wheezing,

he runs over and kneels beside you, even though by then you’re unresponsive he frantically tries to talk you through it, trying to help you up and walk you out of the house, and when you’re completely limp he just carries you out into the nearby woods

he has a horrible feeling in his gut. he’s been shot before, he tells himself, you’ll be ok you’ll be ok, you’ll get home and you’ll be okay.

but, deep down, soon enough he knows. your bloods everywhere. you’re already getting cold. but he can’t just leave you there. he can’t let you just become evidence at a murder scene. he wont let you die there.

he carries you half way home before he has to stop from exhaustion and just complete numbing grief. he sits there holding you and sobbing over you for hours. 

he knows this is the last time he’ll see you, and once he gets home he’s not going to let himself be in pain in front of anyone else. so he cries for you there, and holds you as long as he can.

when he arrives home by himself, it’s already getting light out. he’s completely silent. no one knows what happened to you for a long time. he’s lost so many people he cares about already, it’s a fresh wound on top of all the old ones. he never stops missing you.

EJ: 

You two are running away from the latest house, just finished with a kill. blood still wet on your hands, when the barking of police dogs and sirens fill the air

he’s a much faster runner than you but is trying to pace himself so not to leave you behind. you both climb over a fence quickly and continue on into the woods. you look behind you and see you’re about to loose them, you smirk to yourself before the gun shots start

you yell for jack to watch out and pick up the pace directly behind him when you’re got several times in the back and collapse

“NO- NO FUCK!!!” Jack screams, scooping you up in his arms and running top speed deep into the forest, getting a few bullets himself but completely unfocused on it

he doesn’t stop running , working out in his head what happened and what he’s going to need to do to fix you up when you’re home before he starts to slow his run.

your breathing is very weak, you’re limp and cold. his arms and body are covered in your lost blood, despite his efforts to keep you still

he’s still walking when he chokes out your name and tries to get a response out of you, which he never gets.

his walk slows to a stop. you’re a really good distance away from where it happened, but it feels like everything just happened moments ago. it’s replaying in his head as he sits down, still cradling you in his arms. he takes his mask off and just holds you. he knows you’re not going to make it, but the thought refuses to process fully.

he still tries to talk to you, but now just trying to comfort you. he refuses to lie to you while you die. he tells you he loves you. he holds your hand and waits. not letting himself start crying or sobbing loudly till he knows you won’t hear it. doesn’t want you to be scared 

after that, he carries you home. feeling completely broken, because he is. the pain of losing you never goes away 

Hoodie: 

you two were just doing some work collecting materials at a private scrap yard of sorts, with warning and “NO TRESPASSING” signs everywhere, but that was nothing new.

you two were holding arm fulls of materials , joking around with each other and chatting. no one was around right? no need to worry

suddenly a bunch of flood lights came on at once, and gun shots started ringing out. you two dropped your materials and started running off as fast as possible straight towards the exit gate, the dirt around you flying up as bullets hit it

you two almost make it without a scratch, but you get hit once in the shoulder and then in the side. you scream in pain and crumble to your knees, and hoodie wordlessly grabs you and drags you away as fast as he can out of danger

you can still half run a small bit, but the pain is unbearable, and you’re bleeding profusely, and after a while of running you can’t keep it up and fall to the ground

he urges you panickedly to keep running, that it’s not that much farther, please please please. he’s begging you to keep walking even just a little more, but you can’t. being light headed from the blood loss and stress kicks in and you can barely talk.

he gets you to wrap your arms around his neck and he carries you on his back for as long as he can, but you get too weak and fall off, he cries out your name and sits next to you, kneeling over you, tears starting to flow

he pulls off his mask, still pleading with you to get up, please, please, once you’re home everything will be ok. you’re so weak though…so weak…you gently run your hand across his wet cheek and tell him it’s ok. it’s ok. but his whole world just ends right there in front of him.

so the pleading and sniffling and choking from him and the weak barely whispering from you taper off into silence.

he feels completely empty and dead . he sits there in complete shock for a long time, unable to comprehend what’s even happening. what’s already happened.

he never recovers from that . he’s never the same. his thoughts become disjointed and distorted . he misses you so badly

Masky: 

You’re both doing rounds in the forest around the edge of your territory, standard stuff, make sure enemy proxies aren’t poking around. but unfortunately for you two, today they were.

he spots them first and puts an arm out in front of you to get you to stop walking forward. There’s about three against the two of you, and he’s smart so he wants to go back and just alert everyone else. instead of trying to take them on, but then they spot you two. 

and he’s no coward so he draws his own pistol and tells them to back the fuck off, they appear to be pretty startled themselves and it looks like they’ll just run off, but then one of them takes out their gun also and fires at you two.

it hits you in the chest and you fall over, masky attacks the one who fired off and the other two they were with run off quickly, soon followed by the third, now considerably bloodier in the face.

 he knows you were hit, unlike jeff, but he doesn’t know just how bad until he rushes over to you, trying to help you up when he sees just how hard youre bleeding and from where

his whole body feels cold from dread and a pit of suffocating fear forms in his stomach. he keeps his voice under control as he urges you forward and starts walking you back to the mansion, but you’re in too much pain to move

your cries of pain are like stabs to the gut for him, he settles you down against a tree and tells you not to move, he’ll run back and get help and everything will be ok, but you’re getting weak. and dizzy. and sicker and sicker. youre starting to realize whats going to happen

you softly beg him not to leave you. your voice and hands are so shaky now. he  kisses your forehead, tells you he loves you and promises to be back soon. he leaves you with his gun and after squeezing your hand for comfort, runs home faster than he’s ever run…and everything goes dark

he’s torn up about it forever basically…blames himself entirely. and will always always regret leaving you there. he wanted so horribly, desperately for you to be ok. he thought he could make it in time. he really did…he just wants to take it all back

[dialux]

you are the universe in ecstatic motion

I’ve had this in my drafts for a very long time- ever since I watched Padmaavat and fell in love with Mehrunisa. I was so curious about her! Her pain; her fears; her courage. It makes for a very fascinating background, this quiet character who speaks out when she finds it necessary and doesn’t often find it necessary- who, ultimately, betrays her husband almost totally.

This story assumes a couple things, imo:  a) we’ve never met her mother and don’t know anything about her; b) we don’t actually know anything about her after she’s imprisoned by Alauddin c) when Alauddin dies, he’s succeeded by Malik Kafur for a month before Mubarak (Alauddin’s eldest son) overthrows him, and we’re calling Mubarak Mehrunisa’s son in this story

Hope y’all enjoy!

Mehrunisa’s first memory of Alauddin occurs when she is too young to know anything of him more than his name. 

It is early morning, and she is a small girl, young enough to have a nurse set aside for her personally; foolish enough to slip out of bed while still dark and go wandering. She cannot walk in the corridors plainly for there are too many guards there, still patrolling, so she slips through the small crenellations to avoid them.

Once, twice, thrice- it works.

The fourth time, she misjudges the size of the gap and finds herself caught. She’s stuck between two curved stones, one elbow jammed into her knee, neck twisting terribly, shoulder strained. An interminable amount of time later, she hears footsteps around the corner.

“Help,” she says, breathlessly. “Help me, please, oh-”

A moment later, she feels someone shove at her from the back. 

She slides down, bruising her knees on the marble floor. Tears spring to her eyes. Through them, she looks up and sees a boy with short-cropped hair and bright eyes stare at her. 

This is Mehrunisa’s earliest memory of the man she will one day call husband and king: helping her, and bruising her, all at once.

...

They do not know each other.

All Mehrunisa knows of him is his name: Ali, the syllables slippery on her tongue, the name common enough in the palace. But Ali himself is not common; he is deliberately uncommon- he distinguishes himself with his sharp tongue and his even sharper sword, and there are whispers in the palace of his wrath and his valor.

They do not love each other. Mehrunisa is Jalalludin’s eldest daughter, first daughter of his first wife, and her life is to be spent in the comfort of her father’s zenana before she goes to her husband’s. Ali is her father’s ward; he is meant to die on a battlefield, as the wards with fine military acumen tend to do, in the process of furthering Jalalludin’s glory, Jalalludin’s sons’ glories. There is no overlap in their lives, for all that they live in the same palace.

(When he raids Bhilsa and returns, Ali is wounded- a slash over his calf, and an arrow in his shoulder. Mehrunisa’s brother is wounded as well, though far less dearly; and though Ali won the battle, though Ali is wounded the worse, it is Qadr whom her parents embrace.

Mehrunisa sends two of her own maids to serve Ali that night.

They return, and none of them speak on it after. It takes Mehrunisa years to recognize their silent flinches, for the weeks after; it takes her even longer to find the words to apologize to them for it. 

For a long time, however, Mehrunisa only looks at Ali and sees a boy cast in darkness, never given light enough to shine.)

He is Alauddin when they wed, a man grown and proven. Mehrunisa refuses to call him anything other than Ali for those first years, though, not even when he razes Devagiri: she cannot care for the man who would lay with another woman hours before he laid with her, but she can care for the boy who’d once helped her return to her rooms when the rest of the world felt all too large.

It takes her a long time to understand that Alauddin has been given light to shine, light brilliant as a sunrise, for years and years and years- but he is no moon to reflect it, nor a sun to make his own.

Alauddin is as the spaces between the stars, heavy and dank, those patches of darkness that swallow the light and never give any back for the rest of the world.

That blackness which never apologizes for itself.

...

It is not love between them, not as anyone else would name it.

She has been compared to many flowers: a lotus, a rose, the delicate petals of jasmine. But never before has Mehrunisa felt the kinship she feels when running her fingers over the thick-leafed, deep green plant that one of the vendors in the city offers her- it will blossom in darkness, the vendor promises her; it needs nothing from you, my lady, not even space, not even sunlight.

Their love of each other is like this plant, she thinks, and stores a cut of the jade plant in the folds of her gown. 

Twisted and strange, thick as the plant’s leaves, awkward but present. Something that no one ever looks for, but exists nonetheless.

...

He killed him, Mahru tells her, hands trembling. I am so sorry, Nisa, but he just-

It is her wedding day, and Ali is late, and Mehrunisa is hopeful, is terrified, is slowly turning angry. Mahru is her favored lady, tall and fine-boned and pretty; Mehrunisa wonders what Ali saw in her that he could not see in Mehrunisa, and then she chokes off her unkind thoughts at the root.

Her mother guides Mahru away, gently, and Mehrunisa turns to Ali, who appears in the middle of the dance floor, golden and beautiful. There’s a man’s body cooling not a corridor away. Her husband dances, and he is beautiful, he is powerful, he has dried streaks of blood on his palms.

It is not love she feels then.

It is not hatred either, however, and she does not know what that says about her.

...

The night Ali kills her father, he comes to her bed. He does not touch her- he is careful, always, to never strike her, to never mark the skin that is his only claim to the throne apart from the edge of his sword. But he lies beside her. 

When she wakes the next morning he is gone, and there are dried streaks on the sheets, as if he’d wiped at his hands, as if in the depths of the night he’d twisted desperately away from his actions.

Mehrunisa cannot believe that explanation, not even in the most hidden, most hopeful parts of her heart, not for all the love she owes her husband. She does not flinch from it, however; she is not the kind of woman to flinch, nor to weep.

(She is Jalalludin’s daughter, yes, but her mother’s more- the woman named malika, named empress of the world before even her own name, a woman who has never loved Mehrunisa as much as she’s loved the view from the curtain rising up behind her husband’s throne, from her seat that sits higher than even the king’s.)

Ali calls them to the throne room that night, and Mehrunisa goes, and she cannot help the whitening of her knuckles as she stares at her father’s head. She does not know when she returns to her rooms, nor how, only that one moment she is watching blood drip over the marble her father had once lain on, only that the next moment, she is in her rooms.

“Malika,” says one of her ladies, hesitantly, and Mehrunisa feels every muscle in her lower back seize up.

That is not my name, she wants to scream, rage and grief twining together in her throat, that is my mother’s name! Call her empress, not me, never me-

But she is empress now. Empress of the world, Malika-e-Jahan, the jewel of her husband’s crown. Her ladies cannot call her anything less without it being an insult.

“You,” says Mehrunisa, pointing to the woman who’d spoken- a small, waifish thing, better suited for gutters than palace hallways- and dismisses the rest with a flick of her wrist. “Find-” she does not know her own mother’s name, knows it only to be malika. “Find my mother,” she says instead, nails biting into her palms. “It should not be so difficult- news will have traveled to her, of my father’s death, even if she is in Debal.” Mehrunisa stares at the girl, unblinking. “When you do, you shall tell her to flee. Both of you shall flee, to Ghazni or Nishapur- do not tell me, do not decide it even, not until you are on the boat.”

The girl blinks at Mehrunisa, eyes even wider than before. Mehrunisa swallows and unwinds the chains she uses to tie off her braids. 

These are old chains. 

They are older than her mother’s mother’s mother’s mother, made in a time when wild horsemen rode in on the wind and stole people away to sell them to demons- the chains of a girl who survived by her wits, a girl who lived a life Mehrunisa cannot even imagine; a girl who had a daughter, and that daughter had a daughter, and that daughter had a daughter, through the deserts of Persia and through the mountains of Afghanistan and through the rivers of India- these chains have quietly passed hands from mother to daughter, a constant of the women that Mehrunisa does not even know the name of.

“Take these,” Mehrunisa orders, and the girl flinches. “Leave. Tonight, tomorrow, it matters not. Leave, and do not look behind you.” She reaches out and catches the girl’s chin. “You’ve a mother, a father?”

Slowly, the girl nods.

Mehrunisa straightens further, painfully stiff, and whispers, “I shall take care of them. Dowries for any unmarried sisters. Armor for any brothers. Burial ground for your parents, as necessary. A life of ease-”

“And all I have to do is go to Debal?”

Just a few weeks ago, Mehrunisa had visited the market in Devagiri. The day had been hot, sweat sticking to the silk along her neck; she’d felt dizzy with it and paused in shade for just a moment. She saw, there, a man playing a flute and a serpent just inches before him- swaying, slowly, as carefully as a knife through gauze. The world had felt encompassed by that motion, the pitch of the flute, the red stamped across the man’s forehead like a brand.

She feels like a snake now.

“Yes,” whispers Mehrunisa, and all but tastes the girl’s blood against her own fangs.

Then Mehrunisa turns to her balcony and flings the doors open, taking up a paring knife on the table beside her as she does- she does not look behind her, does not see what the girl does now; she considers, briefly, taking the knife to her wrists, to her throat, and then she discards it and keeps on moving. She will not give Ali the satisfaction of her death. Mehrunisa shall not give him the satisfaction of killing anyone else in her family. If he wishes to forget all traces of her father’s legacy, then he will have to take a sword to her himself.

She leans down instead, and presses the knife against the thick stem of the jade plant. It’s grown in the years since she’s wed, large and furred and ugly against the backdrop of delicate blossoms of the rest of the garden- but she’s refused to let it be touched by hands other than her own, cared for it with a deliberate, silent love she’s reserved for little else in the world.

One breath, and then two, and then Mehrunisa slashes down.

It is a death that she mourns, in the silent mulch of her garden. A death of her father, and the death of her innocence, and the death of the jade, but above all else: the death of Ali.

(“Call me your king,” he orders her, that night, dark eyes mad with lust and power, “kneel to me, wife, and bend your proud, proud head.”

Mehrunisa kisses his hand, rises to her feet and lets her lips brush the cold stone of a ring stained with her father’s blood. 

“King Alauddin,” she whispers. It is enough for him. 

He doesn’t notice the dirt caked under her nails, nor the tears she’s still holding back. He does not wonder that there is a knife in easy reach on the table, nor the brooch pinning her nightgown together that requires only two shrugs of her shoulder to undo, that’s sharp enough to lay open a man’s throat without much more than the flick of a wrist.

He puts a crown on her head instead.

Mehrunisa wonders if Alauddin knows that she will never forget that moment. Her nose is bruised, and her pride is bruised even further, but her father’s crown is on her head and its weight is headier than she’d ever expected.)

...

Her mother survives.

Nobody knows what an accomplishment that is, of course. Nishapur is far enough from Delhi for Alauddin to have bigger problems, and Mehrunisa never tells anyone what she has done to protect her mother.

The assassins return from Debal empty-handed, and Mehrunisa does not smile, does not smile, does not smile.

...

When Alauddin returns from his siege of Chittoor, they all- his wives, his concubines, the women of the palace- crowd against the battlements to watch. Mahru stands beside Mehrunisa, Alauddin’s second wife beside his first, as if her new quarters and new jewels will make Mehrunisa any more likely to treat her kindlier.

“He is safe,” says Mahru, in that fashion she has, where it sounds like a whisper but carries well enough for everyone to hear. “Look at him- Nisa- he’s riding his own horse-” She grabs Mehrunisa’s hand, as if the relief has robbed her of all propriety along with sense. “Oh, it is such a-”

“A relief indeed,” Mehrunisa murmurs, before letting herself lean forwards, the veils around her side whipping in the chill wind over her mouth, over the muscles that others might see move. 

(A year since her father’s death. Her mother is alive, but in exile. Her brothers are imprisoned, but alive. Mehrunisa is the last of her father’s get not thrown in chains, and she is still under suspicion every moment of her life. 

Mehrunisa is alive, but for how long-

She catches the thought before it grows. Some things are too dangerous to even think.)

Malik Kafur knows how dangerous she is. Of Alauddin’s three wives, Mehrunisa is the only one whose family is royalty without Alauddin. Mehrunisa is the only one of his wives with political power of her own- Mahru is ambitionless outside of the zenana, and Jhatyapali is the daughter of a man who was once king, who is now nothing but a vassal, and that shame sits heavy on the princess.

And so Mehrunisa is careful.

But she is still angry, and so she swallows, and she tips her head back, and she says, softer than the shine of sunset off a sharpened sword, “He has never given anything up in his life, and Chittoor still stands. This war is not over.”

The war is never over, Mehrunisa thinks, and wants to sob, wants to scream, with the boundless depths of her fury. The people she has paid to Alauddin’s war- they are countless, and unnecessary, and terrible. The war is never over, and I am never triumphant.

The only victor in Alauddin’s story is himself.

...

Here is another victim of this war: Ratan Singh, the sun-shouldered heir of the Raghu dynasty. Mehrunisa has never known him at the height of his glory, but she can imagine it well enough, as a lion thrown in chains yet recalls the majesty of his first hunt. Sometimes this feels like the entirety of Mehrunisa’s life: never knowing the heights of a being’s life, only the darkest, dimmest parts. 

Only things to be ashamed of. 

But she enters the dungeons anyhow, and when the guards hesitate she lifts her chin proudly. I am a queen, she doesn’t need to say. Malika-e-Jahan. Refuse me at your peril.

Within, Ratan Singh is chained, arms pulled up and back at an angle that looks painful. Mehrunisa steps forwards swiftly and unlocks the doors. Then she hesitates, because she does not have water, because she is not foolish enough to unleash a lion on herself without bars to hold it back.

The question now, is that of whether Ratan Singh is a lion or not.

The question now, is how much treason Mehrunisa is willing to bring down on her head.

“Maharawal Ratan Singh,” she says, for sheer lack of anything else, just loud enough to be heard by him and not by the guards she’s dismissed to the entrance. 

His head lifts. 

He is a handsome enough man, with clear features and bright eyes- but Mehrunisa has known many handsome men in her life, and there is something different in Ratan Singh’s eyes than any other. Kindness, perhaps; kindness, and sadness, and pride, an amalgam that leaves her throat tight against her grief.

“Begum,” he says. There is no anger in his voice, and it is that which makes her swallow. 

“I wished to see,” she says, haltingly, feeling a girl once more rather than the sole woman left of a king’s entire family, “-I’ve heard tales, Maharawal, and they all name you- honorable. Beyond all means.”

"I’ve striven for that,” says Ratan Singh, slowly. 

Mehrunisa swallows. “They also name you trusting.”

“Is that a fault?”

She averts her face. Oh, in another life- in another court, wedded to another man- Mehrunisa might have a different answer. But she is Alauddin Khilji’s first wife, the Delhi princess who became queen, empress of the world, and there is only one way for her to answer truthfully.

She turns on her heel and leaves instead.

...

She returns the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, too. It aches in her- he is so good, it shines from him even in this dusty, dank dungeon; and Mehrunisa is not. But she is as a moth to the lamp: caught, wings aflame, and still straining closer, still burning alive.

...

The best love stories are tragedies. 

The brightest lives are the shortest.

Mehrunisa mourns, for every day that she speaks to Maharawal Ratan Singh, and she doesn’t even know why. 

...

(Mehrunisa knows. Of all the wives of Delhi sultans, of all those who held the title malika, of every woman caught between her blood and her love- Mehrunisa knows this pain, this quiet, flaming sureness. Death circles all those that she admires. Death circles, and its name is Khilji.)

...

It is for this knowledge that Mehrunisa welcomes Padmavati. That she remains calm. And Padmavati is beautiful- Mehrunisa can see why kings would battle for her, why Alauddin would rather ruin his own kingdom than let her remain wed to another. But she is beautiful in the fashion of a wild thing. 

Not an animal.

Nothing so simple.

Padmavati is lovely like the bladed curve of a sunrise before battle. Like a rainstorm, so heavy it drowns everything, carves canyons, shatters cities. Like something whirling and scraping and furious. 

Mehrunisa tasted the bruises of a crown when her father died. She let Alauddin taunt her; she’s watched him kill her family one by one, and she’s remained silent. She’s remained a specter. She has accepted it, because she will survive it. Because she must.

But if Alauddin dares to touch Padmavati after taking Ratan Singh from her- if he even manages it- Mehrunisa thinks the heavens themselves will carve him open. 

(No. Not the heavens. Just the rage of an earthly woman, who has never known not to be sharper than a honed edge.)

...

“Take me to him,” says Ratan Singh, bruised, bloodied, dirt smeared across his chest, anger still thrumming in him. “Take me to your husband.”

If he kills him-

Widows hold little power, thinks Mehrunisa. Widows hold so little power. She is the daughter of kings; how will she survive that life? 

But she has seen how the lotus shines when blood lands on it. Mehrunisa has seen how the leaf will wash off the blood at the first rains, and still unfurl the morning after with dogged determination. A lotus exists for nothing but its own survival and its own beauty. 

Widows hold little power in her country, but they hold control over their own lives. 

“Follow me,” she says, and commits to this, the last in a very long line of treachery stringing back to the night of her wedding.

...

Alauddin sentences her to the dungeons which is a better ending than she had hoped for in the darkest depths of her musings; but it isn’t as if she’s fooling herself: he is going to Chittoor, and he will either find Padmavati or he will return empty-handed or he will die.

Mehrunisa cannot hope for his death. She cannot. She is hollowed out inside; she is cored and scored and slashed apart for her love of him. But she cannot sit there in that darkness and hope for her husband’s death, no matter if he deserves it. She has cursed him, too, now, for the first time in all their marriage, and there is a power in the words of a faithful wife. 

(And she is faithful, has always been so, even terrified, even horrified, even shattered with all these years of pain and grief and rage.)

So he will not find Padmavati.

If he returns to Chittoor without her, he will kill Mehrunisa.

His rage will not be in control then, and it will have the benefit of the long march back from Chittoor to Delhi to simmer and gain a name. She is doubly certain that Malik Kafur will aim and sharpen that rage in her name. 

Mehrunisa kneels on the cold stone of the dungeon she’d once been on the other side of, knees aching. Her wrists tremble and shake, but she holds them in front of her. Breathes out into cupped palms. She is alive. She is alive, and when she dies she will die with her head held high, with the dignity of her forefathers.

She does not pray for a lease on life. She does not pray for Alauddin’s safe return. She does not pray for anything but for the throbbing ache of her mind, for the all-consuming need in every limb, in every organ, in every inch of her twisted-up convoluted veins.

Mehrunisa kneels in darkness, and she prays for deliverance.

...

It comes in the form of the girl Mehrunisa had sent to her mother. The girl’s grown her hair out; it sways behind her like a thick, coiled snake. Mehrunisa blinks, weaving, and she says, through the metallic clink of a key, “Empress,” with enough fierceness that Mehrunisa straightens almost automatically, reaches out, catches her hands.

“My mother,” she whispers.

“She is fine,” says the girl. “But you- oh, Malika, your mother had a premonition months ago. She said you would need me. But not like this! Never, not in my wildest dreams, did I imagine they would dare to imprison you like this-”

“What are you doing?” 

The girl blinks at you, as if startled, but she is doing something. Her fingers have unlocked the first set of chains, and are halfway through the second. 

“Rescuing you,” she says.

“I do not need rescuing,” says Mehrunisa sharply. 

“Your mother wishes you saved,” says the girl, and she looks like she wishes she didn’t have to be the obstinate one- but then, oh, Mehrunisa’s mother has sent her to save Mehrunisa, and for all that Mehrunisa has been in her life, for all that she has done and had, she has never commanded the loyalties of people with the ease of her mother. 

“We will not manage,” Mehrunisa tells her, but she allows the girl to undo the chains around her ankles anyhow. “The guards-”

“The guards will not notice two women going to the market,” says the girl. She smiles, suddenly, transforming her face into something unrecognizable. “They never do.”

Mehrunisa takes the black cloth she’s offered and weaves it around her hair, covers the scant jewelry Alauddin’s left her with so she looks like just another washer-woman disappearing to the city. The cloth is heavy on her skin. Yet another disguise.

(Sometimes she thinks- under all of her masks and fears and duties, what is she? Who has she become?)

“My son?” asks Mehrunisa instead.

The girl frowns. “Will he need help as well?”

But Mehrunisa’s son is grown, and if she takes him with her, she’ll make him an enemy just as much as she’s made herself Alauddin’s enemy. Better to leave him here, in a viper’s nest, unremarkable as the stone on which a viper will sleep during the day. 

“No,” says Mehrunisa. “No.” She turns, though, and unwinds a bell from her hair, and leaves it in the middle of her cell for him- Mubarak will know it, if he sees it. Then she returns to the girl. Breathes out, and exhales all her fears with it. “Let’s go, then.”

...

“Mehrunisa!” cries her mother, running down the courtyard, arms outstretched.

Mehrunisa, startled, almost topples over, straight into her arms. But she manages to get her feet under her as she slips off the camel, and the hot sun above her feels like a shawl around her shoulders, and when she embraces her mother, she feels something soften and bend within her ribcage that she hasn’t ever felt soften before.

“Oh, darling girl,” whispers her mother, smoothing the hair away from her face and drawing Mehrunisa into her home. “How I’ve missed you.”

Mehrunisa breathes deep. She’s the last surviving daughter of her mother and her father; the last surviving child. She’s done her duty. She’s always done that. But the shame of leaving her husband- of abandoning him, of treachery-

“We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of,” her mother says. Tips her chin up, so Mehrunisa can look into dark, gleaming eyes. Once, years and years ago, her mother’s seat had stood higher than even the king’s. Mehrunisa knows no name for her other than Malika, the title she’s taken herself. “But you survived, little one, sweet love. And that matters. That means that you can change things. Make things better.”

“I left Mubarak behind. Alone.”

“As I left you,” says her mother. Her fingers are gentle, now, here; after the end of their world, when before she’d never been soft, as if to be soft were to be weak. “But we empresses- we must save ourselves, because there is nobody who shall help us. You understand that now, I think, Mehrunisa.”

Mehrunisa closes her eyes, swallows. “Yes,” she murmurs. “I do.”

...

The years pass quietly, peacefully. Mehrunisa learns to weave to pass the time, and though she is not good enough to sell anything, she enjoys decorating her rooms with heavy woolen tapestries like she’s a princess once more, demanding luxury and decadence. With her mother, she goes to some poetry-reading concerts; she reads her mother’s correspondence, averts her face when she hears about Alauddin’s exploits and Malik Kafur’s ascendancy in court, helps some sheep herders fight their tax case against their provincial lord. It’s a simple life; it’s a busy life. Mehrunisa enjoys it, even if she hadn’t ever considered it for herself before.

...

When she hears of Alauddin’s extended convalescency, Mehrunisa tells her mother. It takes some time, of course, to build an army; to gather a group of loyal men. But she knows, down deep in her bones, that this will be different. That this will be successful.

(So many years she has been with Alauddin, tied together like the fur of a jade plant, like a vine on a tree. Through the love and the hate, she’s tied herself to him, and she knows: he will not survive this time.)

Alauddin has killed her father and her brothers. He has tried to kill her mother. He has humiliated Mehrunisa, time and time and time again. 

Now, at the end of it all, she will have her vengeance: for Mubarak will need help to survive Malik Kafur. 

Mehrunisa will give it to him. She will ensure that justice is done, and with that justice she will have her vengeance: Alauddin’s eldest son, her son, will sit on the throne. Her father’s blood will again rule Delhi, the blood that Alauddin so desperately tried to stamp out.

...

It is not a large army she gathers, but a small one; a loyal one. They are in the desert, and she is asleep when something wakes her. There is a warmth across from her- at the other end of the tent- not comforting but sharp, like an open flame too close to her palm. Wakefulness steals across her heart, twined, inseparable, from grief.

Mehrunisa stumbles out of the tent. Drops to her knees in the sand, eyes streaming, and prostrates herself to Allah, who has given her what she never asked.

“My lady,” calls a commander, approaching. He is pale-faced, and holds a crumpled scroll in one fist. “There is news from Delhi.”

“Yes,” says Mehrunisa, eyes closing. “I know.”

Alauddin is dead. For the first night, the stars she sees will not be seen by her husband. Alauddin is dead, and Mehrunisa loves him still, and she lets that knowledge tear her open. Alauddin is dead, and Mehrunisa’s son still lives, and she lets that knowledge sew her together once more. She is not just Alauddin’s wife.

She is an empress, Malika-i-Jahan, and she has a son to save.

“Tell the men,” she says, drawing herself up. “We ride at dawn. We have a new emperor to crown.”

[peterpanfromlemonland]

Angel of Arkham

"So," Paris Beckett, one of Arkham's newest therapists and psychiatrists clicked her pen as she stared straight into Jerome Valeska's eyes, "Why did you do it?" she leaned back in her chair as the crazy eyed ginger, wiggling in his restraints, smirked. This wasn't the first time these two have met...

6 months ago...

Paris was watching the circus with her niece that calm Sunday evening, not much was going on that night, just the regular acrobats and clowns. That was until a fight ensued between the clowns and acrobats. "Oh dear," Paris muttered as her niece grimaced and looked away, "I don't think this is supposed to happen..."

"GCPD!" A voice rang out through the circus tent, a cop, "Everybody freeze!" The string of events that happened next caught Paris off guard, she was hoping for a relaxing evening but instead she got a case placed on her hands. Sadly, her "people" skills wouldn't be needed until later.

"C'mon kiddo," Paris picked up the child, "Let's get you back home before your dad scolds me for getting you involved in my work." as the two of them left the tent a young ginger, no older than Paris bumped into them- literally- and dropped his bag of cherry flavoured candies. "Oh," Paris muttered as she knelt down to pick it up, "I'm terribly sorry, sir, I wasn't looking where I was-"

"No, no," the ginger man replied as he knelt down at the same time, "It was my fault-" their hands collided and their eyes locked onto each others. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, Paris felt the warmth of his fingers brush against hers as he blindly fumbled for the bag, until the scene before her finally began to process fully.

"Oh shit!" she jerked her hand away suddenly, her niece yelping at the random movement, "I'm so so sorry... again... I didn't mean-" she stuttered as her face flushed red, rising to her feet as her niece glanced around curiously. The ginger smiled awkwardly, that smile brought butterflies to Paris's torso, it was then did the man's features jump out at her. He was kind of cute...

"Again," he chuckled grabbing the bag and hopping to his feet as well, he was a few inches taller than Paris, "It was my fault, I wasn't watching where I was going." Paris was about to say more but the pressure of her niece gently banging her head against her shoulder stopped her.

"I- uh," Paris muttered shyly, "Sorry again- crap!"

"No worries, sweets," the ginger chuckled, "I'm Jerome, by the way."

"Paris," she smiled with a slight bow, "Nice to meet you." Jerome smiled back at her before taking his leave, her eyes followed him until he faded into the darkness. A smile still on her face.

"Aunt Paris," the small voice of her niece broke through her thoughts, "Can we go home now? I'm sleepy." Paris finally remembered why she was outside, she hummed in compliance and headed to her car. The trip to Paris's brother's house was 15 minutes, it was a quiet 15 minutes, time seemed to fly by without a moment's notice.

The next thing Paris knew was that she was pulling into her brother's driveway, she shuffled out of the car with her niece in her arms, "Paris," her brother smiled as he opened the door, "Thanks for taking care of her."

"It was no trouble at all, Jack," Paris replied softly, "We had fun." she placed the young girl in her brother's arms. She could see he wanted to say more but she quickly nodded a goodbye and rushed to her car.

"Paris!" Jack called out before she could leave, "Take care of yourself, kid." Paris stared at him before flashing him a smile and driving off...

The next day Paris was called to the scene, her job was to evaluate people's mental state after a crime as well as help out the detectives gather evidence. She pulled up to the circus parking with no knowledge of what happened after she left the previous night. When she got out of her car, a detective by the name of Gordon approached her, "Ms. Beckett?" he stopped her in her tracks.

"Yes?" she replied flatly as she took a sip of her coffee.

"I'm detective Gordon with the GCPD, you were here when the commotion started correct?"

"Yes sir." Gordon looked much older than Paris, maybe around his late 20s to early 30s, "One of the circus members attacked a fellow circus member." the two of them began walking.

"That," the detective said through gritted teeth, "And we happened to stumble across a dead body." Paris nearly tripped over her own feet. Turns out that the body they found was the mother of Jerome, Paris could feel her heart plummet to her stomach. She couldn't imagine the pain that sweet boy was going through.

"So..." Gordon focused his gaze on the girl, "We want you to talk to him..." his tone was cold and blank.

"That's my job, detective," Paris replied, "But something in your tone says that you don't think I can do my job." Gordon scoffed and bit his cheek.

"How old are you again?" he cocked his head skeptically.

"18," she replied with confidence, "Should that matter?"

"Look, I have no problem with you- really- I just think you're a bit-"

"-Too young to be a psychiatrist and therapist?" she smirked, "I assure you, sir, I scored the top of my class." and with that she walked off, leaving the detective dumbfounded, a smirk crawling across her face.

Paris made her way to find Jerome, asking here and there about his whereabouts, he was sitting outside of his trailer hugging his knees with his face buried. The poor thing must've been crying all night. She approached him gently and quietly, "Jerome?" she chirped softly, causing him to jolt in his seat, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you-" she noticed that his eyes were red and puffy, probably from crying, she gazed at him warmly with a small smile.

All the boy did was sniffle and look away in shame and grief, "What do you want?" he grumbled, aware of the girl taking a small step closer to him.

"Mind if I sit by you...?" she tilted her head quizzically. Jerome just scowled in response, yet she still sat by him anyway. The boy didn't protest or argue, he just scooted over a bit to make room for the girl.

"Why are you here?" Jerome finally spoke, "You don't look like a cop..."

"That is true," Paris shrugged, "But I do evaluate people."

"What? So you're like a shrink?" he scoffed.

"I guess. But I'd also like to be your friend."

"Did they tell you to say that?"

"No," Paris chuckled, "I actually do want to be your friend."

"What's in it for you?" Jerome muttered.

"Another person to share jokes with and eat icecream with?" Paris noticed a change in Jerome's postrue, she smiled softly. The two of them sat in silence for a couple of minutes before Paris spoke again. "You doing okay? With all that happened?" Jerome sniffled and shrugged, rubbing his eyes against his sleeve.

Paris shifted to give him a hug but he jerked as if he was expecting her to smack him in the face. Her eyes met with his, once he saw no malicious intentions he calmed down and allowed her to gently hug him. Jerome cried into her shoulder for what seemed like hours, Paris rubbed his back soothingly and rocked back and forth softly. When he finished crying Paris hopped to her feet and extended a hand out to him.

"Walk with me?" she asked with a childlike wonder in her tone, Jerome couldn't refuse. The ginger took her hand in his and was quickly yanked to his feet and dragged away. The two of them weaved their way around the circus, Paris taking in the scene around her.

"Were you two close?" she asked, Jerome tilted his head in confusion, "You and your mother?" Jerome hissed in disgust as she mentioned his mother, that hiss was enough to answer Paris's question. Jerome began to tell the girl about his relationship with his mother and how she would always beat him, he told her about how he would often find his mother in bed with another man, about how she would get drunk and hit him again and again for no reason at all. Paris jotting down notes as a therapist would.

"'Jerome'," he mocked, "'Go take out the trash!' Or 'Jerome, it's always your fault!' followed by her banging a clown in the other room. I'm sorry, I'm rambling again."

"It's quite alright," Paris reassured him, "As a friend, and a therapist, it's my job to listen." Jerome stopped and smiled at her, she was quite different than the others he had met.

"My mother's love life never really bothered me at all," Jerome continued, "I mean, it's the reason I exist."

"True." Paris shrugged in agreement.

"I just hope that they find whoever did this..."

"I do as well..." Paris's voice grew quiet, Jerome noticed that her gaze darkened so he quickly changed the subject.

"I gotta go run some errands soon," he scratched his neck, "But I kinda wanna talk to you more."

"Thank you." Paris beamed at this comment.

"Mind if I get your number, sweets?" Paris didn't refuse, she quickly scribbled her number on a fresh page in her notebook before tearing it out and handing it to the ginger. Jerome said his thanks as he shoved the piece of paper into his jeans pocket, "When's a good time to call you?" he asked before he left.

"Around 5:30-6ish," Paris hummed, "Weekends I'm free to talk all day."

"You wanna go out to dinner with me tonight?" Jerome asked before she left.

"Sure, surpirse me!"

"I'll call you later tonight."

And with that the two said their goodbyes and headed their separate ways...

Back to present day, in Arkham...

Paris waited patiently for an answer, Jerome's frenzied gaze burning a hole through her composure and confidence. The silence was suffocating.

"Well?" she urged, "I'm waiting for your answer." Jerome only laughed, if it were during other circumstances Paris would've adored that laugh of his. But in that moment his laugh brought fear.

"You remember the time I took you out for dinner," Jerome started, "Right, sweets?"

[cutiepasta-thewriter]

The boy who played the devil (2/2)

Deep below the earth the devil dragged a small boy through the gates of hell.

He tossed Peter into a caged wagon made of thorns. The devil planned to parade his prize before all of hell. The cage was pulled by bony white horses barely carry the boy.

This punishment went well until Peter started talking. As the thorns dug into his soft skin he began to yell.

"Oh, Mr.Devil who has caged me here! Stop this wagon and feed these horses! I fear that soon they'll parish trying to move me and I only weigh as much as a babe! Can the devil not afford to feed his mares!?" The boy shouted loudly.

The boy ranted for hours on end until the devil got sick of him. He decided that if the boy wasn't going to be a good little trophy he would have to suffer like everyone else. So he tossed the boy into the boiling lava pits where he would be tortured for eternity.

Peter screamed in pain as his skin burned away over and over as a imp would constantly use a pitchfork to shove his head under the fire.

Quickly Peter realized that screaming would do nothing so he stopped. He held his breath and remembered his time inside the monster. If he survived for that long in that much pain once this was nothing. So the boy sucked it up and instead of cry smiled at the imp and everytime the was pushed back under he laughed that the demon.

Soon enough the imp became unnerved as the boy enjoyed his torment. The red skinned cretin called for his boss and explained the issue.

In turn the devil prodded the boy himself and when Peter laughed again he knew this wouldn't work either.

He dragged Peter out again and decided punishment wouldn't work at all. So he handed the child a pitchfork and ordered him to push the sinners in. Putting Peter to work for eternity would would have to do.

In the world above the fathers tried their best to move on. They refused to lose hope that their child was gone.

Tony continued to roam the forest in hope of finding someone who could help and rarely returned home in his search.

Stephen in turn had actually become I'll from grief. While not bedridden he grew paler day by day and could barely eat or sleep. He said only the return of his child could heal him and sent order across the land to save his son. Of someone did they would be given riches beyond belief and the mystic would offer them a favor of their desire.

Back in hell Peter did his job well and assisted the devil in all he asked. It was never anything too bad aside from heavy lifting and morally dubious activities.

One evening the devil ordered the boy to deliver a package to his mother. Without hesitation Peter ran off to the far corner of hell, to a house that hung off a cliff. Outside sweeping up the porch was a little woman who sang to herself. Although the tune was more like hellish shrieking.

Peter handed the package to her and greeted her politely.

"Well aren't you the most daring little thing! Why you glow like a little star don't you." She cooed, " now what in hell's name are you doing here little one?"

"Your son stole me away from my family. He tricked my father into agreeing to a bet used demons to torment me so that he'd take me in exchange." Peter said tearfully.

The old woman sighed before taking the boy inside.

The house seemed like a normal cottage. In the kitchen stove a hearty stew was being cooked.

"Let's come up with a plan." the woman grabbing another broom from the closet. "But my help is not free. Clean up while I prepare dinner, and you better do a good job or I'll be adding your little fingers to the broth."

It was then Peter noticed the fingers floating in the soup, the fingers were all quite small and no different from his own little digits.

Quickly Peter got to work and before the clock struck six the old woman pulled him aside.

"You will put an my clothes and get three of his golden hairs. Once you have them you can escape through the gates." She said handing him the long dress and bonnet. "But I see you here again young man, I'll chop of your fingers to make a stew."

With that the little old woman bounded upstairs and too the attic. Soon after who entered but the devil himself.

Peter who had already put on the disguise called out from the kitchen, "Dear, make sure to wipe your feet. I just swept."

Obediently the devil did so and shed his horrified appearance. Under the red skin and black fur was the angelic Lucifer that once was. Named the Morningstar he indeed was as radiant was the sun.

Peter stared but quickly he gathered himself and told the devil to sit and eat. The man did and began to elegantly dine on his dinner of fingers and fresh bread, but not before thanking his 'mother' of course.

However when Peter didn't eat he asked questions.

Peter just said he had eaten while he was cooking and was much too full to dine with him tonight.

Nodding the devil finished his meal and helped clean up. He was an obedient son if nothing else. Still Peter didn't have his hair, but Peter had an idea.

"Son, humor your mother. Let's sit in the living room and perhaps lay your head on my lap and rest." Peter pleaded kindly.

The devil agreed and did so, but not before making a request.

"Sing for me mother, so I can sleep soundly." He asked.

Peter knew no song that could sooth the devil but remembered how the old woman sang. He let out a high pitched screech and tried his best to mimic the hellish sounds of the underworld.

Soon the devil was lulled to sleep saying 'her' was beautiful. Peter took hold of a long golden strand of hair and quickly pulled it, startling the devil awake.

"What is it mother?" He asked.

"I'm sorry, I fell asleep sweetheart. I had a odd dream about a town with trees with apples of silver and gold. I must have be so shocked I jumped in my sleep" Peter frowned as he put on his act.

The devil huffed and played his head back down.

"Don't worry mother, such down no longer exists. The only way for them to make the trees grow is for someone to salt the weed that I planted at their entangled roots."

With that the devil was put to sleep with the screeches of hell.

A second time Peter plucked a hair from the devil and immediately he jumped up.

"I'm sorry, I had another nightmare. It was of a town with a fountain of wine." Peter squeaked.

"Fear not, such a well has dried up. I placed a frog in it that blocks the wine from flowing. You would need to staple the frog through the head to make it flow again." The devil said going back to sleep.

Once again Peter took a hair and pulled. Immediately he gushed the devil and told him of what he heard.

"I had a dream about a flock of birds with sweet songs that could make anyone feel young."

"My dear mother, such birds no longer tweet such filth. I have made them miserable they know no joy and thus can't sing sweetly. Only by telling them a truly sorrowful tale will they chirp again." The devil answered.

"I'm sorry dear, perhaps you should sleep in your room now. I don't want to disturb you again." Peter said ushering the fallen angel upstairs.

Quietly after the devil was asleep he went to the attic and thanked the old woman and promised to be good.

Fast as his legs could carry him Peter rushed through the gates of hell with the three hairs wrapped tightly around his wrist. He ran for what felt like days to the surface and emerged in a beautiful glen.

Still the boy ran until he reached a town with dying trees of once was gold apples.

Peter asked for a handful of salt and processed to throw it on a red thorn weed. In seconds it wilted and the gold apples grew again. The town gave him a cart of gold and silver apples and two horses. One white and the other black.

With that Peter rode to the town with no fountain of wine. To which Peter took a sharp stick and impaled the frog in the dry well. Soon wine flowed freely and two barrels where given to the boy to bring home.

But in the next town he realized he had no story to tell the birds. But a traveler on a horse of brandy color appeared from behind the trees. Peter hid and watched the figure dismounted.

"I've come to ask you to sing for my husband. He knows only sorrow now without our child. Sing for him and make him well again." He damanded.

But the birds didn't sing, they simply cried too sad to sing.

The figure grew angry and yelled at the birds.

"If you want to know sadness hear me now! I once had a son as radiant as the sun itself who was a quick as an asp and as clever as the devil. The devil stole him away in a deal I was tricked into. I had a husband both loving and genius. He eats not, nor sleeps. Day and night he tries to reach our son who we know is lost. Yet, I can do nothing but hope for his return. What pain could compare to mine as I vainly search the land for an answer to my prayers!" The figure shouted.

The birds looked at one another before they belted out a few notes. Soon they sang a song that reminded the man and Peter of home. Of the days they ran around the garden or sat by the fire. Peter remembered the parties that his fathers would spend forever getting him ready for. The man remembered how his son would ran into his room at midnight to sleep with him and his husband.

The man and Peter began to cry.

"Peter, I'm so sorry." The man whispered between his tears as the birds sang louder.

"Dad?" Peter asked peaking out from behind the tree he hid behind. He hoped that this was indeed the man he was searching for.

In an instant the son ran to his father as their eyes met. They hugged and cried.

Two birds sweated down to them and perched overhead in an unspoken agreement to go with the family.

They returned to the manor with much rejoicing. Stephen cried happily as he saw them again.

"You really are more clever then the devil, my son. My little devil." Stephen hugged him close and as if overnight the curse had lifted and finally Stephen could breath again.

A grand party was held and every villager, lord, countess and king were invited. Song, wine, and gold rained down on them all as a celebration unlike any other came to pass. All was well for the boy more clever then the devil.

The End

[truthofherdreams]

most important meal of the day

also on ao3

There is something in Nora’s eyes every morning, halfway between fondness and exasperation, that has Iris longing for better cooking skills. Her pancakes are lumpy or her toasts burnt or she just pours cereals in a bowl because she can’t stand another disaster, and Nora gives her the look, before she shoves food into her mouth. Always with a polite smile hiding a grimace of disgust, because future Iris might have done a lot of things wrong, but at least she raised a kid with manners.

And it’s funny, because her lack of cooking skills never were a problem before. Barry is talented enough for the both of them, and they couldn’t care less about gender roles in their relationship. She either lets him cook or orders takeaway, and it works just fine for the two of them. Worked just fine, until know.

Because Iris wants to be better for Nora – a better mom and a better person, the kind she and Barry had and looked up to in Joe growing up. She wants to be like that for Nora, wants to change for the better, wants to prove their future isn’t set in stone. She refuses to become the woman Nora hates, refuses to become the kind of person she’s always looked down on.

And maybe it means asking Cecile to teach her a few easy recipes to follow. Maybe it means trying things she finds on YouTube and Pinterest, and almost burning the flat down in the process. Maybe it means Barry fondly rolling his eyes at her, because he knows exactly what she’s doing and why, and loves her all the more for it. Maybe. Perhaps. Definitely.

It’s a slow, maddening process, but one morning she manages to make a loaf of banana bread from scratch, all by herself. She has to cut a bit of burnt crust at the bottom, but it looks otherwise edible when she puts two slices on a plate and add some fruits for colour and decoration. She also pours a glass of fresh orange juice each, for good measure, everything perfect and ready by the time Nora wakes up.

If the way her eyes open wide in shock and wonder are anything to go by, it was totally worth it.

“Mom, wow! It’s so schway!”

Barry tumbles down the stairs right then, fresh off the shower, his widening eyes a perfect copy of his daughter’s as he takes in the scene in front of him. “You did that yourself?”

She scoffs. “Don’t act so surprised.”

He comes next to her so he can kiss her good morning, the two of them ignoring Nora’s performative exclamation of disgust at the casual PDA. “More like impressed,” he replies simply, always falling back on his feet when it comes to her.

“And good too!” Nora exclaims, popping a piece of banana in her mouth and chewing loudly as she adds, “Not such a lost cause after all!”

“Thanks.” Iris tries for a deadpan tone, but the smile in her voice betrays her real feelings. Barry squeezes her waist, as if having a direct line to her thoughts. Which he probably does by now, only needing one glance her way to know exactly how she feels. His own smile is soft, loving.

He shoves an entire slice in his mouth – her husband, the barbarian – before he mumbles something about having to go to work early, and not wanting to be late, or something. Iris understands where Nora gets her table manners from.

Barry is gone in a flash of yellow before she can call him out, and it leaves Iris facing Nora, who’s still happily stuffing her face. She grins – not such a terrible mom after all.

“This is so good, mom,” Nora adds for emphasis. “I can’t believe Auntie Kory is the only crap one at cooking now.”

The unfamiliar name catches Iris’s attention and curiosity. Does she have another secret sibling? Does Barry? Will Nora ever not be full of mysteries?

“Auntie Kory?” she asks, failing to sound entirely too casual about it.

Nora stops eating and stares at her, eyebrows frowned in confusion. She doesn’t move for a few seconds, before she stands up to go and fetch her journal on the coffee table. She opens it to a seemingly random page, not that Iris would know anything about that. It’s all just weird symbols to her, and everyone else beside Nora.

She turns a few pages, before she looks back up at her mother. “Uncle Wally hasn’t met Uncle Dicky yet?”

“I–hm–what?”

Nora’s eyes widen, and then she’s gone in a flash of gold and purple. It only lasts about ten seconds, give or take, but it’s more than enough for Iris to wonder what the absolute fuck is happening and who those people she know a nothing about are. And what will happen, for those strangers to become close enough for her daughter to consider them family.

She’s thinking of reaching for her phone and calling – Barry? Wally? someone – when Nora appears back on her chair as if nothing happened, hair a mess.

“They’re still in Detroit but it’s fine. At least they still exist in this timeline. Would have been awkward if they didn’t.”

“Who’s they, exactly?”

Not for the first time, Iris is reminded of how much Nora looks like her father, even if she grew up without him. Because the way she raises her shoulders to her ears and offers a forced, fake-innocent smile? That’s Barry alright when he’s done something stupid and is trying to apologise for it.

“Spoilers?” she tries tentatively.

Iris sighs. Nora does have a point, even though her curiosity would like some answers. But getting answers might alter the timeline, and not in a good way. Too many shots in the dark, trying to keep Barry alive, for her to want to risk it on people she will meet, eventually.

“Fine.” Then, pointing to Nora’s plate, “Now finish your breakfast, you need strength for training today.”

She grabs Barry’s plate and her own, turning around to put them in the dishwasher along with everything she used to bake.

She’s in the middle of loading the dishwasher, so she misses Nora’s face when she says, “On a totally different note, you do know who Linda Park is, right?”

Iris is pretty sure this is related, even if she knows know why, but she doesn’t point it out. Instead she replies, “Yes, we used to work together. She’s in Coast City now, I think. Why?”

She looks over her shoulder to Nora’s beaming grin. “Can’t tell you! You’ll see! But it’s great!”

Her daughter’s joy is contagious, and Iris finds herself grinning too even though she still doesn’t have a clue what is going on. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

“I will!”

A peel of laughter escapes her even as she grabs her daughter’s plate. It is such a sharp contrast to the tense relationship of only a few weeks ago, and Iris is ever so grateful that they managed to get past it. To work toward a better future for the both of them – for their entire family.

“Okay, ready in fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty. I need to wash my hair.”

“That’ll be five minutes lost in the speed lab.”

Nora pouts, bottom lip on display – she may be Barry’s mini me but that one is all Iris. She shouldn’t be so proud of it. She is, though. “Fine,” Nora sighs.

She stands up, taking her journal with her. Iris thinks it’s the end of it for now, and starts cleaning up their breakfast table, but she notices Nora taking a few steps toward the stairs before she stops. Pauses. Hesitates.

She’s in Iris’s arms before she knows it, hugging her so tightly her breath catches in her throat. It takes Iris a few seconds before she returns her daughter’s embrace, squeezing with equal strength.

“Thank you,” Nora mumbles against her neck.

“It’s just banana bread,” she laughs weakly.

But they both know it’s more than that. It’s a mother’s promise to always be there for her child, no matter what. It’s an apology for letting her grief cloud her judgement and letting her broken heart dictate her actions, for letting fear get the better of her, for disappointing her daughter and the ghost of her husband. It’s a promise, to do better and be better, the person Barry married and the woman her father raised. The person Nora should be proud, not wary, of.

It’s this, and so much more.

“I love you, mom.”

And perhaps she holds Nora a little bit tighter, a little bit closer, even when she replies, “I know, I’m such a schway mom.”

Nora groans, for good measure. “You can’t use it as an adjective!”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone!”

“Well, everyone else is wrong.”

Nora laughs, loud and carefree and surprising to the both of us. It’s perfect.

[nightwhip]

you’re a monster, minerva.

nerves are eating away at her stomach as her hand, trembling, clenches around the hilt of her whip.  there’s a hard glare on her blood splattered face as she stands outside abbhol’s home — orchestrating the king and queen’s collective demise doesn’t leave open any seat in the court.  she’s been living in hiding, alone, protected by the first order ( of course ).  surely she hadn’t anticipated nova’s release from imprisonment, and especially not then hacking into the archives and learning all she needed to about abbhol’s current location.  now, here she is; preparing to march inside and bring an end to the heinous traitor that tore her soul in two.  yet she can’t seem to will her legs into moving her forward.  how hard can it be?  she’s already killed the two hired guards, what’s one more body for the night?

rather than burst inside in a dramatic, fiery entrance, where she will hunt abbhol down like prey and force her violent end upon her, the opportunity presents itself when the zeltron is stepping outside.  maybe it’s odd that she hasn’t heard from her guards, and she decided to check on them.  it must be horrifying to see their bodies laying on the ground, throats slashed by a deactivated vibroknife.  no surprise lingers on her face as she surveys her surroundings - only a slow acceptance.  though there’s a subtle deepening in the color of her skin; even in the low light, nova notices how the usually fair red darkens ever so slightly before her eyes.

“surprised to see me?”

“i guess i shouldn’t be,” abbhol responds, stepping further out into the night.  getting closer to nova, passing the bodies, she can see the ghastly wounds along their necks, the blood pooling beneath the bodies.  she won’t admit it, but she’s frightened.

“you couldn’t have possibly thought you could live out the rest of your life in peace after what you did.  you don’t kill the people i love and face no consequences.  only a fool would convince themselves of that.”

eyes flickering about the features on nova’s face, abbhol breathes in, seems to hold it.  she looks down, gives her head a brief nod.  there’s no running from this, it seems.  wherever she goes, however well hidden she is, nova will find her.  might as well hold her head high and remain as brave as she can.  “you’re here to kill me,” she states.  it’s not a question.

“yes.”

“i see.  everything comes full circle.  first my daughter, now me-”

“stop throwing ivet in my face,” nova cuts her off, the gloved hand holding her whip tightening.

“how can you ask me to do that?  who do you think you are?”  furrowing her brows, she stares nova down, making no attempt to fight the rise in her emotions.  “she was my daughter, and you killed her.  i wanted you to never forget that.  i wanted you to live with the pain you forced me to endure.  do you really think you deserve to forget what you’ve done?”

“shut up-”

“from what i heard, she wasn’t the only one.  you’ve taken other children from their parents, haven’t you?  one innocent life after another.  she was just the first to get a glimpse of how awful you really are.  you’re a monster, MINERVA, and you deserve to live knowing you brought this all on yourself.  you deserve the guilt and the grief.  oh, if ivet could see you now…”

“i said shut up!”

nova’s body twists as her arm cranes back - when she’s lunging it forward, her whip soars, cutting through the air in a swift motion.  it’s end slices at the clothing and flesh of abbhol’s stomach, droplets of blood flicking off the end before the whip hits the ground.  a diagonal line splits the skin open, and her clothing is stained as the liquid oozes from the wound.  not nearly deep enough to be fatal - more of a shallow cut - but it’s enough to cause plenty of pain.  abbhol’s hands cup at the gash, and she’s nearly doubling over as the stinging sensation courses through her body.

“i was being merciful!  ivet would have burned to death if i hadn’t been the first to find her!  is that how you would have wanted her to go?  terrified, in excruciating pain?  i gave her a better death than the one that was coming to her - i’m not going to apologize for keeping her from suffering.”  nova’s stepping closer, scowling through her words as she approaches the injured zeltron.  “hate me for it, despise me, i don’t care.  there was no reason to betray them for what i did.  they were your friends - they trusted you!  and you had them killed!  you think i’m a monster, abbhol?  take a look at yourself; i would die before doing that to the ones i love.  if ivet could see you now, she would be repulsed.”

“it was the only way to make you feel what i feel,” she hisses through gritted teeth.  though her body protests, she’s straightening her spine once again, and her now bloodied hands lower to her sides.  she winces, unable to hide it.  this is when she’s going to die, she certainly isn’t going to do it like a coward.  no, she’ll march to her death with pride.  “it doesn’t matter now.  what’s done is done; i did what i needed to do, for her.”

“and i’m doing what i need to do for them.”

eyes brimming with tears, ignoring the burning in her eyes, she beckons the force inward - in a moment’s time abbhol is lifting from the ground, mere inches between her feet and the soil.  nova reaches out, trying to latch on to abbhol’s organs.  she can sense the rapid beating of her heart, how her lungs are working harder than ever to keep her breathing.  as she begins to force abbhol to expand from the inside out, a quiet voice at the back of her head tells her to stop.  it tells her THEY WOULDN’T WANT THIS, they wouldn’t want her going farther down the path of darkness.  NONE OF IT MEANS SHE EVER HATED THEM / SHE WAS OVERCOME WITH GRIEF.  SHE WANTED JUSTICE FOR HER DAUGHTER, AS YOU WANT JUSTICE FOR YOUR PARENTS.  but nova doesn’t care - she’ll keep telling herself it’s different, that this is the only way to avenge them, that a mercy kill and a vengeful one aren’t the same.  abbhol deserves it.  she deserves the sensation of pain she feels now, the fear crawling up her throat as she cries out.  nova’s breath quickens and she pushes, pushes farther until all she can hear is the blood curdling scream erupting from her former loved one’s throat seconds before she bursts into a mess of bloodied chunks.

mouth falling open, she stares blankly at the vacant spot in the air, where abbhol had just been hovering.  there’s a falter in her breathing; her chest rises and falls unevenly.  there’s a discomfort lodged in her throat, an ache in her core.  her eyes fall to the ground, and she’s trying to get her breathing under control.  no tears are to be shed for the traitor.  she’ll ignore the pain she feels, shove it down as far as she needs to.  this was the right thing to do.  it needed to happen.  nothing, no one, can convince her otherwise.  not even herself.  she won’t let her thoughts on the matter be swayed.  abbhol needed to die.

as she regains her composure and reminds herself she can’t stand here forever, succumbing to the emotions that want to break free, she turns her attention to the bodies.  along with the guards there are remains scattered about from the explosion - clean up will be easy.  with a wave of her fingers she sends the bodies gliding along the ground until they thump against the walls of abbhol’s home.  the larger parts of her corpse are given the same treatment and, holding out the palm of her free hand, she focuses all her energy into setting it ablaze.  closing her eyes, she welcomes the mental image of a brilliant fire, consuming anything in its wake.  in mere seconds the walls within ignite, and begin to devour anything it touches.  she doesn’t walk away until she can see the bodies engulfed in the flames.  it will be a while before anyone notices the danger of the fire, and by then the bodies will be long gone.

nova retrieves her comm from one of the pockets in her jacket to send a transmission to caidus.  he is the only one who knows exactly where she is and what she’s doing.

“nova?”

“it’s done.  i’m leaving now, i should be back on the ship by morning.”

“okay.  i’ll alert master ren.”

she’s ending the transmission without another word, shoving the device back into her pocket.  he’ll want to know if she’s okay, what he can tell the others, and she doesn’t particularly feel like discussing it.  her mind is still processing the fact she’s not only eliminated the creature who took her parents from her, but someone she grew up with.  someone she loved once.  trudging through the dirt and grass, her eyes look deep into the void of the night sky, and she refuses to let herself feel anything of it.  she shuts herself of from all that demands to be acknowledged.  for right now, she doesn’t want to feel.  she just wants to get back.

[garamonder]

Said and Done

Peter pays Pepper and Morgan a visit for the first time since the funeral. Set just before Far From Home.

.

“Of course, Peter,” she'd said over the phone, “we'd love to see you.”

Peter had to give her the benefit of the doubt and hope she meant it. He couldn't blame her if she didn't. He hadn't seen Ms. Potts since the funeral. Even then they had spoken only briefly, Peter almost afraid to look at Morgan as he mumbled his condolences, shoving down his own misery and forcing himself to smile at the four-year-old. Her big eyes stared back, unsure of this stranger who'd shown up to her father's memorial. He must have appeared an adult to her.

Ms. Potts seemed to know Peter better than he would have expected, having never actually interacted with her before that day. But she'd also had a five-year head start on getting to know him. Peter kind of wondered at that until Ms. Potts told him that Tony had often talked about Peter to her.

For some reason it surprised him. Maybe because he'd spent more time dead than as Mr. Stark's 'intern' and Tony was not such a stranger to tragedy that Peter would've assumed he'd take up the lion's share of Mr. Stark's grief.

Then again, he'd recognized the look on Tony's face when Peter began to stagger toward him on Titan. It was the same instant, deep dread Peter was sure he'd worn himself at the sight of police lights flashing red and blue one night, and the horrified crowd gathered near a car he recognized as Uncle Ben's.

Peter was used to being the one standing graveside. He felt robbed, of course. But it was nothing next to losing a husband and father.

Peter hadn't explained his reason for visiting Ms. Potts and Morgan. Holding his cell and nervously fiddling with some machinery on his desk, he'd called with the intention of explaining everything then, but once he began to try he remembered who he was talking to and got glue in his throat. He only got so far as saying there was something he thought Mr. Stark would want Morgan to have.

Truthfully, he'd stopped himself clarifying because he'd been afraid Ms. Potts would refuse. Everyone dealt with their grief differently. What might seem a ghastly reminder to a widow would mean something entirely different to a four-year-old.

So here he was again, at the house in the woods. May had to work so Peter took a bus, forgetting to wear his earbuds while gazing at the city turning into trees, and easily covered the remaining distance. Happy could probably have driven him but Peter didn't really want to explain this to anyone else, no matter how sympathetic the ear.

He looked around. This place must have felt like an escape after the Snap. A born-and-bred city kid, Peter never lost a kind of marvel at unfenced green spaces. Gravel crunched under his sneakers. He'd always liked the sound of gravel.

Peter kind of had trouble picturing the flashy billionaire abandoning the penthouse view for a forest. But anyone who'd known Tony longer might have said the same if asked to envision him with a wife and daughter after all the supermodels who'd cycled through his life in an endless parade back out the door.

Ms. Potts walked out on the porch to meet him, dressed in a casual sweater and long pants. She looked around for the car that had brought him and Peter realized he hadn't said how he was getting there.

“I took the bus,” he said lamely.

“Oh,” she said in surprise, “you didn't need to do that. We could've come to the city.”

“No, it's fine. I don't mind,” Peter told her.

Mindlessly he'd stopped at the foot of the porch. Ms. Potts came forward and hugged him warmly. “How are you?” she asked.

“Okay,” he said, adjusting the strap of his backpack slung over one shoulder. “Um—you?”

“Okay,” she repeated, with a small smile and a shrug. “Sad. Making Morgan a lot of cheeseburgers.”

Despite himself Peter gave her a faint grin. He'd had occasion to witness Tony's fondness for them.

“Happy says you're going on a school trip soon,” said Ms. Potts, turning to invite him inside. “To Europe. Wow.”

“I don't think it's going to be that fancy,” Peter said. He'd looked up the hostels on the itinerary, and after seeing the foreboding Yelp reviews had updated his booster shots accordingly.

“Oh, but it's Europe,” Ms. Potts said fondly.

“Have you been?”

“Uh huh. I dragged Tony to the Louvre and he complained the whole time. I told him he needed to appreciate art outside of heavy metal album covers.”

Peter grinned again. He suspected she was trying to lighten the mood. “We're supposed to see Paris.”

“You'll have to find a cute girl to give a rose,” she teased.

He was hoping to do better than a rose. Besides, the cute girl preferred black dahlias.

Dishes sat in a drying rack. Though of fine quality, everything in the house exuded homey comfort. It was a funny mix of old-fashioned furnishings with evidence of high-tech gadgetry spotting bookshelves and side tables. If Peter ever retired, maybe he'd like a place like this. Provided it had good wifi. And a lab. And pizza within deliverable distance.

As though she'd read his mind, Ms. Potts said, “Pizza's in the oven. We're a little out of the delivery range. You like the works, right?”

Another one of the tiny things Mr. Stark must have remembered and told her. Peter Parker had liked pizza. He always got the works.

(Actually, what Tony had said to Pepper was: “I once watched Parker demolish a giant pizza in one sitting. Before wolfing down a bouquet of churros for dessert. It was like watching an anaconda devour a goat.”)

Touched, Peter said: “Yeah, but you didn't have to go to any trouble, Ms. Potts—”

“Pepper, please,” she corrected him. “And it's no trouble. Eat first?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Maybe it was better for Morgan to get her bearings around him anyway, before he started asking her odd questions.

The table was set already. When was the last time she'd set the table for three? Yikes, don't think about that. Peter was a little nervy being the only guest now, no strangers to act as a buffer between him and Mr. Stark's widow. He leaned his backpack carefully against a recliner.

“Morgan!” Pepper called down a hall. “Pizza!”

Moments later a bright-eyed girl emerged from the hall, carrying an action figure with her. “Morgan, this is Peter,” her mom told her, brushing aside a strand of fine dark hair from the girl's forehead. “You met him a few months ago.”

She remembered. “You're a friend of my dad's,” she declared with certainty.

Peter nodded. “That's right.”

He was glad she remembered, because it boded well for what he'd ask her soon.

Dinner ended up being a lot less awkward than he'd feared. Pepper had a knack for guiding the conversation without forcing small talk, and before he knew it Peter was chatting away almost comfortably. Morgan divided her attention between the guest, her pizza and her action figure, which she rearranged in different poses throughout the meal. Tony Stark was, conversationally speaking, the elephant in the room, and they skirted mention of him in their discussion with the delicacy of probing around a flesh wound.

Peter helped Pepper clear the dishes, wiping them off with a flowery towel. Once the drying rack was full again, Pepper sat on the couch with an arm around Morgan and watched Peter dig restlessly through his backpack.

Finally he withdrew a funny-looking contraption that comprised of a set of glasses, on which perched a recording device wired to a hard drive. The glasses were tiny, designed for a child. The device was a somewhat hodge-podge Frankenstein of tech cobbled from Mr. Stark's files with some additions of Peter's own.

“So, um,” he started, suddenly nervous again, “I borrowed from some of Mr. Stark's B.A.R.F. software. You know he's got it so it doesn't need an implanted chip anymore? It works on a proximity basis now. So when someone wears the glasses, it'll, like, recognize the user and act as a kind of Bluetooth for their brain.”

Pepper nodded, following along. Half-sunk into the cushy pillows, Morgan was gazing at the pink, child-sized glasses, which Peter had bought cheap in Flushing.

Peter turned the small headset around in his hands. “I thought Morgan could use it.”

Surprised, Pepper said: “Morgan? Why?” At the mention of her name, the little girl peered at Peter curiously.

“Have you heard of childhood amnesia?” Peter asked Ms. Potts. “You know how you just...forget stuff from when you were really little? Maybe there's flashes here and there, but it's hard to hold on to much.”

As if prompted, Pepper's eyes flicked to the side in an unconscious effort to recall early memories. She nodded again thoughtfully.

Peter went on, relaxing a little: “As we get older it's hard to retain memories from early childhood. Some stuff will stick out but the little things, the day-to-day stuff, gets lost. There's a lot of debate about how it happens, whether it's”—animatedly, he started waving a hand around— “developing cognitive behavior or because the GABA neurotransmitter acts as a gatekeeper for early memory retrieval—” He stopped as Pepper's eyes began to glaze over and started over with an apologetic grin. “Sorry. Anyway, it happens.”

He held up the gadgetry. “Morgan's actually at a really good age for memory retrieval. She's old enough to form autobiographical memories and young enough that they haven't been rewritten yet. Even better, she's able to process memory without emotion acting like, I don't know, rose-colored glasses. It's kind of hard to separate long-term memory from emotion, and that can almost change, um, your whole recollection of something.”

“Okay,” said Pepper, who was probably used to Tony babbling at her about this. “Tony mentioned some of these things during the early stages of B.A.R.F.”

Morgan giggled at the word 'barf.'

Smiling at her, Pepper added: “He said even though the system hijacks the brain, what it pulls back out might not actually be what happened—it's just our impressions. Even the holograms in his demonstration at MIT had to be padded out retroactively by computer modeling. I'm pretty sure he tried to make his younger self a little taller in the demo.”

Peter stifled a grin. “Well, maybe I would too.”

Pepper's eyes fell on the glasses. “What do you want Morgan to remember?” she said quietly. Maybe she knew the answer already.

“Her dad,” said Peter.

Faltering before the sudden silence, Peter fumbled for the hard drive and kept talking. “I uh, I've got this hooked up to a drive. Instead of projecting a hologram, the memories she consciously processes will be recorded on this. So you can, um—play it back. Like a movie, I guess.”

Pepper stared at him with an expression he couldn't decipher. Morgan abandoned her action figure to gaze up at her mother, alert to the change in demeanor.

Would Pepper tell him no? Thanks, but I don't really know if that's the healthy way for a child to process her father's death. It's the thought that counts. We appreciate you visiting, and please have a wonderful time in Europe.

A little desperately, Peter said: “It's hard to know now what memories Morgan's going to hang on to. Pictures and YouTube clips are good but they aren't really a substitute.”

He was speaking from experience, of course, but he didn't mention that.

“I thought maybe she could try it out. And if it works OK, you can spend a few weeks adding memories to the drive. The code is kind of complicated so I'll have to convert the files myself.”

When he looked up he saw Pepper blinking quickly. There was a long moment.

She turned to the little girl. “What do you say, Morgan? Wanna make a photo album of Daddy?”

“OK,” Morgan replied, still a little uncertain but it seemed to be the answer expected of her.

Peter blew his breath out. “OK,” he repeated, relieved. “Here, um—why don't you try these on?”

He passed the glasses to Pepper, who, gingerly considering the delicate tech barnacled to the frames, perched them on Morgan's nose. Perhaps knowing it drew from Tony's tech, and wasn't totally derived from a high-schooler's notebook scribbling, gave her confidence. “Stylish,” she told her daughter. Morgan preened.

Meanwhile Peter withdrew a laptop from his bag and opened it, setting it aside on the coffee table and attaching a cord to the hard drive wired to the pink spectacles. He'd already pulled up the software he'd use for conversion. He rubbed his hands together, suddenly energized as he always was when beginning a lab experiment. “Let's give it a test. So um, Morgan, what's your favorite animal?”

“A hippogriff,” she said promptly.

Pepper mouthed silently, “Don't tell her.”

“Oh—good choice. OK, can you picture a hippogriff? The last time you, um, saw one? You can close your eyes if it helps.”

Obediently Morgan squeezed her eyes shut. “Concentrate and think about all the different parts of the animal,” said Peter, scooting his laptop closer. “Like, what color is it? How big is it? You can answer by thinking about it.”

Morgan thought for a few moments. “OK,” she announced when presumably a hippogriff filled her vision.

Peter watched his screen as live data collected on the drive and took shape. It did not process like a movie file so much as a rendered model writ in code. She evidently had a very good recollection of what she thought hippogriffs looked like. When the stream tapered off he said: “Okay, pause your brain.” Morgan giggled.

Pepper watched Peter as he tapped away at his computer. “I honestly think Tony lost the ability to type,” she informed him. “It'd been so long since he actually needed a keyboard.”

Peter snorted. Tony must have thought it very confining, typing out one line when his brain was leaping ten lines ahead already.

“Let's take a took,” he said once he'd converted the file. “They take a while to render totally so it's low res for now.”

He took a miniature hologram projector Tony had once tossed him and hooked it to the laptop, which now resembled a nerve cluster with so many cords branching out. Then he pressed a series of buttons and a second later the slightly shimmering image of a hippogriff spun slowly above the device. Morgan had surpassed expectations: not only was the image of the creature clear (and a near-perfect replica of the one from Harry Potter) but she'd even envisioned its environment in the form of a forested clearing.

Morgan was delighted. “That came out of my head!”

Peter was familiar with the tech but he still marveled at its ability to draw out subconscious detail. Brains weren't a bank; they didn't store everything, but the software was very good at rounding out the model.

“That's awesome, Morgan. Now, let's try something a little harder. Can you turn your brain on again?”

Like an astronaut conducting a pre-launch checklist, she nodded, straight-faced.

Normally he'd run tests gradually building in complexity but this time he jumped ahead.

“This time, I uh, want you to think about something your dad's said to you. You don't have to say it out loud.” He shot a glance at Pepper, who merely gave him a small smile. “Think about when this was. Where were you? What were you wearing? What did he say, and how did he say it? Can you put it in order? What else was in the room? Go around the memory like you're looking everywhere in a room and memorizing it.”

He was half-afraid he was pelting her with too many questions. While her memory skills were developed enough for the device, it was a lot for a not-yet-five-year-old to juggle at once. But she didn't say anything, just sat with a face comically scrunched up from shutting her eyes so tightly.

Data began flooding through the drive. Peter sat and watched it materialize into characters on his screen. He waited patiently so his typing wouldn't disrupt her concentration.

While she sat and thought, Peter couldn't help letting his eyes wander around the living room, across family mementos.

It was just so different. Had Tony relocated here to escape the city? Following the Snap, it would have been full of shell-shocked mourners. When blows were so sudden sometimes the pain came belatedly, like a thunderclap following the lightning flash. The horror must have been worst the day after, when it became clear the disappearances were, in fact, deaths. Every day he would have encountered so many people he must have felt he'd failed.

What would I have done? Peter thought suddenly, startling himself.

Well, he'd failed people before too, and probably wasn't done yet.

Eventually the data slowed to a trickle. Peter cut it off after it'd leveled. “Brain off,” he said, and Morgan opened her eyes.

Pepper watched him work quietly. Peter felt tense again for a reason he couldn't explain. The data was much more complicated this time and required longer to convert to a viewable format. In the meantime, Morgan toyed with her action figure again, though her interest in it seemed feigned.

Finally Peter looked up. “Um—it's more 2D than anything,” he said, “for now. But I can project it. Just to show you.”

He picked up the hologram projector again and toyed with it. Light emanated from a lens and Peter looked up to see Tony Stark's face loom above.

Morgan watched with rapt attention. Her mother's hands were tightly entwined in her lap.

In the memory, Mr. Stark was putting Morgan to bed. It must have been very recently. For a four-year-old's recollection the image was quite sharp, though it was imperfect, vague in some areas, unrefined and lacked true three-dimensional modeling. The color was muted. You could see what he looked like and how his voice sounded. That was important; Peter had wanted her to retain that herself rather than having to round it out with computer modeling from archived data.

“I love you 3000,” Peter heard her childish voice say, tinny coming from the small speakers.

Tony seemed impressed. 3000 was a high grade, apparently. After telling her to go to bed or he'd sell all her toys, he went out and closed her door behind him.

As memories do, the hologram faded into an obscure, indistinct image and Peter shut it off wordlessly.

The room was hushed. Peter was startled to see tears falling down Pepper's cheeks. He felt uncomfortably like he'd witnessed something private. It seemed a little like eavesdropping.

“Play it again,” Morgan commanded him, and Peter dutifully played it back.

After they watched it again Peter said to Morgan, “You can keep those glasses.”

“Really?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah. When you think of something you want to remember, you can put them on and think really hard about it, the way you did just now. Then I'll get the drive back and make it so you can watch them later.”

“Okay,” said Morgan. She might have started right away to try and think of other pennies to put in the memory bank. Still silent, Pepper nudged her. “Thank you,” she added, remembering her manners.

Peter smiled. “Sure.”

There was a danger to this kind of technology, of course. Peter was never really sure about the therapeutic benefits of B.A.R.F. He was never tempted to use it himself. When you couldn't actually go back and change anything, what was the point to reliving it and pretending otherwise? It almost seemed another way to kick yourself for roads not taken.

It was easy to get lost in the past, but a child was less susceptible. He knew Pepper would never use the technology to recreate her husband. Once they'd collected a garden of Morgan's memories, she'd give him the glasses.

For the first time he realized how late it'd gotten. The summer evening had grown dark. “Oh geez, I should go,” he said quickly after glancing at his watch. The last bus would be leaving before long, and he had two miles to swing before he reached the stop. He disconnected the laptop and hologram projector, leaving the glasses and the drive they were attached to.

Pepper stood up with him, carefully removing Morgan's glasses and setting them on a shelf until they were ready for round two. “I'll walk you out,” she told him. Something in her voice was restrained. “Say goodnight to Peter, hon,” she said over her shoulder. “Then it's bedtime.”

“G'nite,” said Morgan, wiggling her little fingers goodbye.

“'Night,” he said back.

As he glanced back on his way to the door he saw that Morgan had not yet picked up her action figure, but sat instead concentrating on something they could not see.

The summer evening was pleasant out on the deck. A light breeze ruffled the tops of the trees. As a child Peter had found this sound ominous, but maybe it had meant something else to Tony and Pepper. He could hear an owl hooting.

They walked across the deck to the top of the stairs, where Pepper drifted to a stop. Peter stopped too.

“Um,” he said, words sounding flat in the dark air, “So in a few weeks I'll get the drive back—or you can send it, whatever you want—and I'll convert them to a better quality. I thought maybe I'd have to add some archival data to flesh it out, but her memory's pretty good and I might just leave it. It's not, you know, polished, but I think it's more authentic.”

Recorded memories were a distant second to the real deal, but repetition was instrumental to memory retention. If Morgan saw the recordings every once in a while, it'd bolster her real recall—he hoped.

Pepper nodded minutely. Her tears had gone and she seemed to study him a moment. Then, without speaking, she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

“This is a gift,” she whispered over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

After a long moment she drew back, keeping her hands on his shoulders like Aunt May sometimes did. “What made you think to do this?”

“Oh.” Peter shrugged. “Ah, it was just an idea I had. That's all.”

It wasn't, and Pepper knew that full well. He felt dumb; she had to know about the plane crash. Richard and Mary Parker had died when their son was no older than Morgan. Mr. Stark would have told her that too.

Pepper wore a bittersweet smile. Just then he knew she was wondering whether he remembered them at all. If she asked, he'd lie and say he did. Why upset her?

It was different with Uncle Ben. Peter could remember the things he'd said and done. In a way, they showed the way forward. So, too, would he remember Tony.

Sometimes Uncle Ben would fondly mention his late brother Richard. Once, when Peter was in fifth grade, Ben had asked if Peter remembered the way his dad would swing him side to side, making a seat from his hands and whirling his cackling son around. Amused by the story, Peter had said no. He never forgot the flash of disappointment that crossed his uncle's face before Ben's usual cheer reasserted itself.

He hadn't wanted that for Morgan, that was all.

“Come see us anytime,” Pepper said kindly. “And have fun in Europe. Make the most out of Paris. I know there's a girl.”

Peter laughed. “Will do.”

He went to Europe and came back. It was a hair-raising experience. He did give a girl a flower, even though it wasn't a rose and it was in London, not Paris.

“Hot dogs sound good?” said Pepper over the phone. Morgan had recorded several more memories, and they were ready for conversion. “I got some Nathan's from the store. Relish or no relish?”

“Relish, totally,” said Peter. “I'm civilized, aren't I?”

“Hawkeye's kid puts mayonnaise on his,” confided Pepper.

“Ugh.”

Hot dogs sounded great. He'd catch the bus upstate later, right after his date with MJ. He was going to take her swinging for the first time.

.

.

(I actually put ketchup on my hot dogs, I don’t like relish)