#waking sands raid

[avirael]

All Good Things

In high spirits they had returned to Vesper Bay. A’viloh was happily chattering and Rael graciously listened to him. It had immensely helped the Miqo’te’s mood that this time they had been able to resolve the threat at hand without any casualties. Two facts at once that Rael was very grateful for.

But as they approached the Waking Sands, Rael paused. Something felt off. It was a perfectly fine warm day in Western Thanalan and yet all of the sudden a cold shiver ran down the Viera’s spine. Alarmed they scanned the surroundings but everything seemed just as usual. Only a few steps later A’viloh noticed that his companion wasn’t there anymore. Confused he turned around and noticed the weird expression on Rael’s face.

“What’s wrong?”, he asked and followed the Viera’s gaze but couldn’t see what caught their attention.

Rael shook their head. “It’s probably nothing…”

It was an assessment that proved very wrong the second they reached the Waking Sands.

The entry hall was empty. Tataru was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t such an uncommon thing though. Still something worried Rael and as the two of them took the stairs to the floor below they realised why that was.

It was unusually dark inside. Almost all the lights had burnt out and an eerie silence filled the otherwise always bustling rooms. Even before Rael could conjure up a light source A’viloh gasped and froze beside them. His eyes were naturally better suited to work with little to no light and so he saw first what Rael hadn’t noticed yet. The same moment A‘vi raised a hand to his mouth the small fireball above Rael’s staff flared up and revealed the corridor leading towards Minfilia’s solar in it's whole horror. The tiles were tainted with smears and puddles of blood and lifeless bodies were scattered around on the floor, still lying were they had fallen.

The Miqo’te barely dared to breath and just blinked at the massacre not understanding what he saw and for a moment Rael was just as shocked as he was. Then they quickly made a few steps forward, knelt down beside a Lalafell which A’viloh remembered had usually guarded the entry to their hideout. Helplessly he watched as Rael turned the small body around and checked for a pulse. With a dark expression on their face they looked up to A’vi and shook their head.

“W-What happened here?”, A’viloh asked barely audible and started to shake.

Rael raised a finger to their lips. They shrugged and whispered: “We need to check for survivors. But be careful. Whoever did this could still be here…”

With a small gesture Rael made the fireball above their staff split in multiple smaller ones that flew away to hover along the hallway walls and illuminate their way. Then silently the Viera hurried to the next person on the ground while A’viloh still stood there trying to get ahold of himself. With flattened ears and his tail tugged between his legs he slowly walked down the corridor. Each step more tentative than the one before as if he feared the floor would crumble beneath his feet. His fearful eyes wandered from one body to the next as he slowly stepped past them but couldn’t find any sign of life. It were so many of them…

He took a careful look down both of the adjacent corridors but there was nothing to be seen except more corpses. Reluctantly he fixed his gaze on the double doors leading to Minfilia’s room, slightly ajar, and decided that this was the most important place to check now. He dreaded what he might find there, as he slowly opened one of the doors.

“Rael!”, he yelled forgetting all the caution for a second as he indeed saw a small sign of life. Alarmed the Viera shot up and hurried to his side. “There!”, he said and pointed to one side of the desk, where barely moving lay a tiny sylph on the floor.

“Noraxia!”, he exclaimed, hurried to her side and tried to carefully pick her up. Rael was right behind him, already preparing a healing spell and trying to get a better look at the small sylph A’viloh cradled in his arms. Just as Noraxia tried to speak Rael’s view started to blur. It was the worst time possible but they had long given up trying to suppress or force their visions to their liking because it was simply not possible.

***

As the vision faded and the here and now came back into focus not much time seemed to have passed. “The imperials??”, A’viloh asked in confusion. Rael looked up and saw he was looking back at them. “You saw the same thing, didn’t you?”, they asked. The Miqo’te nodded weakly. “I think so… but how did they find this place?”

There was no time for Rael to hypothesise about this as the wounded sylph in A’viloh’s arms started to groan. Weakly she stretched out one of her tiny arms and clasped a loose strand of A‘vi‘s red hair. “This one is glad… walking ones are safe…”, she said and her high-pitched voice was quiet and shaky.

“Don’t speak.”, Rael said softly. “I will heal you.”

But Noraxia didn’t listen. “Walking... walking one Minfilia... asked this one to... In case walking ones r-returned... this one was to say... to say... At church in Eastern Thanalan... walking one must claim sanctuary... This one tried... tried to protect walking one Minfilia f-from imperial ones... For... give... this... one… Save...”

She didn’t finish what she had tried to say. Instead her little hand let go of A’viloh’s hair and lifelessly fell down.

“Hang in there, tiny one.”, A‘vi begged, calling her the way he always had when she had used one of her typical descriptions instead of his name. Pleadingly he looked at Rael, who‘s face twitched painfully. “She‘s gone, A‘vi.”

For a while both of them sat there, heads and ears hanging low, silently crying. Then Rael shook themself and ran one of their arms over their face. “We still need to check the rest of the building. Maybe there‘s still someone alive somewhere…”

Rael didn’t manage to sound very convincing but A‘viloh knew they were right and they at least had to try. Weakly he nodded, stood up and put the little sylph down on Minfilia‘s desk. He still couldn’t understand how everything could have gone wrong so fast.

Disheartened they left the solar and decided to split up, one of them taking the corridor to the left, which lead to the private rooms, and the other to the right. Rael found that all of the doors to the bedrooms had been broken open but at least there weren’t as many bodies to be found here. The attack must have happened in the middle of the day. They had been certain this was a fight they could win or they would have attacked at night when most of their victims would have been asleep in their rooms.

Suddenly a terrible scream echoed through the silent hallways. It was clearly A’viloh’s voice! Alarmed Rael whirled around and ran back the way they came and down the other corridor. As they entered the room at its end they saw the Miqo’te throwing himself to his knees beside another lifeless body. “No! Please! No, no, no!”, he wailed as he shook the body of the Miqo’te lying in front of him.

Rael gasped. A‘aba! Rael had completely forgotten about him. Quickly they rushed to his other side and reached out for him. But of course it was too late already. The imperials had been thorough in making sure that no one was left alive.

“A‘vi…”, Rael said but then fell silent. What could you say in a situation like this? I’m sorry? It felt so insufficient in the face of so much pain.

A’viloh was still pleading and screaming. This couldn’t be true. Not another one.

In a way this was a new experience for A‘vi. Back when his family had died he had been too young to fully grasp the situation. Sure, he had memories of the events, horrible ones even, but they were fuzzy and so far away. And Laqa? He had just been gone from one moment to the other, without leaving any trace that he ever existed. For a few cruel days A’viloh had even told himself that all of this wasn’t real and that he would show up any day now to save him.

But this? This was undeniable. The cold, bloodstained truth right in front of his eyes. No room for impossible childish dreams and hopes. He had always thought grief would be easier if you still had something left to grief over but now he couldn’t say that he preferred this. It was unbearable to see this so familiar, once so buoyant person, like this. Lifeless and while still just the same as before also strangely unrecognisable.

Defeated A‘vi slumped down and buried his face at his cousin‘s chest. The pleading stopped and gave way to grief-stricken, terrible sobs, that made Rael’s skin crawl. Helplessly the Viera watched and remembered the last time they had spoken to A‘aba.

“Take care of my little cousin.”, he had told Rael half-joking before the two of them had left for Costa del Sol. A’viloh had protested that he could take care of himself perfectly fine and A’aba had laughed heartily and ruffled his neatly braided hair much to A’vi’s dismay. Neither of them would have guessed that this would be the last time they saw each other.

But the reality was now and it was cruel. Rael hadn’t even noticed when they had started to cry again but suddenly they felt the tears on their cheeks. It had hurt to see so many of their comrades killed but seeing A‘vi suffering like this hurt worse. Their comrades couldn’t be helped anymore, but even in A'vi's case this time Rael felt that there was nothing they could say or do to make this better.

“A‘vi…”, Rael repeated, still unsure what to say at all, hesitantly stretching their hands out towards him. “I… I am so sorry…” Carefully Rael touched his shoulders. His head shot up as if he just remembered that the Viera was still there. For a few seconds A‘viloh just stared at them with wide eyes.

Then he threw his arms around the Viera’s body and buried his face at their chest, again sobbing miserably. He clung to Rael so tightly as if he feared they would vanish too if he let go for just a second. Gently Rael wrapped their arms around him, hid their own tear-stained face in his hair and let him cry.

[charulein]

Stubborn is too bitter to genuinely try and help the Garleans lmaooooo

[yanderedrabbles]

hello val 🥺🫶🏻 I love your work so I read some of them over and over again especially your yandere desert bandit work ajsjdjd Idk if your truest is open...but can I request reader daily life as the yandere bandit wife??

(If your request is close or you don't feel like writing this request feel free to ignore this ily muah muah <333)

Yandere Desert Bandit - Aftermath

Son of the sand, his touch isn't gentle. But perhaps he can learn.

Yandere! Desert Bandit will do anything to feel your touch on him. After a raid, you're the one he orders to clean the blood off his skin. He'll sit in the centre of the tent, stripped to his waist as you run a damp cloth over his muscles. If you ask, he'll tell you the story of every scar.

At night, Yandere! Desert Bandit sits with you in front of the fire, his arm propped up behind you. If it's a particularly cold night, he'll pull you onto his lap and drape his arms around you. His touch is always warm, like he soaks in the desert heat.

His men complain that he's the only one with a bride and Yandere! Desert Bandit smiles and says you're his reward from the dunes and sand.

He watches the way his men act around you. And anyone who steps over the line is soon gone. He sends them away, he tells you. But you've seen the small splatters of blood on his sleeves and you wonder how true that is.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who feeds you dates and honey with his bare hands. His eyes never leaving yours when you suck the sweetness off his fingers.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who trusts you enough to take care of his horse and his sword. If you wanted, you could grab her bridle and make a run for it or swing his own blade at him when his back is turned. But he knows you won't. Not out of love, but out of necessity.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who knows you can't survive without him.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who makes you brush and braid his hair every night. Who tilts his head into your touch.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who still struggles to control himself. Who still leaves bruises when he fucks you. Who kisses each cut and scrape like he isn't the one who gave them to you.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who boils water every morning and wakes you with fresh tea. Who always drinks from your cup - it's all the sweeter that way.

Yandere! Desert Bandit who watches your breath mix with the steam, and thinks how lucky he is to have you.

[voidsentprinces]

Reminder: A Realm Reborn wasn't particularly about us. It was about the Eorzean Factions, it was about the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and their interactions with and thwarting Gaius and the XIVth Legion. We were just a useful champion slowly growing to fame but not truly a Warrior of Light until literally the prelude to the Castrum raiding mission.

The Parting of Glass wasn't about us either. It was, once again, about the world. And how it had begun changing after Gaius's fall and the brief period of peace away from Garlemald's Shadow. About Alphinaud beginning his arc of growth with hubris and the creation the Crystal Braves and what it might of looked like IF the Scion's good nature was lent to anyone and everyone. And thus opening itself up to the very corruption Minfilia feared to move away from the Waking Sands and to the Rising Stones in the first place.

Heavensward isn't about us. It is about Alphinaud's continue growth, learning of Ishgard's past and history. Hubris, arrogance and narrow viewing lead Alphinaud to steps of the Foundation, it has lead Estinien astray and made Ysayle believe she is a messiah incarnate. And through the journey, each of them grow as they learn the terrible truth about the Dragonsong War. Estinien in particular has his eyes opened and no longer simply seeks revenge on Nidhogg but to get to the bottom of it all. So no other shepherd's son has to live as he has. Ysayle learns she is a shade and a faux Shiva not truly Hraesvelgr's beloved or even in the same category as her. She learns swallow such delusions and embrace what Saint Shiva stood for in its entirety. Which means leaning to lay the road for peace between Ishgard and the Dragons and opening a path to this by sacrificing herself for those she loved so dearly. Alphinaud learns from all of this and more and is humbled by the duty of a knight, the fervor of a dragoon, the sacrifice of a saint, and the courage of his companions and of Sharlayan's arrogance from Master Matoya. To put others before himself and allow others to support him when he falls.

The Far Edge of Fate isn't about us. It was about how Ishgard carries on after Thordan and the Heavens Ward are shown to be the monsters they are. How the remnants of the church, the knights of Ishgard, and the civilian population react to the realization with rejection. How facing off against Nidhogg possessing Estinien, the Warriors of Darkness, and the machinations of Ilberd force Eorzea and Ishgard to look inward and know truly where they should go from there. To ignore the easier road and take the higher path no matter the strife and hardship it provides them. Because when they reach the otherside they would be better for it. Finding that courage, after five years of procrastinating and hemming and hawing, the Eorzean Alliance finally begin to mobilize to free Ala Mhigo from Garlemald and perhaps take on the Empire itself.

Stormblood isn't about us. It is about Doma and Ala Mhigo fighting for the survival of their people and cultures. Facing the parts of their society that were spurned and used as tools of hatred against their principles. That provided the necessary cracks required for Garlemald to break them down and oppress them in the first place. And how reforging under those values and those long histories of violence can make a new path and come to terms to over throw the tyrants who fed on their weakened states and make a strong unity still.

A Requiem of Heroes wasn't about us, it was about the world facing down the barrel of war with Garlemald. And uncovering its origins, its founding father was an Ascian. How Varis is forced to face down the lie as Elidibus wears the skin of his son and the great grandfather he and other Garleans were taught was a walking god in all but name was a sham and a daemon bent on causing more pain and suffering than mankind ever deserved. How the effigies of hate and pain choose to use their fervor to help their people instead of turning against them once more. How every person can change and be given a second chance. How that second chance is what that person requires or if they are pushed the wrong direction, can caused tragedy to unfold. And lastly, it is about our companions, slowly. One by one. Being dragged to the unknown. The story slowly taking away the players on the stage until finally...

Shadowbringers was about us. It was about how we were instrumental to the world so much that it lost nearly all hope in another timeline. How a group of your fondest friends began and how your comrade's furthest decendents acting on the hope of your legend and stories. To provide a plan of action and lead to happier world. How even when everything seems lost and gone and your purpose seems to turned everything around you into twisted monstrosities. That you can bring the night and wait in comfort for a dawn to bring better days. And the tenacity of your aid providing a world on the brink, the love, the compassion, the understanding, the strength, and the will to stand up to a flood of destruction and spit fate in the eye. Even it costs them everything, they keep fighting until they can see a brighter tomorrow.

Death unto Dawn was about what the tomorrow brings. How it could be another fight but to find what is WORTH fighting for. The memories of those you fight and lived amongst, old studies and things of the past being made to provide the answer to the future, making right wrongs even against those you had wronged unfairly, and to gather together and keep each other safe. You are not alone out here. There are those who will help you along to a brighter future.

Endwalker was about you and yours. About how everyone reacts to an uncertain future in different manners. How some would make ready to flee at the approaching storm, while others would fight, and others might even push you further to the edge. But even when all is lost, call upon the memory of happier times to light the way with hearts aligned shining brilliantly against despair and finding your place amongst those memories.

Growing Light was about us teaching another to hear, feel, and think and experience the world seemingly gone. That everything needn't be give or take. It can be a charitable, warmer place if we make it. It can be kinder and even in the face of unrelenting and undying destruction. Hope will spit out a tooth and stand up once more.

I say all of this because, I've seen people mad that Dawntrail is leaning hard about being about Wuk Lamat and others. To which I say so what if Dawntrail is about Wuk Lamat and Koana? So what if its not about us? We've had four story lines about us. Now we must impart what we've learned to the future as they face similar and sometimes overwhelming odds. To stand tall against the onslaught and make their own choices, their own way to bring a smile to all they hold dear. How family needn't be blood related, they can just be a group who sit down at the table at the end of the day. And speak, laugh, cry, and love. Unto this trail to dawn we shall light way for the future of our world and everything this new dawn brings is worth it.

[sneezeshame]

the weather wizard is coming down with something. everyone can tell; the sky starts to look a bit cloudy despite the official forecast from the tower being clear skies. it gets cloudier as the day goes on, and eventually a new notice comes in the evening, issued to the kingdom, confirming what they already know-- they aren't feeling very well, it might be a touch of a cold, and the skies will be cloudy with possibly some rain over the next few days, as opposed to the scheduled three days of clear weather and preplanned light rain on thursday. they apologize for the inconvienience.

meanwhile in the tower, the wizard feels weighed down, like their head is full of sand. their throat hurts. the only way to handle getting sick is trying to control the symptoms, so the weather is impacted as little as possible. they get in their pajamas and crawl into bed, sniffling, embarassed; they always try very hard not to get sick, and they aren't sure how this bug slipped through their defences. their partner consoles them; everyone catches a cold sometimes, and people understand that. a lot of viruses have been getting passed around in the kingdom lately, and they've been working harder than normal to keep the normal rainy season weather away. the only thing they can do is get some rest.

but the night is rougher than they expected. it's normal for them to cause a couple rainstorms when they're upset or ill, but they wake up in the middle of the night with their throat hurting badly, shivering, the first sneeze of the cold tickling in their nostrils. when they sneeze, lightning strikes and thunder rumbles, so they try to stifle them; but the reflex at all makes the clouds come in denser. their head aches.

the wizard tries to sleep, but they have to juggle the symptoms and end up sleeping poorly. in the morning no sunlight comes in the window; the whole kingdom is cloudy, and they're in the bathroom taking cold medicine, trying to keep off the rain that seems inevitable. indeed it is; their nose is getting stuffy, and it's getting harder to hold back the sneezes. their partner takes their temperature, and to their suprise they're running a little fever. a stream of hot tea and soup follows them going back to bed with a second blanket, propping their head up on pillows to help keep the incoming congestion at bay. the worse they feel, the worse the weather will be, and so they need to keep themselves as comfortable as possible; unfortunately, the stress of catching a cold and sending unpredictable weather on the whole kingdom already has them upset. they take pride in having good control over the weather, but anyone with eyes can see that whatever is happening in the tower, they're feeling worse than they'd hoped.

about lunchtime, later than usual, another forecast goes out: this cold is worse than they originally anticipated, and there might be some storms coming. they don't know when or how bad. they apologize profusely.

meanwhile, they're starting to stuff up. they keep a tissue box and cold medicine close by. their fever isn't changing, but their throat throbs. they never get sick. they're breathing through their mouth by dinnertime.

"How're you feeling?" asks their partner, setting soup on their nightstand.

"Why dodd you jusd loog oudside," says the wizard miserably.

"I can do that already," their partner says. "I'm asking how you're doing, not how the weather is."

"I-- huuETCHOO!" they sneeze. thunder rumbles; a few drops of rain fall. "Drying do geep the raid frob fallig. Snnxxt."

"That still doesn't answer my question," says their partner.

"I'b sigg," they say, irritated. their voice is sounding a little hoarse. they sneeze again; thunder again in the distance; the clouds are grey and heady with everything they're holding back.

"You should just let it fall," their partner says. "They've been pampered with perfect weather for months. a little unpredictability won't hurt anyone."

the weather lets up a little when they sleep, but unfortunately that's getting harder to do. they can't breathe through their nose anymore, their head and throat both hurt, they have chills from the fever, and they just feel lousy, lousier than they usually do when they get sick. they take more cold medicine at 1am and lay there with purple-ringed eyes, sniffling, feeling themselves get worse.

a little before sunrise, the rain starts falling. they're huddled in blankets with their box of tissues in an armchair in the tower, their feet in hot water, trying to breathe. their voice is a rasp and it hurts to talk, so their partner issues the weather report: this cold is worse than they expected, and they're managing their symptoms as best as they can, but there are going to be some bad and unpredictable storms the next few days, as well as clouds and rain.

and the rain does come. the steam from the hot water unstuffs the wizard slightly, but it restuffs and hour later while they're laying in bed, sneezing and shivering, their face pale and their nose red. they're able to take a nap over lunchtime, and even though they're snoring loudly around the congestion and swelling in the tower, the rain almost goes away; but their sleep is troubled, and when they take back up with the feeling of their sinuses pounding on their face and their tonsils and larynx throbbing, they realize their partner was right: storms are coming.

they start at around dinnertime, when the wizard's fever reaches 101. the clouds darken angrily, and the rain starts to come down hard as the wizard fights the third night of what's turning out to be a massive head cold. they can't sleep, they feel too sick, and so they take pillows and blankets from their bed to the couch in the living room, watching tv and avoiding the weather channels.

the rain comes down beating against the windows that night, but their partner doesn't need to know the weather to know how sick they are. their fever rises to 102 in the early hours of the morning and stays, officially the sickest they've been in years, and they convince them to shuffle back to bed and try to get some more upset sleep. they've started to get a cough, chesty and tight, that causes the wind to stir and rush past their windows.

in the morning, the king sends his well wishes and a doctor their partner requested, who confirms, after taking their temperature, examining their throat and nose, and looking both outside and at the pile of used tissues on the bed that they've caught either a horrible cold or a miserable flu. sleeping medicine and cough syrup is all he can provide other than waiting it out; fluids, rest.

their partner sends out another weather forecast: the wizard is down with something bad, possibly the flu, and it isn't very managable. severe thunderstorms are possible, as well as high winds.

the wizard lays in a feverish daze, their body aching, their head swimming with heaviness, their sinuses pounding. they're propped up staring into the thick drapery around their four poster bed, which has been pulled tight all day-- light makes their head pound harder. whatever bug was ravishing their system, they really DO feel miserable. they take all the medication they can like clockwork every four to six hours, and yet none of it seems to make a dent. they decline any soup for dinner and lay there with a fat blue ice pack pressed to their forehead and sinuses, pressed there by their partner, listening to the storm outside.

the storm outside is as horrible as their cold. their sniffling and sneezing and coughing is constant, and when it stops, they're so ill that the rain keeps coming down just as hard. when they get into a deep, painful hacking fit, the wind outside howls and moans through the kingdom. when they manage to dose off for a bit, exhausted in bed, the thunder seems more distant, and the rain comes down not as hard-- and then they wake up with a thunderous sneeze and it returns again.

in the middle of the night, they're running a fever of 102.4, and their partner runs a warm bath in the clawfoot bathtub in the adjacent bathroom. after some coaxing they manage to get the wizard to undress and sit blearily on the side of the bed, a thick bathrobe wrapped around them, staring into space with half-opened eyes. they slip their feet into slippers and stand slowly, every joint creaking, trudge to the bathtub with their partner and slide in.

"What do you think? Cold or the flu?" their partner asks, after they've been sitting and breathing in the steam for a while.

"...I duddo..." the wizard croaks. lightning flashes in the window as they sneeze again, and thunder rumbles in the dark clouds. "...baybe the flu... snxxxt, guu-huhh..." the wizard looks blearily at the windows with a cough. "...whadd a bess..."

"You can't help it."

"Snnnnxxxtt. Ughhh..." They cough miserably again, and the wind howls. "Baybe dodd," they say. The storm outside is violent and churning, and the change in pressure alone makes their head feel even more like it might burst.

The morning comes with the rain less violent than it was the night before; their fever broke, and they're back in the four poster bed with the curtains pulled tight, asleep in a cocoon of blankets and quilts, tissues stuffed up their flaming nostrils. as much as they want this to be over with, their partner knows this is how they'll stay probably into the next week, and they do-- the storms ease up but the clouds and rainstorms stay for another week, as they battle a sinus infection and a touch of bronchitis.

Please excuse the cloudy skies, the forecast says. I'm still feeling under the weather from whatever knocked me off my feet last week. I appreciate the patience. Sunny skies ahead, hopefully.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Zen priest, Peter Coyote, on protest: "I’m watching the Los Angeles reaction to ICE raids with trepidation and regret.

Three years ago I taught a class at Harvard on the “theater of protest”— designed to help people understand why so many protests turn out to be Republican campaign videos working directly against the interests of the original protest.

A protest is an invitation to a better world.

It’s a ceremony.

No one accepts a ceremonial invitation when they’re being screamed at.

More important you have to know who the real audience of the protest is.

The audience is NEVER the police, the politicians, the Board of supervisors, Congress,etc.

The audience is always the American people, who are trying to decide who they can trust; who will not embarrass them.

If you win them, you win power at the box office and power to make positive change.

Everything else is a waste.

There are a few ways to get there:

1. Let women organize the event. They’re more collaborative. They’re more inclusive, and they don’t generally bring the undertones of violence men do.

2 Appoint monitors, give them yellow, vests and whistles. At the first sign of violence, they blow the whistles and the real protester sit down.

Let the police take out their aggression on the anarchists and the provocateurs trying to discredit the movement.

3. Dress like you’re going to church. It’s hard to be painted as a hoodlum when you’re dressed in clean, presentable clothes.

They don’t have to be fancy they just signal the respect for the occasion that you want to transmit to the audience.

4. Make your protest silent. Demonstrate your discipline to the American people. Let signs do the talking.

5. Go home at night. In the dark, you can’t tell the cops from the killers. Come back at dawn fresh and rested.

I have great fear that Trump’s staging with the National Guard and maybe the Marines is designed to clash with anarchists who are playing into his hands and offering him the opportunity to declare an insurrection.

It’s such a waste and it’s only because we haven’t thought things through strategically.

Nothing I thought of is particularly original.

It was all learned by watching the early civil rights protests in the 50s and 60s.

And it was the discipline and courage of African-Americans that drew such a clear line in the American sand that people were forced to take sides and that produced the civil rights act.

The American people are watching and once again if we behave in ways that can be misinterpreted, we’ll see this explained to the public in Republican campaign videos benefiting the very people who started this.

Wake up.

Vent at home.

In public practice discipline and self control.

It takes much more courage."

Zen teacher and author/narrator with Ken Burns

Note: Carry an American flag. As the administration creates a fake emergency to justify a state crackdown, it's important to honor the values and vision of democracy for which we're advocating.

When the Enquirer came for pics back in 2017, I smiled a big toothy grin and held a big flag as it felt so empowering and good to stand with my adult daughter, pastors, Franciscans, nuns, kids, parents, grandparents and some women from our women's groups for the values we tried to pass on.

After the protest, we sang and marched to a church where we heard poignant witness of immigrants trying to build a better life for their families against insurmountable odds.

Many Marines, National Guardsmen and vets are over on Threads and Substack expressinging their disagreement over being used by this lawless administration.

Peace, santi and shalom to all. ☮️

* * * *

Peter Birkenhead 

 I’ve always liked Peter Coyote, but wow that post of his that’s going around is so wrongheaded.

A protest is not an “invitation to a better world.” A protest is a disruption of the status quo. An attention-grabbing blast of sight and sound meant to be unavoidable. An insistence.

Coyote says, “No one accepts a ceremonial invitation when they’re being screamed at.” True enough. Nobody wants the enemy at their ceremony. Or their achool, or their workplace.

Nobody wants ICE at their Quinceanera, or naturalization ceremony. That’s the whole fucking point. The screams of protestors are the opposite of an invitation. They are a demand that the enemy leave town.

Dr. King’s Birmingham Campaign was a means of gumming up the works, of illegally disrupting lunch counters, businesses, churches and libraries with sit ins intended to overwhelm local jails. The march from Selma to Montgomery purposefully blocked traffic, to draw the attention of both law enforcement and a national television audience.

It was a wrench in the machinery, meant to stop its terrible work. To stop segregation, stop discrimination, stop police brutality, stop murder. It was meant to save lives.

ACT-UP was similary focused on purposeful confrontation to save lives. It was guided by a one-line statement of principle: “Direct action to end the Aids crisis.” The organization was unafraid of alienating institutions of power, or offending the sensibilities of genteel liberals. It led a movement that was, by necessity, as in-your-face and immediate as it could be. ACT-UP isn’t remembered today for polite invitations to ceremonies, but for screaming “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it!” It is remembered for its insistence.

There will be a time — maybe — for invitations and ceremonies. Peter Coyote describes a vision of a better world, and I’m all for working towards realizing that vision. But the point of the protests happening in Los Angeles and across the country is not to make peace or forge unity with our enemies as a means of finding Utopia. The point of the protests is to save people’s lives.

Right now.

[mistydeyes]

hiiiiiii can you please do a reader who is captain of a all woman force like top 3 military ranks and shes young to and she dates gaz ex

When 141 raid las v they get over powered by shadows and laswell knew this would happen so she calls in reader and her team to help 141 are there thinking fight until you drop until they see soldiers in all black military outfits with masks take down shadows no sweat. And then soap comes up like “thanks man who are you” and she’s like “we’re the widows” and uncovers her mask to reveal she’s a woman…….

I always imagined in the cod world an black widow inspired branch

THANK YOU SO MUCH AND YOU ARE LOVED,GORGEOUS,SMART,WORTHY 💕💕💕

thank you so much for requesting and the kind words! highkey wish they would introduce a group of badass fighter women into the modern warfare universe

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summary: Working behind the scenes is a group of highly trained and focused women. They're only whispers until the 141 is put into a perilous position and require rescuing.

pairing: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, depictions of violence

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"How's that lover boy of yours doing, Angel?" your second-in-command joked. You rolled your eyes as you closed your final page of post-op paperwork. "Probably trying to beat his mates in a push-up contest," you replied, laughing at the thought of Kyle doing anything else. Despite what you thought, Gaz was pinned down in an empty cargo container in the middle of Mexico. While Ghost and Soap provided cover, he was trying to contact Laswell through a majority-busted radio. "Watcher-1, it's Bravo team," he shouted before he heard the broken-up replies from Laswell. Price pulled the radio out of his hands before he took the tiny window of opportunity to respond. "Watcher-1, we need emergency evac," he rapidly said with a hoarse tone, "we need help, Watcher-1." 

Your restful slumber was awoken by a hurried set of knocks on your quarter's door. You hastily jumped out of bed and opened it to reveal a private, standing sheepishly in front of you. "Sorry to wake you ma'am but Chief Station Laswell is online in the conference room and she wants to speak to you," they said hastily and you quickly followed after them, disregarding the current state you were in. An hour later, you, your lieutenant, and sergeants were on a helo to Las Alamas, Mexico. "They say what kind of shit they're in?" Iris, your most junior sergeant, asked over the howling night air and the sound of rotating helicopter blades. "Only that it's Captain Price's men and their last comm came from a storage container," you replied. Your team could tell you were worried and your lieutenant threw an arm around your shoulders. "We'll get them and make sure Sergeant Kyle is safe, Major," she reassured but this did nothing to help the growing pit in your stomach and the pooling sweat in your palms. Why the fuck did you let this happen, Price?

"Evac in 2 hours," the pilot called over the comms and your team dispersed into the rubble of what resembled a base. You used the back of your hand to shield your masked face from the kicked-up sand and dirt. The midnight black balaclavas felt hot against your face but you disregarded the minor discomfort. Countless bodies of the private militia group, the Shadows, littered the ground and you kicked over each body in a fruitless attempt to identify them. "Cargo holds should be 2 clicks to our north," Viper, your lieutenant, directed and you signaled them to follow your lead. You approached cautiously, hiding behind other containers and building rubble as you swept for enemy reinforcements. You looked down to see a cluster of heat signatures heading your way. "Hold on," you directed with a fist in the air, "we got company." The group stopped on your command and you quickly devised a plan, "Iris and Artemis, you take overwatch," you commanded as they began to move in careful sprints, "Cosmo, you and I will move towards the cargo," with that, you dispersed and moved quickly under the guise of dust.

As soon as you neared the rusted metal structure, you could hear a cacophony of shouts followed by the piercing sound of bullets. "Get down, Angel," you could hear your sergeant yell and you thudded to the ground. Amongst the dust, you could see the soldiers fall one by one with your team's sniper rounds filing through them like they were paper. Despite feeling absolute pride in their skill set, you were interrupted by a tight grip on your ankles. You turned to see a Shadow Company member crawling towards you, knife ready to attack. The adrenaline kicked in as you slammed your boot into their face and prepared to go on the offensive. As they were momentarily stunned, you took the opportunity to savagely jump on their back and crudely drag their knife along their neck. "Good night," you whispered before letting them fall to the ground with a thud. You continued to move to your target, gingerly wiping the reddened blood on your pants. Cosmo didn't question your appearance as you entered her vision and resumed the mission. When you reached the outer doors of the container, your other two remaining members had joined.

You knocked in succession, a code Laswell had told you before you departed. After a few moments of anticipation, the door slowly opened to reveal the tired and grimy faces of Price's team. You looked around and lost count of the amount of injuries you noticed and how some of their limbs were turned in unnatural ways. You could feel your chest tighten as you looked to find Kyle amongst the empty shell cartridges. You were comforted when you saw his face peer over the group. You walked over to him and hugged him tightly, savoring the feeling of knowing he was safe in your arms. "Thank you for the rescue," you could hear him whisper before he pulled you back into an embrace. "You know these lads, Garrick?" you could hear someone say. You turned to see the bruised and cut face of Soap as he tried to feign a smile. Before Kyle could respond, you were sure to make yourself and your team known. "We're not men, Sergeant," you said confidently, peeling off your dusty and blood-soaked mask, "we're the widows."

[justhereforsomethingnice]

It is ridiculously hot for this time of year where I’m at which reminds me of the climate crisis. So here, have a prompt where Danny takes over the body of a billionaire to fix first his country’s problems and then branches out to the world.

They had planned it for a long time. If it ever came to a time where Danny had to run for his life, he was going to pull out some big moves. Who would expect someone trying to lay low and not be found to take over a billionaire? Plus, with all the money he had at the tips of his fingers, who would tattel on him. With him having escaped the GIW just a day ago and his parents in prison for trying to raid a federal government lab (saving him) he had no where else to go. Besides, if he possessed someone he would ping as human, because the person was.

Chosen person? With 264 billion in the bank, it was of course Elon musk. Go big or go home! He did everything very carefully. First observed the man for two weeks, every waking moment, then he took him over. After a week of seeing if anyone would notice, he acted.

He said he had a new interest. He financed an entire city in the United States that ran off of all the new green energy initiatives and innovations. Plant electricity, solar, wave, roofs covered in greenery, amazing public transport, bike and walking safe roads, sand battery’s, red light to go against light pollution and for the first ten years, the rent would be $1. Many were suspicious, yes, but also, no rent in this economy? They’d risked it.

He branched out, paying millions into research of the climate crisis, making the field have leaps and bounds not seen in many years. Organized contests to keep the people’s competitive spirit going and awarded every brilliant mind handsomely. He hadn’t even spent 5% of his wealth yet.

With that project rolling, he moved on to affordable health care and education to keep the health care and care of the land up so when he was gone, people would still profit. That world wide mission made his wealth drop down to a measly amount of 254 billion. He bought up buildings and rented them out in many mayor cities of the world for just 10-20% of the average rent in that country (he would’ve made it free, but apparently appearances are important to upkeep). By now the world accepted that he was weirdly doing this for the betterment of the world. So he started his new projects, reforesting the entire rain forest and giving all the illegal lumbers and farmers a nice well paying job and resources to live comfortably now replanting the rainforests. Every single thing that got discovered had to be taken into account in every new restoration project world wide.

Great, the planet was healing, the people had great healthcare and the creatures on earth consumed less plastic due to alternatives he pushed through. Sam would be proud. And he still had a couple billion left to spend. Bye bye anti ecto acts. You will not be missed.

The end. This was more self fulfilling ranting about climate change and universal health care while also shitting on billionaires then a fic or prompt. But those assholes need to get off their high stacks of gold and actually do something good with it for once. Fucking asshats >:(

Also, if you want to make it a cross over or if this does already exist like with Danny trying this while taking over Bruce, Oliver, Aquaman or hell even ra’s al ghul, Lex luthor or vandal savage I will read that. Over all take home message: Fuck billionaires, eat the rich

[equallyshaw]

invisible string. | jay halsted x marine + detective.

word count: 12k warnings: ptsd, trauma, some making out + decade long pining. lol

this story takes over a course of about 10 years, snippets from each meeting. enjoy!

also, im in my pd era rn lol | masterlist.

Years after war shaped them and the city nearly broke them, Pearl Delmar and Jay Halstead remain tethered by something unseen — a thread of gold neither time nor distance could sever. Once partners in Chicago’s Intelligence Unit, their connection ran deeper than badge numbers or battlefield scars. But Pearl left — without a word, without a goodbye — returning ther home of San Diego. . All she left behind was a letter…Over a decade passes, their lives unfolding apart yet circling the same ache. When fate threads them together once more, they’re forced to face what was left unsaid. Love, pain, regret — and the gold tags they now wear for each other, proof of the invisible string that never truly snapped.

Some people call it fate. Others call it timing.

Whatever it was, it had pulled Jay Halstead and Pearl Delmar together like a tether. A near-invisible thread — stretched across time zones, sleepless nights, and unspoken scars. They met not in peace, but in aftermath. Not in calm, but in chaos. Him — the Army sniper turned detective. Her — the Marine turned K-9 handler turned detective with a temper like fire and eyes that never stayed still for long.

They were mismatched. Water and oil. Sand and stone. And yet… they fit.

She made coffee too strong. He left his boots in her hallway. They never talked about what it was — this thing between them — because they didn’t have to. It lived in the space between their shoulders on stakeouts, in the way they moved in sync on raids, in the quiet comfort of her leaning on him when sleep wouldn't come.

They stitched each other back together. One scar, one laugh, one storm at a time.

There were moments that felt like forever. Like maybe this was it. That they'd finally outrun the war inside them.

But not all threads hold forever.

She left. No goodbye. No warning. Just vanished into the sun-scorched sand of the Middle East — again.

Only a single letter for him, left in her wake.

-

Pearl had seen hell— Hell on Earth, overseas. Her worst deployment yet, and when she finally got a chance to leave, she took it.

This round left more than scars. It left a wound she'd carry for the rest of her life.

She was always running from it, and somehow, it always caught up.

She landed in Chicago—Midway Airport—at 6 a.m. A cold, steel sky greeted her, but it was home.

Her brother, Elliot, and his wife, Jana, stood waiting with flowers and a sign that read: Welcome home.

Pearl’s combat uniform stood out like a sore thumb among the tank tops and flip-flops that dotted the terminal.

Jana beamed, pulling Pearl into a crushing hug, the kind only sisters could give. “You’re really here,” she whispered, kissing Pearl on the temple before stepping aside for Elliot.

He grinned, eyes crinkling, and lifted her clean off the ground in a bear hug. “You’re not carrying that,” he said as he took her bag despite her protests.

Together, they walked to the car.

“We’re celebrating your birthday today!” Jana announced cheerfully.

Pearl sighed. “My birthday was three weeks ago.”

“Big age. Thirty-six,” Elliot muttered, nudging her with a smile.

Jana opened the passenger door with a smirk. “Don’t care. No protests.”

As Elliot pulled onto the expressway, he handed her a sealed envelope.

“CPD left this at the door for you.”

Pearl’s brows furrowed as she opened it. She skimmed the letter: The department was offering her the option to return. Discretionary. No pressure.

She folded the letter, pressed it flat on the dash, and looked out the window.

“Can we stop at the precinct?” she asked softly.

Elliot nodded.

“You talk to anyone since you left?” Jana asked from the back seat.

Pearl sighed. “Kept in touch with one of them. Letters, mostly. Then… they stopped.”

The last letter still lived inside her leather-bound journal. No hint it’d be the final one.

And then, Geneva. A few nights on furlough, spent with her former K-9 unit commander. Old fire rekindled. Quiet. Complicated. And, as always, when they returned to base— Nothing changed.

The precinct hadn’t changed either. Brick walls still held the weight of Prohibition. Same creaky steps. Same ghosts.

“I can drop you off another day, P,” Elliot offered.

She shook her head. “Only way I’ll adjust is by getting back into it. I need normal again.”

“Ten minutes,” she said, stepping out.

Her Apple Watch vibrated. Heart rate: Elevated.

She clutched her green cap, her boots tapping softly across the pavement.

Officers nodded at her as she passed, respectful and curious.

Up the steps—precise, practiced. Marine-like.

As she entered, her eyes landed on Trudy Platt behind the desk. Trudy froze mid-conversation and scoffed.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the wind blew in.”

Pearl smirked. “Five Hail Marys for that language, Sergeant Platt.”

The patrolmen stepped aside to let her through.

“Furlough?”

She shook her head. “No. I took a leave of absence for a while.”

Trudy noticed everything—the dark circles, the twitch in her hand, the constant fidgeting. She could see it. Pearl didn’t know how to be a civilian.

Her body knew war. Now, this—this was the new battlefield.

Trudy remembered Pearl’s first day's like it was yesterday. The outburst on the floor. Screaming at her partner. The move upstairs to Intelligence.

Voight loved her fire. Her switch—off until danger was near.

Jay had been frozen. Lindsay had grinned, smacked his arm, and said, "Take notes, Halstead."

Pearl was a handler in every sense—read behavior like a book, thanks to years of training with military psychologists. A tracker. A tactician. Tactical Queen, Lindsay once called her. It stuck.

Pearl had become the unit’s unofficial mom. Always keeping everyone alive. Barely.

Now, she stood here—a shell of that woman. But Trudy knew, deep down, that Pearl belonged back on the force.

“Hank’s upstairs,” Trudy said gently. “I’ll buzz you in.”

She paused. “Still like glazed?”

Pearl nodded.

Trudy winked. “Got a box in the back.”

Pearl climbed the stairs. The soft buzz of the door felt like a defibrillator to her soul.

She paused at the landing—just out of sight.

Cracked her knuckles. Straightened up. Marine mode: activated.

Below, the unit worked like any other day. Paperwork. Phones. No one expected her.

Antonio Dawson looked up first. He saw the boots.

“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, standing slowly.

Ruzek noticed next. His grin split wide. “The queen has returned!” he shouted.

Heads turned. Hailey squealed. Kim shrieked. Kevin laughed.

Jay Halstead didn’t move. He just stared.

Antonio pulled her into a hug. She hesitated, then melted into it.

Hailey hugged her hard, shaking her like a snow globe.

Ruzek kissed her cheek like always. Kim followed with a quick embrace.

Then:

“Delmar,” came the gravelly voice from the office. Hank Voight.

She met his gaze, eyes wide, unsure.

“Alright, alright, let her breathe,” he said. “Come here.”

As she walked toward him, she passed Jay. Their eyes met—soft and stunned.

In Voight’s office, she jumped slightly as the door clicked shut.

He noticed. Of course, he did.

“You want your old job back?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

She sighed. “It’s like last time. I need something—anything—to help me adjust.”

“To find normal,” he finished.

“Exactly. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t ready, sir.”

He studied her, then stood and extended a hand.

“Alright. See you tomorrow. Eight a.m.”

7 am, Jay thought. Just like before.

-

She’d been back six months. Six months of readjusting—months that felt like hell on earth. She believed death would be more welcoming, easier, less painful.

Her PTSD was constant, creeping in at the worst moments. There were times she thought she wouldn’t become conscious again—cognizant enough to know right from wrong, left from right.

No one understood. No one truly understood the turmoil, the feeling of being trapped inside your own mind with no escape.

Except Jay.

She and Jay had bonded over PTSD, war stories, and basic training tales when she first arrived on the steps of Chicago.

She’d call late at night, and he’d come running. He’d stop her after work, as they were leaving, asking if she wanted to grab dinner—she’d always say yes. For four years, they became partners in the most platonic way possible.

Sure, at work they were partners, but outside the precinct, within each other's apartment walls—they were comrades, veterans together, the best of kin. They understood each other on a level no one else in the force could. Both knew what it was like to have their minds replay the worst moments of their lives—retraumatizing themselves with death, pain, and anger.

Death of their platoons. Pain of their wounds, both mental and physical. Anger at the war, the daily struggles, and the guilt of not saving their brothers and sisters.

They had met by destiny, by chance.

There was a bond—a love no one could touch. Silent, yet deafeningly loud.

But despite the good, it became poisoned.

Pearl left mid-episode, playing the part of cognizant Pearl, to say goodbye to Hank.

She’d left Jay’s apartment that morning after his nightmare kept him up most of the night. Somehow, she was sucked into her own walking nightmare the minute he finished explaining. She’d left Jay that day softly snoozing, in a rare state of tranquility.

And yet, waking up to an empty bed, cold and folded over—would be forever etched on his mind.

Pearl didn’t show up to work that day—the 24-degree mid-January morning.

She’d been back six months now, trying her goddamn hardest to readjust. But this time, it was different.

She found out why Jay had stopped writing her—he’d found someone.

Natalia. A Chicago-born gal who worked at Chicago Med.

The unit had been at Molly’s when she met Natalia for the first time, and Pearl had to bite back her usual snarky, radioactive remarks—more out of respect for Jay than anything else. Stella pulled her into the firehouse group that night, distracting her from the detective.

Pearl no longer called Jay, suffering in silence, trapped in her own mind. Most nights, she just lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

Then, when the alarm rang, she’d put on the perfect smile and head out for the day.

Despite running on no sleep for at least 48 hours. Running on caffeine and prayers.

-

But she didn’t show up this morning. The unit was worried. No calls, no texts, no emails—nothing.

Kim mentioned something about her brother and sister-in-law, and people assumed emergency—they’d just found out she was pregnant.

No one knew the purgatory playing out inside Pearl’s Lincoln Park condo.

Glass shattered on the floor. Her mind was hazy. She couldn’t think straight or see clearly.

Her episodes had gotten worse recently—she’d lose her sight for minutes at a time. Thankfully, never on shift. She couldn’t afford to.

She sat against the wall, back to the hallway. The empty red wine bottle lay on the floor beside her. Her hands were cut and dried with blood from the shattered glass. She stared up at the ceiling, silently sobbing, asking why the universe had to bestow such anguish—a badge of dishonor, a mark that would stain her forever.

Pearl opened the Uber app on her phone, needing more drinks. Anything to knock her out for the night. To end this torment.

She stood up, dazed and swaying. Ignoring the dried blood on her feet, she slipped on her Doc Martens over faded blue jeans and threw on an oversized winter coat.

The Uber driver didn’t ask questions, dropping her off at Molly’s.

She stumbled stepping out of the mid-size SUV, slamming the door shut. Her body winced at the sound.

Carefully, she walked inside the bar, making sure she didn’t fall over her own feet.

She didn’t recognize the familiar faces. Didn’t look around. Made a beeline to the bar.

“Hey Delmar, want the usual?” Hermann asked, placing a soft hand on her shoulder as a greeting.

She pulled away, nearly falling off the stool.

“You okay?” Hermann’s voice softened, concern thick in his gaze.

“I just don’t know you—that’s all. But can I get a whiskey? Neat. Double,” she said, tapping her hands on the wooden bar with a slight demanding edge.

Hermann’s eyes flickered to the intelligence unit watching her from behind, concern mirrored there.

Stella noticed too, making her way over.

“Hey Pearl, how are you?! We’ve missed you around here,” Stella said, flashing her famous warm, inviting smile as she sat beside her.

Pearl’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Huh?” she stuttered.

“Are you feeling okay, P?” Stella asked softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” Pearl screamed, pushing away and nearly slipping off the stool—if Stella hadn’t caught her.

Jay knew what this was.

He bolted without a word, grabbing her gently within a few steps.

“Hey—hey—hey, P,” he said softly, turning her toward him so their eyes met.

Pearl’s eyebrows creased in confusion.

“It’s me. It’s me, Jay,” he said softly—and that’s when the dam broke.

Her mouth opened slightly before a trembling hand covered it, anxiety and embarrassment flooding her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered like a mantra, a prayer.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Let’s go.” He slipped an arm around her and led her out the front door.

Jay took her back to his apartment, not trusting that she was of sound mind to go home.

There, he noticed the dried blood on her hands. He grabbed his first aid kit quickly, sitting her down at the kitchen counter.

“First aid Jay—my heart—how could I ever repay you?” she teased weakly.

He chuckled softly.

If she was the mother of the group, he was always first aid Jay—coming in as backup once she confirmed everyone was alive.

They didn’t talk much. She kept apologizing, but he wouldn’t hear it.

He was just grateful she was alive and sitting in front of him.

Then came the sobs, as she came down from her warped sense of reality.

Jay wrapped his arms around her as if no time had passed, just like before.

They fell asleep on his couch, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Yet, when the sun broke through the windows, she was gone.

Only the ghost of her perfume and the faint scent of alcohol wipes were left in her wake.

-

Six months later.

She’d been with the unit a year now- and a year out of the Marines. For now, at least.

She and Jay passed each other like ghosts of who they used to be. Who they were together. Who they were apart.

Pearl was still falling apart, it seemed. The descent felt endless. And she was terrified that it would be endless.

The unit did their best to comfort her, to offer company, keep her focused and sharp. Some days, that was harder than others.

Today, Pearl sat at her desk, one leg tapping rhythmically beneath her. A grounding trick. Her eyes scanned the file—front and back, twice—when Adam’s voice rang out:

“Oh my god, a puppy!”

Everyone looked up. Everyone except Pearl. She was underlining something when Hank spoke.

“Did someone adopt a mascot and forget to tell me?”

His gruff voice cracked through the air. That’s when Pearl finally looked up.

And her heart dropped. Then soared.

Echo.

Two weeks ago, she’d gotten an email from her old Sergeant—the one she spent too much time with in Geneva. The message was brief: Her partner, Echo, was up for retirement.

She’d trained him from day one of K-9. He’d been with her on every deployment. A piece of her soul.

And now… she could take him home. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to keep carrying a missing piece of herself everywhere she went.

“Echo,” she whispered, tears immediately welling.

Echo cried out too—eager, electric, tail thudding against the tile as he waited for the go-ahead.

One nod.

That’s all it took.

He barreled toward her, and Pearl dropped to her knees just in time to catch him.

His tongue found her cheeks immediately—one year of separation and sorrow swept away in licks and laughter.

“Guter Junge,” she whispered in German through giggles. “Good boy.”

Everyone in the bullpen was smiling. Jay’s eyes shone with unshed tears.

Echo finally stepped back, sitting without command. Loyal to the bone.

Pearl stood, placing one last kiss on his head, and walked to her former sergeant—her once-lover. She extended her hand.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

He took it with a kind smile.

“Don’t be a stranger now, Delmar.”

Jay watched the way the man looked at her. Soft. Familiar. Something once intimate still flickering behind his eyes. Jay knew. They all did.

Echo, still alert, locked eyes with Hank. The older man stared back expressionless.

“More of a cat person, Marine,” Hank muttered.

Jay snorted quietly.

Voight cleared his throat.

“How about a little furlough today, Delmar?”

Pearl’s eyes widened. She glanced between Echo and Voight.

“Are you sure?” she asked, hesitantly.

Voight nodded, taking a sip of his coffee.

“You two deserve it. We’ve got it covered.”

Pearl exhaled her gratitude, gathered her things, and clipped Echo’s leather leash with practiced ease. She moved quickly, walking out of the bullpen like she had a mission again.

Jay watched her go.

And he hoped—God, he prayed— that this was the start of her next chapter.

-

One month later, she had her worst PTSD episode yet—at work, at least.

They were moving on a warehouse on the Southside when it hit—a bang of metal clanging sharp and sudden through the air.

She was going in with Voight, a few steps behind him, when it happened. They passed right outside a door when her breathing quickened, her mind shifting to automatic like a trigger pulled without thought. There was no going back, not for a while. Her mind blanked, her hearing dulled, and her vision vanished—gone for the moment.

She cried out, sobbing instantly, bracing herself against the cold brick wall. Voight was mid-sentence, barking orders when she started to go down. He caught her just in time, lowering her to the ground.

“Go in, go in! I’m staying back,” Voight ordered.

“Stay with me, Delmar.” His voice was firm as he held her, slapping her face—not hard, but enough to shock her back.

Her eyes flickered uncontrollably, tears streaming down.

“I can’t see! I can’t see, Voight!” she sobbed. He stopped, his hands steadying her face.

“Officer down. I repeat, officer down. Need an ambo at 3211 South Belmont Avenue, now!” Voight barked into his radio.

Jay, across the building, took off running. He ignored Antonio screaming after him.

He knew what was happening.

He was all gut. She was all pattern.

“Stay back, Halstead!” Voight yelled into the radio, but Jay was already in sight.

Pearl clutched Voight’s arms like a lifeline—something to anchor her to this world.

“My eyes!” she shrieked as Jay closed in.

Voight’s face betrayed his terror. Big, bad Hank Voight, shaken to his core.

“I said stay back!” he yelled at Jay.

But Jay didn’t answer. His hands found her cheeks, steadying her.

“Pearl!” His voice cracked with panic.

“I told you to stay back, goddammit!” Voight yelled again.

Jay locked eyes with him. “I’m not leaving her. You can’t ask me to do that.” he snapped.

Voight was stunned, silenced.

Unfortunately, Jay’s radio was on. Everyone heard it as the ambulance rolled up.

Pearl curled into Jay’s side. His demeanor softened; he whispered to her, promising it would be okay.

Then she was ripped from his arms, Brett and Mikami pulling her onto the gurney with Voight’s help.

When Jay pushed to go with her, Voight held him back.

“We have a job to finish,” Voight said. Jay stayed behind.

That moment would be a mark on their relationship from then on.

Because the last look on her face would forever be stitched into Jay’s soul.

Standing there, helpless, without the freedom to act—feeling like he was back in uniform, thousands of miles away across the ocean.

Forever trapped in that torment.

Unable to save the girl he’d loved for far too long.

Unable to protect her from the mind that threatened to consume her—once and for all.

-

He never saw her again after that—well, not for a few years.

The last image he carried, one that haunted his nightmares in every variation imaginable, was of her in pain. Mental anguish. Being ripped from his arms, her mind spiraling, while he was ordered to stand down and stay back.

In that moment, he felt like he was back in the Army—taking orders from a sergeant and forced to obey. He’d forgotten what that helplessness felt like.

Depleting. Deafening. And, honestly, it broke him.

Pearl was sent back to San Diego three days later, to her childhood home on Mission Beach. Her parents took her in. She quit the force, passing word through Trudy once she was lucid enough to form the words. She called her brother and sister-in-law to pack her a couple of bags and bring Echo to the hospital. Pearl was leaving Chicago—for good, she hoped. It had always been a stopover, never the final destination. Whatever that destination was.

That first night home, Pearl finally slept. Soundly. For the first time in months.

Echo curled beside her, breathing easier as he recognized her once-familiar rhythm. The waves outside her window sang her to sleep, and she didn’t wake for 14 hours.

Without much thought, she slipped on her gym shoes, grabbed her headphones, and walked Echo down to the beach. The sun kissed her skin, warm and soft, like a quiet baptism. She smiled up at the sky and let herself be washed in its gold.

Later, she sat in the sand, pulling Echo close for a quick photo. Her sleeves were rolled up on a white flannel shirt, worn over blue jean shorts that looked like they’d seen better days. Her well-loved California rainbow sandals peeked out at the bottom of the frame. And her smile—genuine and wide—was something she hadn’t worn in a long time.

A week later, she pulled out her tried-and-true blank stationery cards.

Dear Jay, There will never be enough words to explain how sorry I am for leaving again—without saying goodbye. I just want you to know: I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m well-rested. And I finally got my açaí bowl... and my Spanish coffee.

She smiled at the memory—Jay showing up at random hours, hands full with bowls packed with oats, cocoa nibs, granola, fruit, and cinnamon. She always muttered “Bless your heart” under her breath as a joke. He’d roll his eyes, then show up later with coffee mid-shift to make sure she was caffeinated enough to fight back the exhaustion eating at her soul.

Please know that I’m alright, and I’ll write again soon.— Pearl

P.S. Here’s a shell—I picked it up on my first walk with Echo. My dad used to say seashells are the way to someone’s soul. That if you hold one close, it remembers something for you. A feeling. A person. A moment. I thought maybe this one could remember something for you too. Maybe peace. Maybe hope. Or maybe just the sound of the sea when things get too loud.

She also slipped in the photo from her first day back—the smile he hadn’t seen since before. Before deployment. Before the weight of the world took hold.

Before everything changed.

-

Jay and Pearl wrote to each other for the next two years, filling each other in on civilian life. The good, the bad, the ugly — you name it, they shared it all.

Jay confessed that even after more than ten years out of the Army, he still struggled. He wrestled with adjusting to civilian life, haunted by the fact that some of his platoon hadn’t been so lucky to make it home.

They talked about the state of the world, politics, the TV shows they binge-watched to distract themselves from nightmares, how she was settling into her new role at the Marine base as a K-9 trainer, how the intelligence unit was doing, and, of course, the everyday mundane things.

Their letters spanned pages, arriving weekly or bi-weekly. Both eagerly anticipated mail time, never knowing if a new letter had come in.

Trudy always wore a knowing smirk when Jay stopped by the front desk, patiently waiting to ask if the mail had arrived that day. She once joked that he should get a job at the post office — to make her life easier.

They shared the heavy realities of the guilt they carried daily, the difficult decisions not to return to active duty. They couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt—knowing they had the rare choice to stay out, a choice most active members never had or would have again.

_

Another year had passed when Jay told her he was leaving Chicago.

He was reenlisting.

She hadn’t seen it coming.

Pearl had truly believed that after everything—after the trauma, the bloodshed, the rebuilding—Jay Halstead wouldn’t set foot on a base again. Wouldn’t wear the uniform. Wouldn’t walk back into the storm.

But if there was one thing she’d learned about Jay, it was this: he never walked away from a fight if someone still needed saving.

It was such a Jay Halstead thing to do, she supposed.

Still, it didn’t stop the ache in her chest when he said the words. It didn’t quiet the voice in her mind that screamed you could lose him.

Pearl was honest with him. Painfully so. But she was also supportive, because she understood. She understood how it felt to still need the mission, even when the mission had almost broken you.

It took everything in her to not beg him to stay. To not ask him to choose her over duty.

Because she remembered too well the long months where her own uniform had stayed neatly folded in a drawer, and how that reality had gnawed at her every day.

It ate her alive—this knowing she wasn’t on the field anymore, that she wasn’t out there making a difference. She carried guilt like armor.

But the only thing that had kept her grounded—kept her alive—was Jay.

So she let him go. With grace. With faith.

Before he left, she pressed her hands to his chest and promised she’d be praying to the stars for his safety. She told him she loved him. And that Echo would remind him, in his own stubborn way, to not do anything reckless.

A week later, she received a letter from him—short and simple.

"Scouts honor"

_

Jay’s letter had arrived twice that week—once on Monday, and again on Friday—just as Pearl was winding down after a long day of housework in her little Oceanside abode.

She furrowed her brows at the unexpected envelope, fingers pausing for only a beat before she carefully tore it open.

Her eyes scanned the words too fast, heart racing ahead of her mind. She had to read it again, slower this time, to make sure she hadn’t imagined it.

He was asking her to meet him in Buenos Aires.

If she could.

Jay knew she was working out of the base in San Diego County. He also knew just how much PTO she’d racked up over the last several months. He told her to bring Echo along, too—said the old boy deserved a trip just as much as they did.

Pearl smiled down at her most faithful companion, who was already watching her with expectant eyes.

“Guess we’re going on a trip, Bear,” she murmured, ruffling his ears with a soft laugh.

_

Two weeks later, she found herself walking through the cobbled paths of Plaza de Mayo, toward the meeting spot Jay had suggested. Her steps were steady, but her heart was anything but.

Her anxiety was a living thing in her chest — clawing, loud, insistent. What if it was a joke? What if he changed his mind?

Jay didn’t immediately recognize the woman standing in the distance — but he did recognize Echo.

She had her back to him, snapping photos of the square. Echo, ever the soldier at her side, stood tall and focused beside her, alert and loyal as ever.

Jay smiled, already hearing her voice in his head, and called out, “Was worried you wouldn’t show.”

She turned quickly — too quickly — and twisted herself into Echo’s leash.

Jay lunged forward instinctively, his hands gripping her arms as she stumbled, steadying her before she could hit the ground.

A startled laugh escaped her, breathless and slightly embarrassed. His eyes searched hers, scanning for injury — or maybe just confirmation that she was real.

She was. Real, and standing right in front of him.

His hands stayed on her forearms a second too long, reluctant to let go.

“I was worried you would flake on me,” she replied with a crooked grin, sarcasm laced in her tone, “but then I remembered that Army transportation is, what’s the word—ah, yes—notoriously slow and disorganized.”

Jay grinned, eyes crinkling. “Hi to you too, Delmar.” He dropped into a crouch beside Echo.

Echo didn’t hesitate — no sniff test, no hesitation. He leapt into Jay’s chest like he hadn’t seen him in years, tail wagging, tongue out, pure joy radiating from him.

Dogs always knew the good ones.

Jay stood, brushing fur off his jacket. “So. There’s a bar a few blocks that way — killer fish tacos, strong margaritas, and guac that might make you cry.” He nodded back toward the street.

She tilted her head, amused. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did. If I recall correctly, you dragged Dawson up to karaoke right after our last taco night. Gabby too. Severide and Casey had to physically remove you two from the stage so Antonio could finish singing ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”

She groaned, covering her face. “I had the worst hangover the next day. But that night? That was a good one.”

Jay smirked. “Second round tonight?”

She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, Halstead.”

Three margaritas later — stomachs full of tacos, guac, and laughter — Jay walked her and Echo back toward her hotel.

There was something different about her now. A lightness to the way she carried herself. Like a stone had finally rolled off her chest.

“I haven’t had an episode in almost a year,” she shared, voice soft. “My psychiatrist thinks I’m turning a corner. I don’t know what ‘normal’ means anymore... if it ever existed. But this? Days like this? It feels like a start.”

Jay nodded, choosing his words carefully when she asked about his deployment. She didn’t need details. She knew. The weight, the reality of it all — still fresh, still heavy. But she also knew these moments — this sliver of peace — were sacred.

They paused at the steps of her hotel. Echo’s ears perked as a nearby band played, couples spinning in rhythm to a vibrant Mexican love song. She smiled softly, eyes drifting to Jay — who was already watching her.

“Uh—” “I—” They both stumbled, laughing like two idiots caught in something much bigger than them.

She took a breath. “Would you want to come up?”

His gaze flickered away, momentarily guarded. But when his eyes found hers again, something inside him ignited.

He nodded, silent but certain.

She reached out. He took her hand.

Upstairs, she unclipped Echo’s leash, letting him curl up by the window with a full belly and a sleepy huff. The room was quiet, save for the city sounds drifting through the cracked window.

She turned back—and Jay was already moving toward her.

Their kiss was magnetic. All the time, distance, and unspoken feelings pulled tight and finally snapping loose.

What once had been water and oil—now churned together like butter, warm and effortless.

His hands slid up the side of her waist, reverent, familiar, and she helped him peel off her black tank top. They stumbled slightly, laughing against each other’s lips before he scooped her into his arms and tossed her gently over his shoulder.

She shrieked in surprise, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Jay!”

He laid her down carefully on the bed, then hovered just long enough to take her in — every freckle, every scar.

God, she was beautiful.

And it wasn’t just the way she looked. It was the way she was. The way she had laughed earlier. The calm confidence that had slowly replaced the storm in her eyes.

He kissed her again. Slower this time.

They undressed each other without rush — no shame, no fear. Just need. History. Love.

His fingers traced stories written on her skin. Her mouth pressed gratitude into every inch of his.

“I swear to God, Halstead, if you—”

He shut her up with a kiss, hungry and soft.

She gripped his shirt, muttering, “Finally,” and pulled it off, exposing him in the amber glow of the bedside lamp.

He looked like strength personified — but she knew how much of him was stitched together with hope and heartbreak.

And in that moment, as she gazed up at him, something fragile and profound passed between them.

She faltered — just slightly — insecurity flashing in her expression.

Jay saw it. He leaned in, gently shifting her back, slowing them down.

He needed her to know: this wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just a night.

This was them.

Clothes shed. Breath tangled. Hearts cracked open.

What they shared wasn’t frantic or hurried. It was deliberate. Healing. Sacred.

Their bodies collided with something soft and steady — the rare kind of intimacy born from shared pain and hard-won trust.

He looked at her like she was everything.

And she looked at him like he might be the only thing that ever made sense.

Because they both knew — without saying a word — this was more than they expected. More than they'd let themselves believe.

And that scared them.

Because no one knew what tomorrow held. And nothing in their lives had ever been guaranteed. But this? This moment was real. And for now, it was enough. If there ever was such a thing.

_

The image of her leaving and walking into the Mexican airport would be etched in his mind for some time. Though their four days together would overshadow that moment, always.

The two of them continued to correspond for the next nine months, when he sent a letter asking her if she would meet him in Rio in three months.

It has been one year since their last trip.

Her mind immediately replayed their last night together. It had been hot, heavy, and emotional.

All these years not confronting or speaking about thoughts or feelings, boiled over.

And yet, none of their letters had touched on any of it.

It was business as usual between them.

Yet, against her judgement, she wanted more.

But Jay was in no position. It wasn't fair for him, she thought, if she had said anything.

Besides, he was aware of her, but not in the way she wanted, she thought.

_

Rio.

Hot, humid, and full of good tequila.

Her shoulder-length brown hair held soft waves this time—different from her long, cowboy-copper strands of the past. The ash brown had crept back in over the last year, and she welcomed it. She felt like herself again. Finally at home in her own skin, her own story.

Jay stood at the gate, his eyes scanning the crowd, flicking from one traveler to another. His shoulders were tense, a hand resting on the strap of his duffel.

And then he saw her.

There she was—her weekend bag slung over one shoulder, her passport and phone clutched in one hand, a beat-up metal water bottle swinging casually in the other. No rush in her steps. No nerves. Just her.

But Echo was nowhere in sight.

His heart skipped a beat—not the good kind.

“Hi!” she called out with a wide grin, and his fears evaporated as they both moved toward each other, the hug happening naturally—like they hadn’t skipped a beat.

“Hey,” he murmured against her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla and sandalwood. Still her. Always her.

He pulled back slightly, brow quirking as he took in the new hair. “You changed it,” he commented with a small smile, and she giggled, brushing a piece behind her ear.

“It was time,” she replied with a shrug, her smile softening.

He looked over her shoulder. “Where’s Echo?” he asked, already reaching for her bag without needing to be told.

She exhaled, her smile dipping into something gentler. “He’s with my parents for the weekend,” she said, watching his face. “Everything’s okay,” she added quickly when concern flickered in his eyes. “He just... he prefers naps to airplanes these days. He’s earned that right.”

Jay nodded, a smirk curling on his lips. “I’m glad that’s all. He’s a good guy.”

“A very good guy,” she agreed, voice warm as they slid into the car he’d rented.

They drove along the Rio coast, windows down, the breeze tugging strands of hair from her face. The city buzzed around them, music drifting from open-air bars and beachside shacks. Brunch was vibrant—sugar-dusted pastries, eggs with too much chili, and mimosas poured too generously for someone running on adrenaline and not enough sleep.

They hadn’t planned on falling into bed that fast.

But plans were for people with better self-control.

Maybe it was the warmth of Rio. The way it clung to her skin, bringing color to her cheeks and light to her eyes. Maybe it was the way she laughed with her whole chest now, her guard down in a way he hadn’t seen since... before.

Maybe it was the mimosas. Maybe it was muscle memory.

Or maybe it was them.

Pearl hadn’t expected to feel it this intensely again—this magnetism, this fire. She was flirty, bold, unfiltered in a way she hadn’t let herself be in a long time. He responded in kind. One shared glance turned too long, one brush of his hand over hers too soft, too intentional.

The air between them crackled the whole ride back to the hotel.

By the time they reached the door, the tension had built into something that dared them to ignore it.

She fumbled with the keycard. He stood too close behind her.

"You remember which room we're in?" she asked without turning around, voice playful, breath already a little uneven.

He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her neck. "Only if you're in it."

Her laugh was soft. Nervous. Hopeful.

Inside, the door clicked shut behind them, and—

_

They hadn’t meant to fall into bed. But the morning sun filtering through gauzy curtains didn’t seem to care.

Pearl stirred first, curled against his chest, the rhythm of his breathing slow and steady beneath her cheek. The sheets were tangled at their waists, the air thick with the scent of skin and last night’s hotel lavender.

She blinked slowly, taking in the curve of his jaw, the faint scar near his collarbone, the dog tag chain still around his neck. Familiar. Sacred. Still hers, in the quietest way. A part of her had always memorized him like this. Just in case.

Jay shifted beneath her, his voice gravel-soft. “You always this cuddly after mimosas?”

Pearl huffed a laugh, her fingertips tracing an idle line over his chest. “Only with people I’ve known in three lifetimes.”

He let that sit for a moment. Then: “I missed this.” His tone wasn’t teasing. “I missed you.”

Pearl’s breath caught, just a bit. “You could’ve said something. Before now.” Slightly teasing.

“I didn’t know how,” he said, eyes meeting hers. “And I guess I thought maybe you were better off. Without… this.”

Him being here. Her being home in San Diego, training puppies. While he was trying to make it home.

“Jay.” Her voice was soft. Too soft. “You were the only thing keeping me breathing some days.”

His hand slid along her spine, grounding them both. “I don’t know what we are anymore. But I never stopped feeling it.”

She nodded, eyes pricking. “Neither did I.”

A beat of silence stretched between them—full of possibility, hesitation, and everything that had gone unsaid.

Then, with a smirk that barely masked the way his voice cracked, he whispered: “So… breakfast?”

Pearl laughed, burying her face in his chest. “God, yes. But you're not getting out of this talk forever.”

“I’d never want to.”

And somehow, even though nothing had been declared… something had been spoken.

_

They never did, in fact, finish that conversation. But they did spend their afternoons barefoot on the beach, their evenings sipping tequila in hole-in-the-wall dives, and their nights tangled together in that narrow, borrowed bed.

She returned to the beaches of Oceanside unsure of where they stood.

The way he spoke—so openly, so unlike him—meant something. But he was still too unsure to voice what or how he felt. Just like she was.

So they continued as usual. Their correspondents. Their limbo.

Until the phone call came. She never got phone calls.

Jay. Tennessee. Outpatient rehab. Rubble from a bomb. Three to four months. He wanted her there. No—he needed her there.

That night, she had her first nightmare in over three years.

That night, her mind made up for all the slow and steady years lost. Years where nothing shifted. Years she spent trying to feel steady again.

She clutched her dog tags to her chest as Echo curled at her feet, offering what comfort he could. The cold steel kept her grounded—reminded her she was still standing, ten toes down, on this side of the veil.

Her tags meant she was still here. They were still here. They hadn’t been given to someone else.

By sunrise, she and Echo slipped into the airport for a red-eye. Alert. Exhausted. Awake. Coffee and croissants were her only lifeline that morning.

They landed outside of Nashville just after 8 a.m.

Jay was already there. Sling on his arm. Waiting, patient. Waiting for his lifeline. His compass.

His smile stretched wide when he spotted her—and she didn’t hesitate. She picked up her pace, Echo right at her side.

Without a word, they fell into each other’s arms like they’d been doing it for decades. Like it was second nature. Familiar. Home.

Echo sat patiently beside them, smart enough to wait his turn—and wise enough not to jostle the injured shoulder.

The three of them walked out the doors, hand in hand, and straight into the next few months.

Three long months.

The epitome of domestic bliss.

Fresh coffee every morning from a French press. Daily walks through the neighborhood. Fights over how Jay folded his laundry. Him judging her dish-loading skills.

And of course— The unspoken sweetness of sex. Soft, passionate, intoxicating sex.

But they kept pretending it was nothing. No big deal. Just two people… coping.

Except it was everything. It was the first thing on their minds when they woke, and the last thing pressing on them when their heads hit the pillow.

Everyone around them saw it. Something deeper. Something settled. Painfully domestic.

They played the part of partners too well. So well it terrified them.

Because they both knew what came next.

The unknown. War. Death. The possibility Jay wouldn’t escape it again. Wouldn’t outrun it this time.

She’d always said she could never be an armed forces wife. Because she couldn’t live with the thought of losing her partner to war. She had already lost enough of herself to one. She couldn’t imagine losing someone else—especially not the one she was meant to spend her life with.

That’s why there had been Nico McDowell.

Her other sergeant. The one she’d spent too many nights with in Geneva to ever make it anything more.

She always told herself it was just a distraction. A way to be close to someone—intimately, temporarily. Just enough to survive the long months. The endless days of dust, fear, and fire.

So even now, even in domestic bliss with Jay, it all struck a nerve.

Because no matter how good it felt… It reminded her of what could never truly be.

_

Their last day in Tennessee, Jay invited her to spend a few final days in Savannah, Georgia—his last three days of leave before shipping back out to South America.

They’d overheard a couple raving about it in a restaurant weeks earlier, and after a little digging, Jay had decided it was the place. Quiet, coastal, full of charm. He wanted one last escape before heading back into the chaos. But more than anything, he wanted to spend it with her. Only her.

Pearl had agreed with a smile on her face—the kind of smile she reserved for everyone else. The one that didn’t reach her eyes.

The two of them were a slow, aching unravel. This—whatever this was—was dying, and they were going down with the ship.

After a warm day of wandering through Savannah’s sunlit squares and draping moss-lined paths, they returned to their rented room, where the night was quiet, hushed, and calm. They held each other like they had the night before a mission—full of tenderness, full of fear. It was the calm before the storm.

The next morning, she slipped out early for a run with Echo. Her legs moved through the still streets, but her mind was loud—racing with everything she wouldn’t say.

Back in the kitchen, she made coffee and stirred together some oatmeal, her fingers absently holding her mini gold dog tag like a lifeline.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that she and Jay were a ticking time bomb, and that this—this fragile, beautiful thing between them—was one mortar blast away from being obliterated.

Jay padded in, greeting Echo with a gentle rub before the dog nestled beneath the breakfast nook. He stepped up behind Pearl, pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, and reached for a coffee mug beside her hand.

She felt her cheeks warm as his arm wrapped around her waist. She leaned into him slowly, gratefully, grounding herself in his warmth—while the cold press of her dog tag kept her steady.

A compass. A lifeline.

Jay’s gaze dipped down to the delicate chain, brow creasing. “What’s that?” he asked.

Pearl glanced down, then up at him with a faint smile. “My parents had it made when I got back from my fourth tour in 2008,” she said, fingers brushing the tag. “It’s a smaller version of my dog tags. My parents still have the originals back home. I didn’t start wearing it again until this year.”

She turned slightly in his arms, her hands finding the counter’s edge behind her. His eyes held hers, as if searching for more—searching for the part she didn’t say.

He didn’t press her. Instead, he bent his head and kissed her forehead, slow and steady.

That was answer enough. Her silence said everything.

The storm was coming.

_

They sat on the balcony of the rental, tequila between them, the humid air thick with cicadas and silence.

"You know the Army wouldn’t last a day in a real Marine op," she said, smirking behind her glass.

Jay scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from someone who left her combat boots behind for a K9 training leash.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I still outrank you.”

“Only in sass.”

It started as banter. It always did. But then something shifted.

“They have more structure,” Jay added quietly. “Resources. Stability. Marines burn out by thirty. Army gives you something to come back to.”

“Sure,” she bit back, “if you make it back. Marines might burn out, but at least we don’t pretend we’re built for comfort.”

Jay stiffened. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Choosing comfort?”

She hesitated. “No. I think you’re choosing what's easier.”

"Funny," he said, voice quiet now. “Coming from someone who ran.”

Her breath caught. “I didn’t run.”

“Then what do you call it?”

A long pause. Then she shrugged, falsely casual. “Survival.”

He looked at her then — not angry, just tired. Tired and something else.

“You always do that,” he said. “You wrap the truth in uniforms and old arguments. Like this is about branches or brass. But we both know it’s not.”

She swallowed hard. “Then say what it is about.”

He looked away, down at his hands, the glass, the railing. Anywhere but her. “We wouldn’t survive it. Not really.”

“Because you won’t let us try.”

“Because you won’t stay.”

And just like that, it ended. They didn’t yell. They didn’t cry.

Just silence— The kind of silence that cracked something deep inside.

An hour later, they were tangled in the sheets again. Desperate. Wordless. Pretending it meant nothing.

But it did. God, it did.

She straddled him, both of them drowning in the heat—fueled by everything they wouldn’t say.

Her breath caught as his hand slid up, grazing her chest, not in lust—but searching.

Searching for it.

Her dog tag.

He clutched it, fingers curling around the cool metal like it was a lifeline. A compass. Maybe it was.

And as the morning crept in—sunlight slicing through half-closed blinds— it became exactly that.

A direction. A decision.

When Jay rolled over, reaching for her— she was gone.

No Pearl. No Echo.

Just her dog tag, resting silently on the nightstand.

Her final answer. Her own quiet goodbye.

She’d pulled down the one thing that had been hanging between them since the beginning—something neither of them ever named aloud.

Call it a situationship. But that word felt cheap, when you counted the scars, the sleepless nights, the way they bled into each other.

Whatever it was— it was over.

And her dog tag said what she never would.

Death.

And now, it would take its place next to the seashell and photo- of her and Echo, she had sent years ago.

_

Somehow, someway, she had made it back to the Windy City—a place she still considered a stopover on the way to her forever home. Wherever that was.

A year had passed.

Which meant she was now forty-six.

She felt old. Exhausted. Behind on life.

But moving back to Chicago offered a quiet kind of solace. She found purpose in helping raise her brother and sister-in-law’s two kids—children she absolutely adored. With the rest of the family back in San Diego, their little crew here felt even more sacred.

She and Jay hadn’t exchanged a single letter since that night in Savannah. She’d cut things off with finality, leaving behind her dog tag.

It was two-fold.

On one hand, it marked the literal death of whatever they were.

On the other, it meant he could still carry a piece of her wherever he went.

Just like she still carried his letters—and the trinkets he’d sent from South America.

But today, she stood tall in her dress blues, dog tags hanging from her neck. Echo by her side. They were being honored, along with over a hundred other service members. Former Marines—now.

After her final deployment, she’d left the door open. Just in case. Even though every return home meant battling a war in her own mind, she always thought—maybe—she’d go back. Back to hell on earth.

But after Jay… she chose something different. She chose retirement.

No longer an active Marine. No longer bound to the battlefield.

It was terrifying.

And yet—here she was, facing the thing that scared her most: letting go.

Sergeant Nico McDowell had just finished his speech. The words held layers, subtle nods only some would catch. Her family heard them. So did the select few friends invited.

When her name was called, she stood with Echo, walking across the stage, saluting McDowell before he pinned the Marine Commendation Medal to her chest.

Then, he handed her a shadow box—an American flag, Echo’s dog tag, and a coin etched with his name, unit, and recognition.

The crowd erupted for Echo—retiring as the only K-9 that day. And let’s face it: people loved dogs.

They turned to take a photo, and she felt it—that unmistakable touch. Nico’s hand on her lower back. Familiar. Habitual. History.

She led Echo off the stage, back to their seats.

An hour later, the hugs poured in—her parents, her brother, his wife, her best friend from basic training back in 2002.

“Oh! Did Elliot tell you?” Brianna asked.

Her brow furrowed.

She didn’t respond. Because that’s when they saw them.

Staff Sergeant Jay Halstead. Sergeant Hank Voight.

No longer Detective Halstead. He lost that title the night she left him.

Now, she acknowledged his rank in the Army. Out of formality.

“Hank?” she asked, just as Echo’s tail wagged furiously at the sight of Jay.

Two South American deployments and three long months in Tennessee had made her favorite guy miss her favorite man.

Well… used to be.

“Couldn’t miss my favorite kid retiring, now could I?” Voight said with a smirk.

She laughed, hugging him one-armed as Echo began to pull forward—eager.

Slightly irritated, she let go of his leash, confident he wouldn’t run.

She was wrong.

Apparently, retirement suited him well.

He bolted, only to stop suddenly—his paws pressing into the thick grass of Millennium Park.

She tilted her head, confused.

Echo stared directly at Nico—the man who brought out the brightest parts of her. He had laid her foundation. The one who made her feel something in the quiet of Geneva nights, in between croissants, espresso, and tangled sheets. He trained her. He built her.

Then Echo turned.

Jay.

He represented what could have been. At one point, maybe even her future. He symbolized all the things she tried to outrun: the military, her vulnerability, her post-war identity. But he also stood for a life after chaos. A life rich in meaning—though shadowed by trauma, PTSD, and anger. He gave her stability when she didn’t even recognize herself. Held her through the dark. Loved her in quiet, steady ways. His letters—his love language.

Her hands clenched at her sides.

Echo looked at her.

Just once.

As if to ask—

Which one do we become now?

_

It started the moment Jay fell asleep— the familiar, hated nightmare.

Pearl, bleeding out. Echo, nowhere in sight. And him—frozen—unable to reach her before they took her. The devils. The ghosts. Satan himself.

He jolted awake, chest heaving, sweat trickling down his temples and collarbone. The panic surged fast—sharp and suffocating.

His eyes locked on the nightstand. His phone lay next to her dog tag—the one she'd left behind like a ghost of goodbye. He reached for it, fingers curling around the cold metal before snatching up his phone with the other hand.

He called the one contact he thought might still come running.

Might.

After all this time?

Across the city, in Pearl’s apartment, an arm was draped over her waist— warm, familiar. Comfort in the dark.

She and Nico had just drifted off when the phone rang. Her body tensed on instinct.

Always a light sleeper, she blinked herself awake and answered quickly. “Hello?” she murmured, voice raspy from sleep.

On the other end—silence. Then breathing. Shaky. Unsteady. Just enough panic woven in to make her heart stop.

“Jay?” she whispered.

And that was when she knew—she had to go.

_

Pearl made her way upstairs fast, her boots hitting the stairwell with a heavy, steady rhythm—Marine-like.

Her training kicked in on instinct, like she was searching for a wounded company member. And in many ways… she was.

Her hand paused on the handle of his apartment door before twisting it open. She shook her head with a small grin.

Unlocked. Just like always.

Jay used to say—rarely, but meaningfully—that he liked playing with fire. He liked toying with death and danger. It made him feel comfortable, at home in twisted ways. Like he was back on the battlefield. And for some veterans… that’s the only way to feel at ease.

Her boots hit the wooden floor. She moved toward the bedroom but paused in the hallway. Soft sobs floated from the cracked door.

She shrugged off her jacket, revealing a well-worn knit cardigan, and kicked off her scuffed Doc Martens. His head turned slightly at the sound, his breathing catching for just a second.

She walked in slowly, her knit socks silent on the carpet.

Jay looked up. Their eyes met.

She saw how war-torn he truly was.

New scars—ones she hadn’t seen a year ago. The same man she’d fallen in love with, but worn down by war and violence, re-molded by grief. His eyes were the darkest shade of blue she’d ever seen on him. No light. No peace. Almost black.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was broken, shallow.

Her brows knit, arms crossing tightly over her chest. With a small scoff, she said, “After ten years… that’s what you ask me?”

Ten years of letters. Ten years of hookups. Ten years of circling the conversation they both refused to start.

To finally—once and for all—either come together… Or let it all die.

The thing that had kept them breathing. The thing that had kept them human.

Jay blinked slowly, her words sinking in. Ten years of her. Ten years of them. Flashing in and out like gunfire.

"You’d really think," she continued, voice cracking, "after ten years of me running toward you—toward the chaos, the war inside you—that I wouldn’t come tonight?” Her breath hitched, and tears welled. “You think I’d just sit back while you're in here drowning? You think I’m that cruel?"

“Hey—hey,” he whispered.

He pulled her toward him, between his knees, his hands wrapping around her hips. Her skin lit up like fire beneath the fabric.

She leaned in, her forehead pressing against his. They both exhaled.

Stillness.

His eyes were shut tight.

And in the silence, she felt it. The nightmare. Still playing in his mind. Her, bleeding out. Him, just out of reach.

She pushed him back softly, just a bit, before straddling him, her hands clasping both sides of his face.

His hands found the base of her back, his thumbs hooked around the front of her waist.

"Hey—hey, don’t leave me. Don’t disappear on me," she whispered, brushing her thumbs gently over his cheekbones.

His forehead pressed against her chest, and his arms wrapped around her like he needed her to stay upright. He breathed her in—vanilla and sandalwood—like it was oxygen.

"You’ve spent ten years running from me. I’m not giving up on you just yet, soldier,” she murmured.

He gave a quiet, broken chuckle. “I could say the same thing about you, marine.”

She smiled faintly, but the silence that followed curled at the edges.

Then his voice came, low and sharp. “He was at your place. Nico.”

Her body tensed under his touch.

Jay didn’t look at her. Just stared past her, jaw clenched. “Lucky guess.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “And what, you thought I moved on? That I replaced you with a voice and a uniform?”

His eyes searched hers, torn between wanting to believe and not daring to hope.

“You don’t get to be angry,” she whispered. “Not when we haven’t spoken in a year. Not when you disappeared without a word.”

He swallowed hard, voice thick. “I wasn’t angry because it was him. I was angry because it wasn’t me.”

Her breath caught.

His gaze locked on hers. “I wanted it to be me who answered your calls. Who got to see you walk in wearing that dumb cardigan, still pretending it’s not cold outside. Who got to fight with you, make up with you, fall asleep beside you.”

His hands tightened around her waist. “I know you left that necklace to end things. But I didn’t see it that way. I kept it. I carried it with me—through every base, every rotation, every goddamn firefight. Like a piece of you was with me.”

She stared at him, eyes glassy.

“Jay…”

He stilled, "Because I wanted to tell you in Savannah. I wanted to ask you to wait for me. I was going to — I was ready to give you everything. But you left me. You left me with just your dog tag." he paused, biting the inside of his lip before looking back up at her.

“You said I liked playing with fire,” he murmured, “but you’re the one thing I kept. The only steady thing. Even if you burned me.”

She let out a shaky laugh, hands still on his face.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re the only place I ever wanted to land.”

Then, softer. “Has anyone told you lately that you’re dangerously unpredictable? Like some ghost of the Corps? Always quiet… always slipping through the cracks… always showing up right before I fall apart.”

Her nose scrunched in a quiet laugh through her tears.

“You’re such a liar.”

“Semper Fi,” always faithful, he whispered. “I meant it.”

She grinned, but it dropped quickly, her demeanor turning serious. Stoic.

"Why? Why did you run, Jay? Why did you string me along for so many years? Was I just a placeholder? For the time being? Until you-you, found someone who wasn't broken? Who wasn't running from the never-ending war, in my mind?" She asked softly, voice faltering.

His heart broke, because that was never it.

Jay shook his head, eyebrows furrowing, "Oh god no-never, I-I," He paused as his own voice gave out. He swallowed, taking his time to find the right words.

"You're not broken, Pearl, you've never been broken. I only ran because, I've always believed you deserve someone better- someone who isn't broken. Who doesn't wake up every night, clutching the pillow, afraid his heart is going to give out, who thinks he's never gonna be able to step back from the ledge." He said, his gaze flickering, pulling away, feeling ashamed.

She sniffled, "How about a truce, Mr. Man?," She teased, slight humor in her gaze.

He chuckled softly, "Truce, boss," He grinned.

Pearl smiled, her body sagging just a bit. Her eyes flickered down to his chest, and she saw a faint outline of a necklace or something beneath his grey shirt.

Her eyebrows creased, her gaze never flickering back up, as she slowly traced her hand up towards his neck, he breathed in nervously.

Her hands found the gold necklace, before pulling it through and freeing it.

Pearl gasped, tears brimmed her eyes, as she stared at it.

Her gold dog tag, that she'd left on that damn beside table in Savannah, Geargia.

She opened her mouth, but Jay beat her to it.

His voice was low—steady, but barely.

“I know you left it to end things. To walk away clean.”

He looked up at her then, eyes sharp but soft in a way only she ever saw.

“But I never saw it that way.”

He reached up, brushing his fingers over the tag, still resting against her fingers.

“You left it behind... but I carried it. Carried you. Everywhere I went.”

He swallowed, voice just above a whisper.

“It was never just metal to me, Pearl. It was a piece of you. And I couldn’t let go of that. I didn’t want to.”

She didn't respond; she didn't need to.

Her kiss said all the words she couldn't say or form.

Jay lifted her off him slowly, setting her down gently on her back, and her arm rested near her head, mirroring his other arm on the other side.

His gaze bored into hers before his lips kissed her—soft, slow, like a sacred prayer.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe the same air, his voice dropped to a murmur.

"Has anyone told you that you're the most unpredictable, stubborn, pain-in-the-ass Marine I've ever loved?"

She laughed through her tears, and he smiled.

"You move like a ghost when you want to, sneak into my life like a mission no one sees coming… and every damn time, you leave me wrecked in the best and worst ways.”

He brushed a thumb under her eye.

"But you also show up. When it counts. Like now."

She grinned, pulling him down with such fierce force- their mouths colliding like an animal hunting their prey.

Shortly after, their bodies wrapped up in one another, savoring each other's warmth and presence.

Holding each other like they were heading off for battle tomorrow, but the only battle was their mind this time - and that, that was enough.

_

It was four months later, and the early sting of May heat poured down on the city. Pearl’s favorite time of year. What made living here worth it. What made the winters survivable.

Her back faced the world as she stared up at the courthouse.

Her blush-blue mid-length dress fluttered in the soft wind of the afternoon. Her cream-colored — pearl — heels shifted every few seconds, fingers clutching a bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus like it was life or death. One hand slipped instinctively to her chest, to the spot beneath the fabric where a small gold dog tag lay — Jay’s.

It steadied her.

"Didn’t think you’d show!" came the unmistakable sass of Jay.

She turned in a single twirl.

His breath caught in his throat as he took in the effortless beauty of his soon-to-be wife.

She smiled — a little nervous, a little self-conscious — before teasing with a sultry grin,

“What, and miss the chance to haunt your nightmares in white lace for the rest of your life?”

His breath caught again.

“Sweet mother of God,” he muttered, eyes refusing to meet hers — because if they did, they might not make it up the steps to get married.

"Besides, army transportation is notoriously slow, remember?" She quipped, and he shook his head with a chuckle.

“Come on, Detective.” She laced her fingers through his, tugging him toward the entrance. As they climbed the steps, he patted his chest — the place where the flower spot held her dog tag. Just double-checking. Again. As if he hadn’t already ten times today.

“You’re late—” Trudy began, pausing to inspect their outfits — or lack thereof. “You’re boring, Halstead.” Then, eyeing Pearl, she added,

“But you look nice.”

Pearl blinked. Trudy never complimented anyone. Jay was about to speak, but Pearl patted his chest with a smirk.

“Shh,” she whispered.

“Judge Ellis hooked me up — old friend. Let’s go,” Trudy grunted, motioning for them to follow.

Their hands stayed tightly locked.

Hearts pounding — hers, his — perfectly in sync. Like always.

“There she is!” Kim’s voice rang out. Pearl looked up to see her standing with Hailey and Voight, leaning casually against the marble wall.

“You guys look good!” Hailey grinned, rushing in for a hug.

Voight stayed back, a small smile playing on his lips — quiet approval.

“You kids clean up nice,” he offered, voice gruff in the way that still soothed them. “Nice suit,” he added to Jay, who flared with pride — maybe a little cocky now.

“And you — darling — as always,” he added to Pearl.

She nodded in thanks, eyes a little wet already.

Trudy huffed, pushing open the door to the small courtroom.

“Let’s go,” she barked, clearly irritated… but deeply invested.

Inside, no judge waited. Just Trudy — arms crossed, eyes expectant.

Jay and Pearl stood together at the front, hand in hand, her bouquet now in Hailey’s care.

Trudy glanced between them.

“You two have emotionally wrecked half the force — maybe a few civilians — but sure, let’s get you legally bound.”

The sarcasm was thick. The love was thicker.

“Marriage is a little like policing,” Trudy began. “You gotta show up every day — even when it’s raining — and remember why you signed up.” “These two? They’ve been showing up for each other for over ten years. This is just making it official.” A pause. “And thank God — I’m tired of watching Jay walk around like a kicked puppy.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Pearl beamed. Jay rolled his eyes — barely.

They giggled softly, holding each other’s gaze, as Trudy gestured for them to begin.

“First aid, Jay — you’re up,” she barked.

Pearl grinned, wide and toothy.

Jay chuckled, pulling his hand from hers and fishing into his jacket — right where her dog tag rested.

Her heart ached — full, full, full.

“I spent my whole life learning how to survive. War zones, alleys, backrooms… I got good at walking away. At shutting doors before anyone could get close enough to hurt me.”

He looked up at her, a soft flicker of a smile forming.

“But then there was you. And no matter how many miles we put between us… how many times I messed it up… Somehow, you always came back.”

A beat.

“You are the loudest silence I’ve ever known. The stillness I didn’t know I needed. You saw me — all of me — and you stayed.”

He took her hand, grounding himself.

“I know I’m stubborn. I know I don’t say things when I should. But this? This is me saying it. I love you. I want every version of life with you — the good, the bad, the bloody, the boring.”

“I vow to fight for you. To show up. Even on the days I forget how to breathe — I will remember you. I will choose you.”

He smirked. “And I promise to work on my clothes folding. Scout’s honor.”

Laughter again.

“But mostly… I promise to never let the fear of losing you stop me from loving you — fully, recklessly, every single day.”

His eyes glistened. “Because you are the only war I’ve ever wanted to surrender to.”

A single tear fell from Pearl’s eye. She sniffled, chest tight, heart thunderous.

Still, she stood steady.

“You once told me I was reckless. That I didn’t know when to stand down.”

She laughed softly.

“Yeah… guilty as charged. Because no matter how many times I tried to walk away, I always ran straight back into your fire.”

“Even when it burned. Even when I swore I wouldn’t do it again. Because somehow… the burn always felt better than the silence.”

She paused, breath shaky, voice cracking just a bit.

“I’ve made peace with a lot of ghosts in my life. But not you. Never you. Because what we have? It’s not something you bury. It’s something you carry. And I have — every step of the way.”

“You and me — we’ve been through war zones and worse. Not just the ones with bullets. The ones in our heads.”

“And yet here we are. Not because it was easy — But because it was real. Because we chose each other. Again and again… even when we didn’t say it out loud.”

She grinned, wiping away a stray tear.

“I know Echo would be over the moon we made it here. Probably wagging his tail with a bone in his mouth — wearing that bowtie he hated.”

Jay laughed, tear falling free. She pressed her palm softly to his chest.

“So this is me choosing you. Not because I have to. But because I want to — on the good days, the bad ones, and every impossible in-between.”

“You are my safe place in a world that never quite was. You are my ‘I made it home.’”

“And if this is the rest of the fight… Then I’m in. Always. Even when you’re being a stubborn, impossible, maddening soldier.”

She smiled. “Especially then.”

Trudy smirked and slowly stepped back out of frame.

Jay and Pearl blinked at her.

“Kiss, goddammit,” she muttered.

Laughter. Cheers. Flashbulbs.

Jay stepped forward, cupping her cheek with one hand, thumb brushing gently along her skin.

He pulled her into him.

The small group clapped and hollered as Jay tilted her back slightly, kissing her like he meant it — like they’d survived everything just to get to this moment.

She pecked him again, fast and smiling.

“I love you, Ranger.”

“And I, too, Marine,” he whispered, stealing one last kiss.

No more running. No more tiptoeing. No more ghosts. No more pretending they were just shadows of who they used to be.

Just them.

Partners — in every way that counts. And most of all: in love.

They were like an invisible string—their dog tags—pulling them together for over ten years. But now, that string was infinite.

[victusinveritas]

Zen priest, Peter Coyote, on protest: "I’m watching the Los Angeles reaction to ICE raids with trepidation and regret.

Three years ago I taught a class at Harvard on the “theater of protest”— designed to help people understand why so many protests turn out to be Republican campaign videos working directly against the interests of the original protest.

A protest is an invitation to a better world.

It’s a ceremony.

No one accepts a ceremonial invitation when they’re being screamed at.

More important you have to know who the real audience of the protest is.

The audience is NEVER the police, the politicians, the Board of supervisors, Congress,etc.

The audience is always the American people, who are trying to decide who they can trust; who will not embarrass them.

If you win them, you win power at the box office and power to make positive change.

Everything else is a waste.

There are a few ways to get there:

1. Let women organize the event. They’re more collaborative. They’re more inclusive, and they don’t generally bring the undertones of violence men do.

2 Appoint monitors, give them yellow, vests and whistles. At the first sign of violence, they blow the whistles and the real protester sit down.

Let the police take out their aggression on the anarchists and the provocateurs trying to discredit the movement.

3. Dress like you’re going to church. It’s hard to be painted as a hoodlum when you’re dressed in clean, presentable clothes.

They don’t have to be fancy they just signal the respect for the occasion that you want to transmit to the audience.

4. Make your protest silent. Demonstrate your discipline to the American people. Let signs do the talking.

5. Go home at night. In the dark, you can’t tell the cops from the killers. Come back at dawn fresh and rested.

I have great fear that Trump’s staging with the National Guard and maybe the Marines is designed to clash with anarchists who are playing into his hands and offering him the opportunity to declare an insurrection.

It’s such a waste and it’s only because we haven’t thought things through strategically.

Nothing I thought of is particularly original.

It was all learned by watching the early civil rights protests in the 50s and 60s.

And it was the discipline and courage of African-Americans that drew such a clear line in the American sand that people were forced to take sides and that produced the civil rights act.

The American people are watching and once again if we behave in ways that can be misinterpreted, we’ll see this explained to the public in Republican campaign videos benefiting the very people who started this.

Wake up.

Vent at home.

In public practice discipline and self control.

It takes much more courage."

— Peter Coyote

Zen teacher and author/narrator, with Ken Burns

Note: Carry an American flag. As the administration creates a fake emergency to justify a state crackdown, it's important to honor the values and vision of democracy for which we're advocating.

When the Enquirer came for pics back in 2017, I smiled a big toothy grin and held a big flag as it felt so empowering and good to stand with my adult daughter, pastors, Franciscans, nuns, kids, parents, grandparents and some women from our women's groups for the values we tried to pass on.

After the protest, we sang and marched to a church where we heard poignant witness of immigrants trying to build a better life for their families against insurmountable odds.

Many Marines, National Guardsmen and vets are over on Threads and Substack expressinging their disagreement over being used by this lawless administration.

— Leslie Flood Hershberger

---- Just some thoughts from Peter Coyote. I'm not disputing anything here or even really analyzing. I leave that to you, because I'm sure various users will champion and/or shred every word above, so...you do that. Coyote is kind of a legend among a certain set of mostly older folks, hippies, yippies and conchies etc. He was a Digger and a member of the San Francisco Mime Troupe before becoming a Zen monk. My dad (in his poor Jesuit law student/philosophy professor days in the 1960s-70s) used to go to his Free Store and chat with him on occasion and described him as one of the more magnetic (thus also polarizing, he'd add quickly, firmly) figures of counterculture San Francisco (he certainly liked him better than Jim Jones (he met him exactly once and said he was 'the Slimiest and Sickest Fucker ever and my dad isn't the type to swear at all) Alan Watts or Alvin Toffler).

-- Today’s Daily New Yorker Cartoon, by Guy Richards Smit.

[foamofthe-sea]

Found some questions rummaging through the xiv tags while I wait for this social event to start so send a number and I'll answer it? Feel free to reblog and do the same.

1. Where were they during the Calamity? 

2. How did they acquire their Echo? 

3. Does their Echo function like it does in the MSQ? Or is there a twist to it? 

4. Do they have a canon mount or minion? What's its name(s)? 

5. Where are they from? What was their childhood like?

6. How did they deal with the massacre on the Waking Sands?  

7. How did they deal with Haurchefant's death? 

8. How did they feel about the liberation of Ala Mhigo? Do they feel it could have been handled differently? Where they at all bothered by how they were involved? 

9. How do they feel about Zenos? 

10. How do they feel about their relationship with Hydaelyn? Midgarsormr?

11. Were they more sympathetic to the dragons, Ishgardians, neither or both? 

12. How has their job affected whatever headcanon version is of the MSQ if any? 

13. Are they close with any of the other Scions? Who do they get along with the best? 

14. Of the Scions, who are they most worried for? 

15. Is your WoL promiscuous? Celibate? Or just waiting for the right person? 

16. What does your WoL do to relax? What sorts of distractions do they seek? Do they foster any bad habits as a result?

17. Who is their favorite Alliance leader? Who do they get along with the best out of them? 

18. Does your WoL fully embrace their role as the WoL or do they try to remain humble? 

19. What do they think of the Heaven's Ward? 

20. Of all the places they've been to, which is their favorite? Do they like to go back there? 

21. Are there any raid storylines (Ivalice, Coil of Bahamut, Werlyt, etc.) you consider to be canon for your WoL? Which ones don't you consider canon? 

22. Do you  have a unique tale for their job class or is it pretty much like what it is in the game?

23. Are there any side quest storylines that you're particularly fond of or think of as being canon to your WoL's experiences? 

24. Does your WoL have any phobias? 

25. Do they have any habits or rituals that they do to soothe themselves? I.e. Playing with their hair, chewing their lip, fidgeting, etc. 

26. Do they suffer any traumas from any of their adventures? How do you foresee this affecting them going forward? 

27. How did the events of Shadowbringers impact them? 

28. Were they suspicious or open to Emet-Selch's presence when he first appeared? 

29. Did your WoL suspect anything was amiss with Urianger or the Crystal Exarch? Did they feel betrayed? Upset? When the truth finally emerged? 

30. What was their highest point in Shadowbringers? Their lowest? What caused it? 

31. What were their first impressions of Hien? 

32. Did they trust Asahi right away? Why or why not? 

33. How did they feel about what happened with Yotsuyu? Did they feel like she was justified in her actions?

34. Would you say your WoL is fundamentally a good person? Or are they a bad person that's been persuaded to do the right things? 

35. How do they feel about the fact that they've killed a lot of people and/or things?

[penguinly]

I'm Lost (In These Memories)

Summary: Lloyd dies, survives, and moves on with his life. And then it all comes crashing down. (AKA the Lloyd dissociation fic that I've been yapping about for the past month yay)

Word Count: 3,693

Main Relationship: Lloyd & Kai (PLATONIC)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65972074

Spoilers for DRs3p1. This fic is also archive locked to prevent AI scraping. (Entire fic below the cut for those without accounts.)

They’d fought the primeval dragon of Chaos itself and won. Perhaps it wasn’t their average city menace of the week but they’d faced worse odds before. It had been close. The Green Ninja had fallen. But when he breathed once more he didn’t cry or scream. 

Tears could not express the invisible weight crushing him from the inside out. 

But it wasn’t a new feeling so he pushed it away and kept his gaze fixed ahead. 

He let two of their own walk away – one led astray by promises that none but the liar could make, and the other following the first with vows to be together no matter the cost. There was no fault placed on either of them for their decision. They were young but they were not naive. None of them had been children in a long time. 

Then the rest of them made it back to the Monastery and his feelings stayed firmly stuck in his chest. He was relieved, really. He could hear the dragging footsteps and deep sighs. Everyone was tired. It wouldn’t be fair to make them deal with a breakdown after all that they’d already gone through today. It never was. 

He died and they paid the price. He did whatever it took to keep them safe. That was how the story usually went. And he preferred it that way, after all. 

Arin, desperately shaking his broken body. The ninja, digging him from the ruins of their own home. Emperor Garmadon leaving him to die alone on cold and barren sands. He’d been aware of none of it but the anguish in their eyes every time they told him what had happened was enough. 

Then there was every time he’d been there to watch his family be torn apart. The Overlord forcing them all under his will one by one, leaving him so completely and utterly alone. Chanting his own father into the Cursed Realm, never to be the same again. Holding an inconsolable Kai and Jay when the only girl that’d ever mattered to either of them was lost. 

Everything he ever saw and felt and heard was death, death, death. 

Lloyd winced at the memories. He wondered how long it would be before he could think of latest demise today as a distant moment in the past, harrowing but too far away to hurt him. 

He wondered what it would feel like for dying to be permanent, to never wake up or see his family again. He wondered how long it would haunt them, if the team would break the way they did after Nya’s sacrifice. But even that had been temporary in a way that death was not supposed to be. 

He plastered a smile on his face the way he had back then and pushed the choking emotions further down to join in the festivities. In the space of a few heartbeats, he let the mask drop to be replaced with real joy and relief. He felt alive. He was alive. Everything was fine. 

He was happy. 

He hugged and laughed and felt every hand on his shoulder and pat on his back. It was as though everyone the ninja knew in this new, unfamiliar world was crammed into the monastery courtyard. For once, it was brimming with life and exuberance in a way that he’d missed dearly since the Merge. 

He caught glimpses of Jay exchanging short words with the rest of the ninja and even if his memory was lost, this was the first time Lloyd’s entire family had been together since that fateful day. They were all changed and different now, five years of age and life lived since then having left their marks on all of them, but surely that didn’t matter, right?

The celebration continued long after dark until Mr. Frohicky shooed everyone out with a broom to let the ninja finally rest. They piled inside and spent a good chunk of the next hour raiding the kitchen and unwrapping hasty bandages to patch each other up properly. 

Lloyd ended up being the first to say his goodnights and trudge into his room. He was covered in Band-Aids with colorful ninjas stamped across them decorating every cut and scrape from the battle. 

It had gone unsaid but understood in carefully exchanged looks by them all that they’d been lucky to walk away without any major injuries today. 

The door to his room opened without protest and he flicked on the light. For a moment he thought the floor looked wonderfully enticing but he fought the urge to just collapse onto the ground. His bruised back would thank him tomorrow. 

He practically threw himself onto his bed instead, adrenaline long gone and the exhaustion of the day weighing on his every movement. The black and blue along his spine and ribs twinged a protest but he just threw a forearm over his face in an attempt to block out the light. He laid there long enough for sleep to nudge at the edges of his consciousness.

His entire body panged with the sharp throbs of his powers knitting cuts closed. 

He gave in and rolled onto his less injured side, cheek pressed into the soft sheets, knees tucked up close to his chest. 

Instead of succumbing to sleep, his gaze was drawn to the row of pictures carefully framed and lined up on his shelf in front of him. One of them was crooked. He didn’t think it’d been like that the last time he’d slept here. 

Slivers of the brown cardboard backing peeked out around the photo’s edges. The tip of Kai’s hair disappeared under one of the frame’s corners. He mentally added straightening the picture to the list of things he probably had to do before going to sleep tonight. 

The picture was of his team – his old team – long before the merge. It must’ve been between the fiascos with the Hands of Time and Harumi. And the whole disaster that’d followed after he met her. 

There was a faint pang of heaviness that sank deep into his stomach as he let his thoughts linger on those memories for too long. It joined the tangle of jumbled feelings that’d been weighing him down since he’d woken up with unforgiving stone digging into his back and choking on his own hoarse gasps. 

No, that wasn’t right. The angry mass of wordless pain was not new. The smiling teenage hero in the picture was a version of him that he hadn’t been in a long time. Oh. 

How ironic it was that, of all things, the straw that finally, finally broke him was a happy memory. Of the time before everything fell apart. He missed feeling happy like that. But maybe happiness was just another thing he’d outgrown, along with his childhood. 

He unraveled the way he should’ve when his friends – his family – were hovering nervously over him. For a moment that lasted an eternity, he could feel the panic rising up from the bottom of the chasm that’d been swallowing everything in him for as long as he could remember. Long overdue tears stung his eyes and it hurt. It hurt so much. 

The pressure that had been pressing desperately against his eyes and lungs and throat built and spilled over the way he’d wanted it to when he was surrounded by the ones who could hold him and tell him it would all be okay. That it was over. That he was safe. That it was okay to cry and scream and be afraid. 

He wished Kai was here to run warm hands through his hair. He wished Nya was here to fill his mind with rambled monologues about her new projects. Or anyone at all. 

But they’d all had long days, too. Lloyd remembered the look of terror and burdensome responsibility in a teenaged Kai’s eyes. He would never forget the exhaustion and the devastated look in an even younger Nya’s. His pain weighed on them all and he knew it. He couldn’t force them to carry it for him again. Because he knew they would. He would. 

The tears didn’t fall. The building sob didn’t echo through his room. The awful chaotic mess of invisible feelings pressed against him from the inside out but it was almost as though he didn’t know how to set it free anymore. So he tried to escape them instead. 

He pushed them as far as he could into the deepest recesses of his mind, deeper even than the void they’d collected and risen from, and ran in the other direction. 

The lump of that nameless emotion vanished. 

He floated away with it. 

The day’s leftover panic, the anxiety, the grief, the pain, the fear – all of it faded away until there was nothing left. It probably should have scared him that it felt so freeing. He felt nothing but the slow rise and fall of his chest. Some distant part of himself felt like it was drowning. The air was thick and heavy and light and intoxicating. 

His lungs took deep, slow breaths and for once, he could finally just breathe. Living felt an awful lot like drowning, lately. 

He was so tired. If he thought hard enough, he could feel himself getting up to straighten the picture in the frame in front of him but why would he? He was content to lie here forever, eyes open and unseeing as the death he had lived just hours earlier. 

So he stared at that picture and the way it was wrong and he felt wrong but everything about the nothingness inside him felt right. The emptiness welcomed him and he leaned into its embrace. He had no regrets. There was no pain. 

It was exhilarating in a calm and quiet sort of way. 

He stared. 

And stared. 

And stared. 

He distantly wondered whether he’d snap out of it if the door opened and someone walked in. But no one did so he lay there, knees curled to his chest and facing a crooked photograph. His thoughts were far, far away in his own oblivion where that awful tension couldn’t strangle his heart anymore. He felt nothing and the nothingness felt good. 

His grasp on time as it slipped past was loose and sporadic. In some moments he was closer to reality than others but he let his mind wander and float away again. His awareness was like a tide ebbing and flowing but always peaceful. Always quiet. Always calm. 

He drifted between disconnected thoughts that he forgot between one moment and the next. Time passed and he was too dead to the world to know it. 

– – – – – – – – – – – 

He didn’t know how long it’d been when the door opened and a blurry figure made its way towards him. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t think he could’ve anyways. 

His vision was empty just like the rest of him – there but not, clear but filled with a weird void of static. Like tunnel vision but without focus. His body was numb just like his mind but he still felt the warmth exuding from the new thing in the way only one person could. Kai?

The thought of propping himself up or saying something or even just looking up at Kai crossed his mind. But he was too numb, too tired, too apathetic. It was nice here in the safety of the emptiness and as much as he didn’t want to scare his brother he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

He heard Kai say his name in that awful ‘too loud for stealth’ whisper. He remembered Jay’s complaints that it always foiled their recon missions, as if they weren’t already doomed before they started. For a team of ninja, stealth had never quite been their forte. 

There was a warm hand gently pressed against his forehead. 

Kai said something that sounded important but Lloyd let the words drift aimlessly through his mind. He couldn’t remember which words had come before the one he was hearing and soon that one was gone, too. Like a leaky faucet drip, drip, dripping away into a puddle where no one knew which drop had come first or next or last. 

Gentle, warm arms wrapped around him and pulled him sideways. The world shifted and tilted around him until the faces in the pictures were right-side up. Lloyd remembered looking at those pictures. Time had gotten weird after that, he figured. 

Deep brown eyes stared into his own and he could feel a bit of the numbness detaching. His vision cleared enough to stare back for a moment before his mind grew tired. Kai was terrified. He recognized it in the little tells – the slight furrow of his brow, the way he grit his teeth. 

Lloyd thought he heard his name again but the sound echoed around the void where he was supposed to be until he couldn’t tell if he’d imagined the whole thing in the first place. Was that really his name? 

Warm hands held his own. His gaze slipped down to his lap where Kai's fingers were tangled in his. Kai’s voice still trickled through his mind, untethered and unheard. 

His hands were far too warm now, especially with Kai’s resting in them. It was almost like they’d become disconnected from his body – or maybe he had – but still, they radiated heat in a way that felt wrong. It all felt wrong. The edges of the fuzzy haze covering the wrongness dissipated at the realization. 

His arms refused to cooperate when he willed them to move as though the invisible connection between his body and his mind was still broken. So he shifted his focus to the tip of his finger until he could practically feel it tingling. He felt it, even if it was only a phantom sensation. 

He tapped the back of Kai’s hand once, twice, three times, then over and over again in a steady staccato. 

“Lloyd?”

Too tired to open his mouth just yet, Lloyd let out a sound somewhere between a hum and an exhale. Kai squeezed his hand with a sigh of relief that Lloyd knew would be etched clearly across his face if he looked up. He squeezed back, letting the numbness slowly trail out of his arms. 

He was mid-breath when the odd, blurry tunnel vision widened and disappeared, almost exactly like a camera’s stutter when it focused on a nearby object. The world was back in focus. 

Lloyd gently pulled his hands from Kai’s grasp, took a deep breath and stared at them, flexing and turning them with the control that had been returned to him just as suddenly as it’d been taken. 

His body didn’t rebel when he finally looked up at Kai who offered a small, tired smile and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. The Master of Fire was sitting awkwardly on the floor in front of him in a pair of red pajamas with his own cartoonish face patterned across them. His hair was damp and flat against his forehead. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Kai asked. 

Lloyd couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth and force the words out so he just shrugged in response. Later, he wanted to say. 

“Okay,” Kai said, somehow understanding every unspoken word, “Well I’m going to set up the extra blankets in my room tonight. Consider this your invitation to my sleepover.” 

And with that, Kai stood up and walked out of Lloyd’s room, stretching dramatically to let a frankly impressive number of firecracker popping sounds come from his spine. A small grin and a silent chuckle wormed their way out of Lloyd as he flicked off the light and followed. 

Nya was somehow already passed out on Kai’s bed when they tiptoed into his room. Kai just sighed and shook his head while smirking and muttering something about intruders and invitations under his breath. 

Kai switched off the ceiling light and clicked on a nightlight – Lloyd rolled his eyes at the Red Ninja merch again – before pulling the stack of blankets out of his closet. They were worn and faded after years of use but still thick enough to cushion the floor. 

They halfheartedly attempted to scoot Nya over but the moment she was lying somewhat normally on the bed she rolled over and somehow ended up taking up even more space. Whatever, this was to be expected. 

Lloyd met Kai’s eyes, then looked down at the pile of blankets in front of him and gasped dramatically. The back of his hand came up to his forehead in a cartoonish imitation of someone about to faint. Lloyd let himself go limp. The way he ended up starfished across the entire blanket pile was definitely unintentional. 

“Lloyd, c’mon,” Kai whined in the same awful whisper he’d used earlier. “Even ten-year-old menace to society you would never do this to me.”

Lies and blasphemy was what that was but Lloyd didn’t bother to comment on it. 

Instead, he pressed his face deeper into one of the pillows and let out a loud fake snore. Kai grumbled unintelligibly and before Lloyd could react, a heavy weight flopped across his back. He squeaked and twisted to stare back at Kai who’d apparently decided that lying perpendicularly on top of Lloyd was better than the floor. 

There were sure to be complaints about back pains tomorrow but that was a problem for himself in the future. 

He was asleep within seconds, cheek smushed into a pillow that was absolutely going to leave marks on his face by morning and blessedly sinking into an exhaustion so deep that even nightmares didn’t dare touch him. 

He didn’t wake up when Kai cracked an eye open to watch Cole creep into the room and fall asleep sitting up against the foot of his bed. He was still asleep when Zane somehow ended up silently entering the room to stand sentry in a corner to power down. 

The door opened for the last time that night when the first streaks of deep purple were dancing on the horizon just before dawn. Drawn by some subconscious instinct, Jay found himself searching for a place to sleep in the Fire Ninja’s room. He ended up stepping over multiple people asleep on the floor to curl up in the one corner of the bed that the Water Ninja hadn’t sprawled herself over. 

He didn’t know why but the little space felt right. Like it had been left for him on purpose. Sleep dragged him under before he could follow that train of thought. 

– – – – – – – – – – – 

Lloyd woke up to the ever obnoxious lightning chickens in the yard screaming their heads off at the sun – they were still a few hours late for dawn as per usual – and found Kai’s room absolutely packed. The entire monastery, including family old and new, was there. 

And while he could feel the missing pieces where Arin and Sora were supposed to be, the empty spaces weren't all-consuming. They were held back by the presence of the people in this room. He remembered the long years of keeping watch over an empty monastery with no one but himself to talk to, but he wasn’t alone anymore. 

He had a whole new team here, willing to help him do whatever it took to get his students – his kids – back. It was all going to be okay. 

“Rise and shine, Ninja!” he yelled, trying and failing to stifle his giggles at the chorus of groans and the volley of pillows thrown his way. Only Nya’s was even close to hitting him. 

He grinned as he met Kai’s death glare and dodged the Red Ninja plushie flying at his head with surprisingly good aim for the Master of Fire first thing in the morning. 

“Breakfast in five!” he called over his shoulder as he left the room and made his way to the kitchen, whistling to himself and fighting the urge to scream back at the chickens that had still not shut up. 

He missed the relieved sigh that Kai let out as he ran his fingers through his absolutely disastrous bed hair. 

Everyone was safe. It was fine. Lloyd was okay. 

The chickens screamed outside and Kai heard a certain grandson of the First Spinjitsu Master yell an impressive string of curses back. 

“Language!”

“Shut up, Kai!”

– – – – – – – – – – – 

In the end, Kai made it to the kitchen just in time to snuff out the flames beginning to dance across the frying pan. 

“Lloyd. Why? How the fuck did you burn cereal?”

He knew he’d probably have to bring up what’d happened last night at some point but for now, he just stood at the kitchen entrance and listened to the kid (not a kid anymore, how crazy was that?) launch into an explanation that seemed to defy more and more science as he went. 

If he didn’t know better, Kai could almost believe that last night’s events had never happened. 

Then again, the ninja were no strangers to death. It was heavy and empty and a word that meant someone was never coming back. It was supposed to be permanent, it just never quite seemed to stick for them. Yet for all the times they mourned, it never got easier. He supposed maybe that was why death was meant to be permanent. 

But instead they got to keep living for each other and themselves in spite of the memories over and over, again and again. Ninja never quit, they said, and they meant every word of it. They’d been given so many chances and Kai would be damned if they didn’t get to live, for real this time. 

Everything was going to be okay. Even if that promise had been ripped out from under them too many times to count in the past. Ninja never quit. That was the motto and by the First Spinjitsu Master himself, if burning the world to ashes was enough for his family to be happy, Kai would do it in a heartbeat. 

He didn’t think he could lose any of them ever again. 

[funkwitz]

WEUS: an introduction

Weus is a little fantasy universe I have made in my spare time, only so that I can draw weird stuff and kind of string them together. The name comes from the initial idea of it being a collaborative project, like a workshop, hence the WE and US. But it is also to hark back to the French illustrator Mœbius, who is of great inspiration.

It has gone through various iterations throughout the years, but I finally think I’m at a point where it is in a place I like it to be. Now with that out of the way, the juicy parts . . .

Cosmology

It all takes place on an earth like planetoid called Weus, named so after a nature god of sorts. According to church doctrine, it stands at the center of the universe, above a dark moon hundreds of times its size: Charon.

In the church's view the northern lights bring the souls from the realm of the gods, Synnefo, into the material plane. The southern lights work in opposition, by taking the souls away down to Charon. The Chief of the gods, Aldebaran and her lover, Elnath order their seven children to scoop up these souls from Charon and take them up to Synnefo for "redistribution". Whilst they watch over the world as the moons.

The drops of souls lost on the way back up become meteorites.

An extremely simplistic overview of the cosmology (according to the church)

Other cultures hold different views of the cosmos and the cycle of rebirth. Who is correct is difficult to ascertain as no one has really been to the southern hemisphere and looked for Charon.

The Rinr talk of the "Wolf parade of the Hoh", who swoop up those who are destined for death. It is said that this procession can be seen during great periods of grief, and old loved ones can be spotted within it.

The sahalyari don’t experience death as we do, as they wake up again in their dark blood-filled birthing pools 10, 15 or maybe 500 years after they originally perished. No talk of an afterlife, just a little trip to the Void...

Geography

a hightmap of the Continent

Now, for the bread and butter. The main character of Weus: The Continent, the landmass that all its characters and stories take place. A diverse land of harpy filled mountains, forests of blood, shores of poison and oceans of flayed skin.

To its west it rests in the embrace of the sea of Panthalassa, an endless ocean only crossed by the elves and stone men of yore. To the north, past wall like mountains of Skarvenné; the endless steppes of white are found, home to the banshees and other scary stuff.

To its east the endless steppes connect the Continent to the rest of the world, to the old homes of man: "Kengir" and "Lodwar". Whilst down by the poisoned forests of the Plague Lands its connected to a place known as "Avesta".

The Continent itself is split into two halves by the Spine of the World, a huge mountain chain. On the Western side you get the Hinterlands, huge, forested areas with cold winters and wet summers. The Rinr, a wolf life people live here. South of the Hinterland you get the Heretical Headlands, named after the grand heretical empire of the Denuvi sea. The Orbial Covenant. Followers of the Great Serpent Queen, said to be hundreds if not thousands of meters long. Before the Denuvi Sea became a desert, it was an archipelago with a prominent kingdom of alchemists. But it’s said that one of the alchemists sacrificed its people, flaying them and turning them into snakes. The flayed skin now serves as the sand that makes up this desert.

The Toryngians also make their home here. A seafaring people, one will either find them raiding or trading.

To the east of the Heretical Headlands, the Araatian plateau and Murummi Highlands are located. Home to marshal kingdoms who all stand as the vanguard against the Covenant. These provinces used to be marshes for the Ain Empire of old and their ruins still dot the landscape. It is said the Elves and the men of the rocks fought here thousands of years ago, and the even older Eidolons had their capital here. South of the Araatian Plateau you will find the Riverlands, the home of the mages. A huge forest of enormous flowers and endless rivers fill this landscape. A multitude of independent mage cities keep in isolation here as the land is said to be quite potent with magical energies.

The islands south of the Riverlands, Hoorn and Oiito are home to the Sahalyari and Kohtak respectfully. The Sahalyari claims to be descendent from the elves of yore. They live around the Crimson Weald, and oversee holding it at bay, as the Void is quite potent within. The isles of Oiito are home to an isolationist empire, who does nothing but to infight.

A vesperi, a Sahalyari and a Kohtak

Further east one arrives at the Heartlands, home to a kingdom upon kingdoms, biggest being the Albawaabian: The Wall Kings of Old Kengir. This area is known to be the fertile heart of the continent, and it harbor the most people. The horse like Yppadamus live in

its periphery, by their grand Mother Trees: the Lyn Zurnapa.

A yppadamius, with their trusted Zurnapa

There are many more smaller kingdoms and cultures in the Heartlands, but I can elaborate on them some other time. South of the Heartland, the land of the forges, the spires of Automa rise from the deep jungle. A catlike people live here and the ancient forges of the Ain are said to still plop out new mechanical ones.

I think this serves as a good introduction to Weus, feel free to ask any questions if you have any and I will further elaborate on kingdoms or areas whenever I have the time! Theres also the Void and some creatures who I haven’t touched on yet, so look forward to that! :) I will use the tag WeusLore for such post!

[falling-star-cygnus]

...i've gotten four asks about this sorta thing -> which i'm super grateful for!! thank y'all so much for wanting to see more of my writing!!

i've just sort of been putting these specific ones off until i felt i could adequately display it and even now I feel iffy about the characterization, but I really didn't want to seem like i ignoring y'all either :( -> Masterlist

i have some semblance of a plot now, so... i sincerely hope you all enjoy? this might be the push i need to get out of my funk, and i put in the very best effort for all of you!!

"You were a WHAT?"

"Is now really the time to be surprised!?"

The Ethereal- they kinda looked like one the Ballerina Twins actually, if the Ballerina Twins had galactic glitchy orbs for heads and rainbow glowy nervous systems- warbles at them impatiently. Anby's barely keeping them at bay with her sword.

It's practically a toothpick compared to the giant weapon Thanatos was wielding... They raise their shield-

Billy fires.

It doesn't land, of course it doesn't, but the smaller Demara doesn't get bludgeoned either so the android counts it as a win.

Especially when the bullet ricochets off the sign previously behind the larger than necessary Ethereal and back towards him. Billy tilts his head left just in time to miss it, and pivots on his heel when Thanatos shrieks and flails back. Bullseye.

"It's showtime!" he announces, and lines The Girls up somewhere where their jaw would be. Only about six of the bullets- 12 in total, the android was counting- actually hit before they teleport away again.

Billy reloads.

None of them, except the Boss, used the right typing to properly take Thanatos on.. but there was little to be done until they could carve an escape route out.

The Hares' ready their weapons, turning in slow circles as they wait for Thanatos to appear again. Were they gone..? He knew better than to assume they were, of course, but-

"Billy- behind you!" Nekomata points; he whirls around.

And takes a blade to the head.

There's not much to say for this part, aside from pointing out how cliche and underhanded it was to get him from behind like this, but bits and pieces float around to the surface with just enough clarity to be worth mentioning.

The pavement cracking under the android's weight.

Sparks fluttering out of the cleaved out gash.

Thin oil leaking out of his head like a halo.

Isolation.

Billy stands in the inky abyss of his own mind. His memories- his memories of the Hares'- play out before him like a movie: braiding Anby's hair, putting Nicole's into pigtails, napping in the sun with Nekomata on his chest, warmth-

Fighting as a team, Anby helping him up, Nicole calling his name, the restaurant they all went to after successful raids, fighting alone, Being alone in that truck bed, sand clogging up his joints.

Chill.

The memories fade away, leaving the android with the stilted thought of:

Don't- take them.. from me.

Nothing.

Billy Kid wakes up, and points the nearest weapon- a gun, by the feel of it- at their forehead. The hands reaching for him still, too pale to be anybody from the Sons.

Calloused enough to be Caesar's, though, so they must be some form of blade user. Electric, if the Lichtenburg scars on their finger tips have any weight to them.

The android sits up, ignoring the stab of pain behind his right video processer. He could deal with that later, after figuring out where the actual hell he was. And dealing with whoever it was that moved him.

They're small, surprisingly so, but Lucy and Piper were also small so that didn't exactly mean anything of value. Brilliant white hair, amber eyes, and green and black tech wear.

And a backpack packed with enough thrumming energy to kill the Dead-End Butcher.

Definitely a threat.

Billy Kid doesn't lower the gun, even as he's sure the human's fleshy arms were getting tired of being raised. Or maybe they weren't. He knows their type, he's cut from the same cloth himself.

A weapon.

"Billy, d-"

"How do you know my name," he interrupts, praying to a god he didn't believe in that he wouldn't have to shoot someone so small, "and why are you only using part of it."

He was Billy Kid, the feared enforcer of the outer ring. The only people that occasionally just called him Billy were the other Sons of Calydon. Not strangers.

"We work together," his potential captor calmly says, lowering their hands by their sides, "We're friends. Partners in crime."

"The hell we are."

"We are," they insist.

He doesn't buy it. Billy Kid didn't have friends, he was an android. A weapon and tool for whoever his boss was. Big Sis, the drifters, whoever had him before that.

He cared about them all, more than he should considering what he was made for, but he wasn't built to receive that kind of care in return. Pain spikes behind his processer again, and his free hand instinctively moves to grasp at it.

The stranger jolts forward as the gun dips.

Billy Kid shoots on instinct, even as something like worry[?] coils the wires in his lower torso too tight. There's a click, but in the end nothing but dry fire. And relief[?]

Billy Kid curses at the opening he's provided, and braces himself for the inevitable attack. He doesn't know where the other gun was- because there had to be one, Burnice only ever made things in pairs- and..

Why did he assume Burnice made these...?

Small hands, calloused and scarred, gently- why was he being treated gently- bat his hand away from his video processor. The empty gun is sandwiched between them.

More carefully than he deserves for shooting at them, the stranger inspects something on his face, and the android swings his lanky legs over the side of- it looks like a cot[?] to make it easier for them.

"You took a bad hit to the head," they inform his forehead, only pulling away when Billy Kid starts to get twitchy at the proximity, "an Ionized - Thanatos. It most likely messed with your memory bank."

"Sounds convenient," he scoffs, lowering the gun to his side, "Most likely messed with my memory bank?"

"It definitely did, we were friends," the stranger presses, strangely insistent, "What's the last thing you remember?"

They take off their backpack as the android thinks back on it. Whether to prove they weren't a threat or gain his trust to attack later, he wasn't sure.

What he was sure of was the fact that the harder he thought about it the harder his head pounded. Everything dating up to the past year and six months was just- blank. Corrupted files that spat static and made him want to lie down for a while.

More than that, he felt... lonely, for some reason. Like a big chunk had been carved from his sternum and left to burn in front of him.

"Billy?"

"I don't remember you."

And oh. He'd take it right back if it meant that look never crossed their face again.

It's barely there for a second, but it's a look of pure hurt. Hurt that makes something close to guilt roar where his mechanical heart sat. He never wanted this stranger to look at him like that again.

He never wanted anyone to look at him like that, to be honest. Fighting was fun- it was what he was built for- and the thrill was something that almost nothing could replicate- but...

Flashes- memories- of Lucy and Piper flit through his head, images and phantoms of them tucked into his sides on warm days and colder nights. A rough hand carding through his hair.

...being sent.. off?

“I’m-”

The door cuts him off with a bang!

"What's taking so long!? Is he ok?"

"Nicole! Anby told us to wait-"

Long pink hair and calculating green eyes bully their way into the room. Something in his programming wants to stand at attention all of a sudden...

The stranger- the white-haired stranger, because now there were three- moves away from the confused android. It looks like they want to say something but apparently thinks better of it and turns towards Billy Kid.

"I don't think I should be the one to say it," they- the thiren said her name was Anby[?]- announce, with all the enthusiasm of a dry rock. Which seems to be her MO, endearingly enough. Endearingly?

The pink haired- Nicole puts her hands on her hips.

"Say what?" she demands, before turning her critical gaze onto the android, "Are you ok or not, Billy?"

Again, shortening my name... Who are these people?

"All systems are operational," he reports anyway, because despite her brash words she sounds worried, "Except my memory banks, apparently."

Side-eye.

Anby's nose just barely scrunches at his tone.

"What do you mean your memory banks?" Nicole prompts, gaze flicking between the two.

"He doesn't remember us."

The Cunning Hares freeze. Silence rules the small space they've tucked themselves into- which... kinda looks like a garage? A nice garage compared to whatever you'd find in the Outer Ring.

Much too nice to be anywhere close to the Outer Ring.

"Where did you take me?"

Nobody answers for a good while.

Until the thiren lets slip:

"...it's so weird to hear you talk like that.."

She shudders from her fluffy ears tips to the sleek finishes of her tails. Were they prosthetics? Why were they blue at the at the base-?

What was wrong with the way he talked?

And why didn't she answer his question-

"Not- not in a bad way!" the thiren is hasty to tack on, "you just... you don't sound happy anymore.."

...happy? He wasn't built to sound happy. He wasn't even supposed to talk much outside status reports and communications. Although- sure, the android often broke that somewhat unspoken rule when Piper and Lucy needed a bit more help to drift off at night, or when Burnice needed someone to bounce a new design off of, or if Lighter was talking about something that happened while he was out in shops, or-

...you got the idea. Caesar hadn't explicitly banned him from talking with the other Sons, not by a long shot, he just- didn't want to push it.

The silence surrounding the ragtag four stretches into something distinctly uncomfortable.

"That.. aside," Nicole- who he assumes is the Boss- eventually starts, "We.. ahem. We got your wound patched up just fine, but... we ended up needing some help to get you back here."

Billy Kid tilts his head.

It made sense, of course, he was an android made of reinforced metal. And while he didn't doubt the strength of these people- especially Anby- he had an itching feeling that their strength was.... not particularly rooted in the weight-lifting sense.

So who-?

"Well. This isn't exactly the reunion I was hoping for."

....there was no way.

Caesar, the Big Sis of the Sons of Calydon herself, walks through the- admittedly abused looking door. Billy Kid shoots to his feet.

And severely underestimates the refractory period required following the repair of a head wound. He stumbles.

A sturdy arm catches his middle with ease.

"Easy, Kid," Caesar reprimands, hauling him back to his feet, "There's no reason to do that, I'm not your boss anymore."

Her words are oddly quiet, as if the other three in the room weren't supposed to hear. Big Sis had always been good at that. Quietly being reassuring without being coddling.

That achingly hollow feeling returns.

From behind Caesar's large frame, he can see the Hares' lower their hands slowly. Their faces are oddly stormy..

Anby bullies her way between them.

"Quite the team you've found yourself, by the way," Caesar continues as if she hadn't, "I'd ask you to fill me in, but.."

...right. Her pale eyes lock onto his, and-

She gives him a single nod of approval. Something loosens in his wiring.

"You'll be alright, Kid."

"Of course he will." Anby cuts in, squaring her small shoulders, "Even if we have to remake all the memories he lost, Billy will always be a member of the Cunning Hares."

And-

Billy finally believes it.

[lauraraeamos]

photo dump: Assateague Island, Maryland,

June 2025

The sweet sweet babies! 😍 We saw at least three different foals during our week here, and quite a few yearlings, too. This little one was nursing her mama still.

And mama is just having a little back scratch on the grass.

The ponies here are not shy. They will absolutely take over your campsite if they feel like it. It's kind of like being on a safari.

The campground is pretty rustic. There are no hookups at either the state or national park, and the wind, rain, and sun can be pretty harsh at times. But the plentiful sun meant our solar panels gave us all the device charging we could ask for. And the state park, where we stayed, has warm showers in the bathhouse.

Mostly, I just love being able to walk over the dunes to the ocean. The cool ocean spray, falling asleep to the sound of the waves. ❤️

You probably can't get much closer to the ocean for only $30/night.

The weather was mostly overcast and stormy. And yes, my pasty ass still got burnt through the clouds. The water wasn't too cold, and the waves were strong. I caught a couple on the body board, but mostly I ate sand, lol!

(It might be on my bucket list to properly surf at least once before I'm too old for it!)

Sunset is over the dunes here. Sadly, I was far too lazy/tired to wake up for sunrise over the ocean this time. Most mornings we were awoken by the horses roaming around the camp, so I guess that was more interesting than the sunrise. Sorry, sunrise.

Some other favorite critters. The ghost crabs are so funny to watch as they scurry in and out of their burrows with their little eyes peeking out. You could almost miss them, with how they blend into the sand. Careful you don't step on one!

And this thing, which is...? An eel? An egg sac? An alien, maybe? 😳

If you know what this is, please share!

But the main attraction here, of course, are the feral ponies, strolling through the campground like because they own the place.

And then sometimes they sneak up on you in the dark, raid your last campfire while you’re still sitting at it, toss your chairs, and chomp down a half bag of marshmallows that you were still eating, still in their plastic bag. (Hope the dummy didn’t choke!)

They are completely unafraid of humans here and that's maybe not a great thing. Wild animals and humans should maintain a healthy fear of each other. I know, this is their island and we’re only visiting… but they sure can be asshole hosts sometimes! It’s honestly easier camping with bears. 😳

Plus the one horse who decided my camper bunk was an excellent place to scratch his rump at 5am every morning. Shook the whole camper.

This island is always an experience!

[unhinged-summer-fun]

the foolish heart's guide to not repeating history - chapter 6

Pairing: Dream of the Endless "Morpheus" x F!Reader

series masterlist

chapter 6: the reflectory

Dream of the Endless despises being caught off-guard. Surprises, while they could be delightful, were a dime a dozen in his realm. Yet, the act of catching him off-guard was always an annoyance he would not tolerate, a breach of his carefully constructed composure.

He’d heard his brother’s voice on the wind, seen your eyes go wide and unfocused, and then you’d disappeared—just as your hand was going to touch his. Dream blinks several times, still seeing the outline of where you’d been just moments before.

The sense-memory of your touch on his skin, over the tattoos still sensitive after two hundred years, staves off the indignation rising in the back of his mind. He hadn’t meant to lock up as he had; he hadn’t meant to startle you or indicate your touch was unwelcome.

It had been a considerable time since he’d allowed someone to touch the tattoos. Your initial interest in the stars upon his hand at your first meeting had stirred a longing within him. In the moments he’d seen you between that day and this, he’d intentionally extended his arm in your field of vision, yearning to rekindle that same interest. Ask me, his heart silently pleaded, for your curiosity was a balm to his soul.

And now you know the story, as embarrassing as it had been. Your eyes had gone a little distant upon mentioning Paris and the Luxembourg. Whatever memory you had of the place in the other universe, it must not have been pleasant. He only hopes his tale does not touch any of the same darkness you’d possibly endured.

A nearby sentry, one of the myriad Knights of the Shining Armor oft-deployed to the frontlines of children’s dreams, asks if he is well.

“Yes, Ser Throckmorton. I am well.” He hides the rising embarrassment at having the rug pulled from beneath him and swallows, nods. “Good day.”

Undoubtedly, the gossip about his meeting with you on the city wall would have spread through the city by now. He stifles a groan and looks up to the skies, now a deep purple twilight. As the Dreaming day wanes, he knows the waking world where you have taken up residence is beginning to wake.

Destiny would not return you to his company when he finished his summons. With a flourish of his hand, sand pouring forth from his fingertip, he steps through a door and into London.

It’s daybreak in your flat in London, and Dream of the Endless is standing over your bed.

“I suppose a conversation is in order?”

He at least waits for you to make coffee before demanding any answers about your sudden departure. In the fantastical realms of Dream and Destiny, wakefulness and attention were a given, but back in the waking world, you’re still just waking up from maybe—oh, goodness—twelve hours of sleep.

You’re tempted to ask how long he waited for you to wake, but you know the answer would embarrass you further. You hadn’t picked up the mess from last night, takeout boxes on tables, and a bottle of whiskey still out on the coffee table.

With dogged determination, you ignore his presence until the coffee maker has finished brewing, but you’re certain no roast is strong enough to conquer this conversation.

Stars, what he’d said just before.

Darling, do you think I would have let you touch me if I did not want you to?

Were you meant to pick up the conversation from there like nothing happened? Like your world hadn’t been upended by what Destiny had told you?

You pour him a cup of coffee as a half-apology, and he raids your fridge and cabinets for sugar and cream, quite at home in your space.

You try to move the gigantic, unfolded pile of laundry into the bathroom as subtly as possible. What were you supposed to do? Say, welcome to my flat, Dream Lord. Please do not look at the bra hanging on that chair, the embarrassing amount of romance novels in that corner, or the hopeless tangle of my last attempt at crochet. In fact, please leave.

Well, now that you thought about it, that option was tempting.

He’s staring at your kitchen window when you slink back in, just looking at the dozen crystal suncatchers you’ve set up in the kitchen window. Being an east-facing apartment, this time of day is the only opportunity to see the display’s brilliance.

You’re glad you get to see his face lit up in the thousand rainbow flares. His hair swallows the light, but there are those grays again, marks of age and marks of life. They gleam brightly in the light. It makes the embarrassment almost worth it.

“Are you—”

“Good morning—”

You both stop in your tracks after speaking over one another. Nervously, you laugh and pick up your mug, taking a sip and motioning for him to continue.

“Are you hungry? I can get us breakfast if you… wished for privacy.”

Your laugh returns. A man who’d appeared in your bedroom, near-looming over you as his brother had done, offering you privacy. “No. No, I’m fine with this for now.”

“As you say,” he says with a nod that’s too formal for the hour displayed on your stove.

You curse Destiny for inviting this damnable silence back into the space between you and Dream.

“Have you—”

“Your home—”

The startled silence draws twin winces from the both of you. This time, he nods for you to speak. “Have you done the same with the other dreamstones?” you say, gesturing to where the tattoo of his ruby is.

“No.” He moves to sit at the small kitchen table before the window. “The rest reside in the reflectory.”

“Oh, I love the reflectory—” you stop short, but he takes it in stride.

“I’d guessed,” he says, gesturing to your adornment-heavy window. “A shame you’d only get to see this once a day. The reflectory never ceases to shine, even at night.”

“It was one of my favorite places in the Dreaming.”

“Why couldn’t it be now?” He takes a pointed sip of his coffee, one perfect eyebrow raised. Stars, that mug looks so tiny in his hands.

“Well, I’ve never seen this one, have I?” You sip your coffee as well, matching his attitude.

“That could change. Tonight. Or right now, if you prefer.” The look he gives you, followed by a deliberately slow swallow from his mug, fills your cheeks with more heat than the coffee.

You look down at your socked feet and pajamas, and the impact of his once-over is now more embarrassing than confidence-inspiring. “Tonight would be better.”

“You could come to the Dreaming through one of the doors I have here, in case you didn’t want to wait for sleep to take you.”

“That sounds even better.”

This time, the silence is comfortable, the two of you just sharing the quiet morning together over coffee. When you feel you’ve woken up enough (and what a novel feeling it is), you meet his gaze.

“Destiny told me I appeared in his book. The Fates confirmed it.”

He draws his posture taller, with seriousness in his expression. “Did he tell you of it? What your fate was to be?”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” you shake your head. “It’s just another confirmation in the long line of confirmations I’ve been ignoring about my place here.”

“Did you believe him?”

“It’s hard not to believe what you’re told by Destiny of the Endless.”

“I’ll try my best not to be offended by that.”

“You do that,” you smirk.

“You’ll seek to insult Dream of the Endless, King of the Nightmare Realms?”

“You don’t scare me.”

A gleam in his eyes tells you he would like nothing more than to try and disprove that, but it’s playful, not predatory. You sip your coffee, feeling more flustered by the moment. He takes his victory and returns to silence. Questions build and break when the light from your window starts to disappear. With the sun rising higher, most of the rainbows are now on the table between you.

“How do you feel about it?”

“I am not sure. I think my mind has gradually accepted it a little at a time with every passing instance like this. The different Free Houses remembering me here, leaving footprints in sand, Hob calling back for me, being able to sign a lease without the ink lifting off the page. I’ve considered myself more of a ‘regular’ in this universe than someone living here.”

He nods, understanding your logic. “Do you ever think you’ll go back?”

“I’d hope not,” you laugh, but it’s hollow. You look in the reflection of your coffee and see only rainbows. “It’s been three thousand years. I don’t know that I’d like going back and being unable to recognize any of it. It’s cleaner to close that door behind me.”

He gives another hum of assent. “I’m envious of my brother, sometimes. He’s met himself from the other universe.”

“Of you lot, Destruction is the only one with a small enough ego to survive such a meeting.”

He almost looks offended again but instead shrugs. “That’s fair.”

He traces the edges of one of the shapes made by the crystals across your kitchen table, the stars on his hand catching the light in an aurelian glint.

“How long were you waiting before I woke up?”

“Not long,” he says, shifting a little.

“How long is not long?”

“No more than fifteen minutes.”

“You knew I’d wake up, not return to the Dreaming?”

“My brother is not subtle about his summons, nor is he with his dismissals.” The twist in his expression tells you all you need to know regarding his feelings on the matter. He must have been similarly yanked and thrown from the Garden.

You watch his fingers move a little longer before looking out the window at the still-dim street below. The apartment is across from a park bordered by a heavy thicket of trees that keep the sidewalks shaded and chilly until well past ten. This morning, two cats patrol along the route, walking in perfect sync with one another. They duck into the gap beneath the gate and disappear into the park beyond sight.

“Do you think I should return to the other universe? To visit, I mean.”

When you look back at him, he’s studying you with the same kind of soft interest with which you’d watched the cats.

“Your mother is there, is she not?”

“Dusk is not a mother, and certainly not my mother.” You refill your coffee to get some distance from the sharp souring of your emotions. “But yes, she is there, in the Starless Spaces.”

“What’s it like there?”

“Cold. Dark. Lonely. It’s where I was brought into existence and where I stayed until I broke out to find someone else to meet in the universe.”

“She is an Endless too, is she not?” he asks, a frown growing on his lips.

“No. She was made before the Endless existed and was not born of Night like they were. She was Dawn, then, and not even a daughter. She was simply the Dawn of Time. She tried considering the Endless to be her siblings, but when their apathy toward her existence waxed, she waned. She became Dusk, separate from what she was before and whatever else may have existed since.”

“Delirium was once Delight, yet she is still the same. Despair is not as she was born, but still is.”

“Some transformations eradicate all you were before.” In your mind’s eye, you see a pale face, white hair, and white robes—an emerald.

“What was she like?”

“Hopeless. She made me from what was left of Dawn’s hope and the starlight she’d taken with her when ending the universe she came from. She was left with no hope and no light to live by and despised me from the moment she held me in her palm.”

Pain creases his features. Not pity, nor sympathy—just pain. “You deserved better than that.”

“I know,” you say, putting a hand over his to assure him. He’s warm in the colorful light. Touching the magical sand in his tattoo feels like holding your hand over a glass of fresh champagne. “If I were to talk to her, she’d tell me I was rubbing it in her face to have found happiness, love, and belonging. I’d probably only go back to tell her she was wrong.” You roll your eyes quickly to gloss over exactly what you’d admitted.

But Dream wouldn’t let you. “What’d she be wrong about, exactly?” he asks, smelling out a truth like the hunter-poet he is.

Shit. Cornered.

But he shows you his palms, a peace offering, an out. He waits for what you’ll do or say.

“She’d… she’d tell me that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—find or feel any of those things because they were never meant for me. But I… I have found those things. And I have felt them.”

His eyes are kind, and you’re filled with the idea that he understands you slightly more.

“I would not fault you for wanting to tell someone off and disappear,” he says around the beginnings of a smirk. “I’ve had few opportunities to do the same, and not without trying.”

“Your father?” you guess.

He nods, sipping his coffee to tell you he didn’t want to elaborate.

“Would Dusk try to keep you there?” he asks.

“No. The only thing that ever trapped me with her was myself. I’ve got the Hob Gadling maxim going for me now.”

“You’ve got so much to live for?”

“Precisely. So it’d definitely be more of a, what did you say? Telling someone off and disappearing. It’s not worth the effort at the end of the day.” You wave your hand.

“And there’s nothing else in that universe which would tempt you to return forever?”

“I’ve got everything I want right here.”

A warm smile. “Is that so?”

“What’s not to love?”

The man with the flaming visage had never seen anybody enter the office in London before. His grandfather had told him about the dreams long before he had ever had one. Once a month, like clockwork, he’d fall asleep and find himself behind a desk in an office in London. He couldn’t tell where the office was in London, but he could almost make out familiar landmarks from his seat at the secretary’s desk. It’s his job to man the desk until his relief arrives, a man with a portcullis face.

In his waking life, Shaun Fleming had never worked a desk job. He’s part of the fire brigade like his father and grandfather had done, and as his son had just begun training for. Sometimes, Shaun would wonder: if his father hadn’t died in that car crash when he was 16, would he be the one stuck with these office dreams after his grandfather had passed? Shaun most likely would never know.

Still, once a month, on the 18th, he’d sit at a desk and know exactly what to do until his shift ended. In this dream, he was not Fire Captain Shaun Fleming; he was simply the man with a flaming visage. He knew he managed the London office for a tall, intimidating sort of fellow who never bothered to smile (or so the previous man with a flaming visage had told him) and was hardly ever in at all.

Others, of course, stopped in to see the unsmiling fellow from time to time, but he’d give the same answer to them as he had before—

“I am sorry, ma’am, he isn’t in today.”

“Oh, I know; I’m looking for the door to him.”

The strange woman smiles at him. Very infrequently does he see the people who come in… smile. But he tries to smile back, despite the flames that are his face having no mouth to do so.

“The door to him…?”

“Yes, I’ve got a date and can’t miss it.”

If there was one thing the man with the flaming visage knew, it was the importance of punctuality and making one’s meetings.

“I believe the door you’re looking for requires a key—oh.” The man with the flaming visage surprises himself by holding up said key, and the flames on his face flare blue in confusion. “This key.”

“Thank you!” she smiles again, and really, who in London smiles anymore? She takes the key from him and opens the door to a place too full of color and grand possibility for him to look at for too long. “Have a good night!” she calls, and the door shuts.

The man with the flaming visage wonders if he should tell his son about this tomorrow morning.

The Dreaming unfolds before your eyes, and there seems to be a party going on. Everyone in the bustling castle town is dressed to the nines, all classy gowns and coattails. The diamonds in the street gleam as your air taxi transports you to the castle gates. The skies are woefully free of any pirate battles.

That’s not to say there are no battles to face on the ground.

The Guardians above the door regard you thoughtfully.

“We have seen many walk through these doors with hearts intact and leave with them not so,” says the Winged Horse.

“Yet yours seems much broken already,” adds the Gryphon.

“Stay upon the path,” concludes the Wyvern, blowing a hot breath in your direction.

“You’re too kind,” you say, tone acidic. You roll your eyes only when you pass beneath them up the stairs.

Your feet protest the Wyvern’s advice, but this is not Destiny’s Garden, and you do not control what happens when you stray from the paths of the Dream King’s palace. You recall the weeping, lost souls trapped in a timeless, unending dream of wandering without relief.

“Why do you let them suffer?” you asked. Standing on a balcony with a glass of red wine from worlds away, you observed a young man glancing behind his shoulder every few seconds. “I didn’t think you shared the Morningstar’s predilection for punishment.”

Perhaps that wasn’t true. Maybe you were speaking for yourself, returning to the Dreaming repeatedly for a punishingly sweet taste of paradise and leaving long before any relief was found. Still, the question remained, and Dream answered.

“Nightmares convey lessons and messages to those who confront them.”

The man beat against the walls and shouted in frustration, tears coming in force.

“And what’s this lesson?”

“To listen to the rules of the house when you are a guest.”

The shouts of frustration turned into loud, unhinged weeping.

“Please, let him go.”

The Dream-King waved his hand, and the man woke up. The otherworldly wine tasted somewhat bitter after that.

“You disagree with how I fulfill my duties?”

You couldn’t look up at him. Phrased like that, his reproach was made clear. You drained the remaining wine and set it down on the railing. “I’d like a path to the gardens if you don’t mind.”

He made one for you on reflex, and you deliberately stepped off it the moment you could. You weren’t sure how long you walked or when your distaste turned to despair, but you continued walking.

“You’ve made your point.”

You walked right past Dream of the Endless without acknowledging him. He was there again when you rounded a random corner.

“This is not the point of the lesson taught. You weren’t—”

“I was, though. I was told upon coming in.”

You walked past him again. He next tried blocking your path with all his swirling flames and darkness.

“Yes, but you are not dreaming, are you?”

You stay on the path, excitement tempered somewhat.

The path ends in the reflectory. You’ve always liked this place. From your memory, it was always the tallest tower in the castle, so it could provide the best views of the realm. In that world, the tower it called home was only accessible to those who braved the three thousand steps to the top. The long walk up was its most assuring security feature, because after the first thousand steps you really don’t think whatever’s at the top is worth it anymore. By comparison, your jaunty walk from the Guardians to there takes about two minutes. Such is the nature of paths in the dreaming.

Along with the dreamstones, Dream keeps his glitteriest gifts and treasures up here. They each hang from lovely, intricate chandeliers displayed at eye level, like the universe’s most expensive crib mobile. In the light, the room itself ensnares the attention of every creature lucky enough to look upon it.

This must have been what drew your eye while he’d told the story of his tattoos.

Standing in the doorway, you sigh at the sight before you, unable to do much else. There is no official day or night in the Dreaming, but when the king allows it, there are blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sunrises, there are sunsets that last weeks. In this holy place (what else could it be than holy?), the waning golden light hits every facet within, and the overall effect is something more, as if the light of all days could be held within each gem to glow until morning.

“Delaying our appointment, or simply admiring?” a night-velvet voice comes from your right.

Looking up at Dream of the Endless, you smile even wider. “Adoration,” you explain, and revel in how he ducks his head to hide his grin. “I love this place.”

“You’ve said,” he murmurs. “I’m glad it lives up to your standards.”

You share the moment a little longer, smiling at each other as light reflects off your faces. “Delaying our appointment, or…?” you prompt.

Mischief sparks in his eyes. “Adoration as well, I’m afraid.”

A short, skinny man in a red coat, blue trousers, and a cream-colored turban clears his throat from a door nearby. “Your meal is ready, sire,” he says, navigating the small lisp from his fangs with practiced composure.

“Thank you, Taramis.” Dream smiles at his butler and offers you his arm. “Shall we?”

You take it and enter the reflectory at his side.

He takes you to a table in a nave containing a chandelier shaped like tree roots, glittering crystal teardrops dripping from the ends. On one root dangles an impossibly large diamond necklace you’re sure belongs at the bottom of the ocean, and on another hangs a row of twelve earrings shaped like butterflies. You’re so busy looking up that you don’t notice Dream holding your chair for you until one of the butterflies takes flight and flutters down to your hand.

The Hum wants to answer the question rattling around your head: what does that look mean? Any answer it provides is more foolish hope than fact.

You take your seat and shoo the butterfly back up to the chandelier, but it simply flutters up to land in your hair. A moment later, the other eleven do the same, their wings gently chiming together as they migrate. Dream’s hand lowers to the table, giving away his involvement. You grin at him and gently touch the butterflies arranged in a crown around your head. “Thank you.”

“They are becoming. You wear them well.”

Taramis appears again, removing the silver domes from atop your trays and offering a bottle of wine. In the grand satisfactory manner of the Dreaming, your meal is whatever you wanted most at the time, which you’re embarrassed to see is a rather large bowl of raspberry gelato. Taramis then bows out, closing the door behind him. The air from the door closing causes the other chandeliers to clink against one another, an echo to the butterfly wings around your head.

Dream has a plate of fish and chips. It smells suspiciously familiar.

“Is that Hob’s recipe?” you ask, taking a bite of your gelato. It’s sinfully delicious, and just what you needed.

“He’s one of the oldest Londoners still out there, so he’s had centuries to perfect it. I wouldn’t trust another.” He looks just as pleased with his meal as you feel.

Your eyes keep following the play of light as the sun moves further away on the horizon. Even as night falls, the crystals hold their gleam, some of them glowing on their own and others meant to pass along the light and little else. “It reminds me of the pocket dimension in your coat, I think.”

“You know about that?” He says, suddenly bashful for some reason.

“Yes.”

“The reflectory reminds you of it?”

“Yes.”

Dream looks around with you, surely not in an attempt to hide the blush creeping up his neck. Magnanimously, you assume he’s most likely trying to see it how you would, and not from his point of view. You wonder, not for the first time today, what Dream dreams about on his mortal days, and if he feels the same wonderment you do when looking upon this realm.

“I suppose I can see why you’d say that,” he concludes with a smile in your direction. “I don’t mean to pry or ask a potentially upsetting question, but… are they very similar? The Dreaming here, and there?”

“Like night and day seems the best description.” For once, you let go of the ghostly heartache of remembering where you came from. Somedays, homesickness is more a terminal condition than a state of mind.

“So, completely different, then?”

“No.”

He smirks. “I’m not sure we have the same definition of like night and day, then.”

“Night and day are similar in many regards. The light of the moon is still the light of the sun, and the light of the sun is still the light of a star. Some places that look friendly during the day are menacing at night, and some conversations are easier to have at night than during the day. It’s the same, from different points of view. In different lights, that’s all.”

“What would Cafe Terrace at Night be, were it Cafe Terrace at Midday?”

“I’m sure you’ve got that in a gallery somewhere,” you laugh. “Shapes of shadows do not make the items themselves change.”

“Plato would agree.”

You consider how else to describe the differences. “There, the palace was… isolated. It was often on the tops of mountains, behind impassable forests, or across vast seas and deserts. It sat at the center of a spiraling path of its own that started in Nightmare. I tried walking it once, and on foot, I never reached the center.”

“Paths through the Dreaming are more metaphorical than literal,” he points out.

“Both of these things can be true. The true heart of the Dreaming was metaphorically inaccessible at the best of times, and literally prohibited at all others.”

“I admit, there was a time here that resembles that statement.” Dream looks a little lost in thought, swirling his wine around in his glass. “Tear-floods would sweep away whole countries of the Dreaming, sigh-tempests would level cities. The realm would change itself to suit my isolationist needs when I was still pushing everybody away. The paths within the castle would never lead to me.”

You take a shuddering breath from his turns of phrase. I thought you loved John Donne.

“When was the last time that happened?” Since you’re asking personal questions and all.

“I can’t lie to you, but neither do I want to tell you.”

“Why, because I’ll judge you for it?”

“No. Because it’s an embarrassing answer.”

“All the better to tell me. We’d be even.”

“Even?” he laughs, the somber attitude shattering.

“I kind of cried all over you the first time we met.”

“Fine then, we’re even. Tell me about the reflectory there.”

You sit back, conceding the point to him. You stand from the table, taking your wine with you as you look around at the reflectory. The biggest difference, what you want least to say, is how you were never brought here on one of his paths through the palace. You’d had to climb all three thousand steps each time you wanted to see the splendor of this room you loved more than any other in the entire Dreaming.

No, that’s not what you want to say least. It’s that each time you’d been here before, you’d been alone.

“There’s a great deal more butterflies here,” you say, tilting your head toward the wings dotted about the room.

“They are the guardians of the reflectory. They blend in with that which they are protecting.”

“They’re dreams?” you smile, urging one of the crystalline insects onto your finger. You note the serrated edges of the delicate wings, visible only at a certain angle. Though the crystal is dainty enough to fly upon, the broken-glass wings seem incredibly sharp. You wouldn’t want to find out for yourself if they did as intended.

“Though there’s rarely call for a dream of crystal-warrior-butterflies, having them in abundance is a guilty pleasure of mine.”

“You should never feel guilty over your pleasures, Dream. Especially ones so beautiful as these.”

Quiet as a night breeze, he appears beside you, reaching a hand up and into your hair, disturbing the resting butterflies atop it. They flutter about the two of you, circling together like a murmuration of starlings. In the last seconds of daylight, free of gems and magic, Dream looks down at you with the revered wonderment you’d been wondering about. The corona of light and color catch on every resplendent part of him. He is as at home here as any of the glittering jewels. 

“You’re right. Guilt has no place when admiring the beautiful.”

He steals your breath when he rests his hand upon your cheek. On instinct, you lean into the touch and close your eyes. This is so novel, knowing his touch. He’d offered you his arm earlier just to walk twenty feet, and now he’s caressing your face like he’d want nothing more than—

“Can I kiss you, darling?”

You open your eyes. The room has gone night-dark, save for the starlit radiance of the crystals and the glinting wings of butterflies. Save for the comet-tail strands of silver stretching past his temples. Save for his eyes, which shine the hints of a thousand more galaxies you’d love nothing more than to explore for eternity.

But he’d asked you a question. It’s a question the Hum desperately wishes to answer, precedent telling you no, he cannot, you will simply disappear from his arms like the last time—

You kiss him anyway just to shut it up.

CHAPTER 7