#what's a handcart

[littledragonkana]

Local girl takes a walk and gets harassed by three 13 year olds who then get told off by 5 slightly drunk adult men and a very friendly dog.

Karma does exist ✌️

[phoenix-before-the-flame]

if its not something you'd like to share i fully understand but what drawing did this person call a caricature? Because i simply can;t wrap my head around anything you've drawn being close to black caricatures

yea sure fuck it, ill share the illustration. Not like i signed a contract sayin i can't post this.

Behold what i was told was reminiscent of jim crow era caricatures

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

The Inspector should get involved in some sort of adventure in the Australian Outback,

especially if it means teaming up with what’s left of Peacemist one last time.

[reasonsforhope]

"According to National Coalition for the Homeless, 40% of the country’s homeless youth population is comprised of LGTBQ+ teens. 

When New York native Austin Rivers took up knitting during the COVID-19 pandemic, it was this staggering figure that drove him towards action. 

“I don’t have the capacity to build a shelter, the network or the connections to help in that way, but what I can do is knit,” Rivers told NBC News. 

“And I know that New York City is cold, so I decided I would start knitting and create this nonprofit.”

That’s when he founded Knit the Rainbow, an organization that distributes free handmade garments to those in need. 

And nearly five years after it was first created, Rivers’ knitting collective isn’t just serving the queer community in New York City.

Their nationwide network links local yarn stores and local nonprofits with over 550 volunteers from 45 states. 

As of 2024, they have collected and distributed over 25,000 winter garments — including sweaters, hats, gloves, scarves, and socks — throughout homeless communities in New Jersey, Chicago, Detroit, and beyond. 

Once clothing items are shipped to Rivers’ apartment, he works with volunteers to unpack boxes, tag and sort donations, and pack and deliver them to local shelters that provide housing to LGBTQ+ and HIV+ homeless youth. 

Although the organization’s impact is wider, and the piles of mail have grown higher, Rivers still has a hand in day-to-day deliveries. 

“We’re going to do it whether it’s rain, or snow, or shine,” Rivers said in his NBC News interview, pulling a handcart topped with boxes. 

Those clothes could be the difference between frostbite and hospitalization, especially in cities that often drop below freezing in the wintertime. 

But Rivers also noted that every handmade item — knitted, crocheted, or stitched — has a dual impact, because every piece of clothing is made with love. 

“A lot of the times, the reason that they’re unhoused is because they were kicked out by their families,” Rivers said. 

“We’re not just providing warmth, but we’re also providing that love and that compassion that they so often don’t have.” 

To the members of the community Knit The Rainbow served, he had a clear message.

“There are thousands of people out here that are constantly thinking of you and using their hands to make things for you,” Rivers emphasized. “So don’t give up. Keep going.”

To download free knitting [and crochet] patterns, donate a garment, or sign up to volunteer, you can visit the organization's website to get started." 

‍-via GoodGoodGood, December 23, 2024

[inbabylontheywept]

Memories of Grandpa Hank

I'm eating a bag of mormon gorp that tastes like gasoline while watching the rain run down the mountain. The taste doesn't even bother me anymore - all homemade gorp tastes like this. It's just a natural consequence of everyone keeping their prepper shit in their garages. 

My dad's out in the clearing, wandering around with his GPS. He's got some pieces of wire out on top of it to try and make the effective antennae bigger, but it just makes it look like he's dowsing. Another mormon tradition. I ask him if he's close to find water yet, and he looks up at me, little rivers flowing off him, and says yeah - he can feel it. 

I'm sure he can. I settle under my tree and watch the droplets roll down the needles. Awaiting the final judgement of Judge GPS. 

A few minutes later, it provides: 

Turns out my dad forgot to record the location of the car this morning. The GPS remembers where we parked yesterday, but by luck my dad knows how to get from there to our car. Downside is that it's a nine mile walk just to get to yesterday's position, then another five miles to backtrack. That's fourteen miles total. 

I'm only thirteen. 

Think you can make it? my dad asks. And it's a kindness that he's worried, but it's not like there's an alternative. What else would I do, sit down in the murk and cross my fingers he finds me again? Ask him to carry me 14 miles? 

I'll be pretty jelly legged, I say. But yeah. I'll make it. 

Attaboy, he says. He fishes a bag of poptarts out and offers me one as - I think - a peace offering. A, sorry you're gonna have to walk 14 miles in the rain because I goofed kind of gift. 

I take a bite and, despite being individually wrapped, it still manages to taste like diesel fumes. We start hiking our incredibly long distance in terrible weather for foolish reasons, and I joke to my dad that the only way to make this day any more mormon would be by pushing handcarts. 

He laughs. Neither of us laugh again until 11 pm, when we stumble like drunkards into camp. My grandpa has stayed up late to make sure we weren’t lost, but he only stays up long enough to see us arrive. We try to eat a dinner of sweet potato stew, but after falling asleep in the middle twice, we agree to just go to bed. 

I sleep in well past nine and wake up to nobody in camp but my grandpa. My dad left with my sister to keep hunting around 5 am. I know that everyone assumes that their dad is invincible when they're 13, but I'm 28 now and part of me still thinks he's gonna live forever. That God made exactly one perpetual motion machine, and it raised me in the desert. 

---

Around noon my grandpa suggests hunting again. If it was my dad, I'd probably tune him out, but I like my grandpa's style of hunting. My dad hikes and hikes and hikes until the elk get tired and just let him shoot them. My grandpa finds the sleepiest, sunniest, coziest field and takes a nap there, figuring if the elk have any decent taste they'll come there at some point.

Man's got a knack for knowing what elk like - he's right more often than not. I think he might've been an elk in a previous life. 

I go with him, and much as I hate to admit it, the hike is good for me. I start off walking like a pirate on two peg legs, so stiff I might as well not have knees, but by the end of the mile and a half walk I'm almost normal. We make it to the edge of the clearing, and my grandpa finds a patch of grass taller and softer than the beds inside the trailer, and he curls up to sleep there. I look across the grass and I watch the comings and goings of critters through the field. Sometimes I use the scope to get a magnified view, but I never do so with my hand on the trigger. The thought of accidentally looking a person through that glass is something that sends a chill up my spine. 

Some deer wander through the glen, but it'd take a fool to mistake one of them for an elk. A few hours later, my grandpa wakes up and asks if I want to wander around a little. It's a lovely day. Rain comes in bursts in Arizona, and the day after is almost always clear as can be. And for a short while, all the desert browns turn green and lush. Hard mosses turn squishy and cacti swell up like fresh baked muffins and for a while you can get why people settled in these god forsaken wastes. 

So I go with him, and we walk on, me with my gun, him just taking in the forest. He looks so peaceful that I get a little jealous, but it's not until my grandpa stops and looks at me that I even notice it myself. Takes a mirror, sometimes, to know yourself.

Being near my grandpa is always a strange thing for me. He's quiet, and he doesn't talk much, and I don't ever get the feeling that he's particularly emotionally intelligent - but it's like he's interacting with a reality more raw and real than mine. Like I'm watching symbols on a screen and he's counting atoms. And sometimes, just being near him gives me access to that raw matter. Just something about how he is breaks the illusions of the world.

He looks at the gun like a foreign object, like he doesn't recognize it, then he looks at me. He speaks and he doesn't mince words. 

What would you do if an elk came across the path and you shot it right now? he asks. 

Well, I'd start cleaning it, I say, and he waves the words away like cobwebs in his face. 

But would you celebrate? he presses.

And I look at him, and I don't actually see any judgement staring back. He knows the answer, and he's at peace with it. He’s asking so I can see it too. He’s being a mirror so I can see my own face.

I think I might actually cry, I admit. And he nods along in agreement before reaching forward to take the gun off my shoulder. 

Lets just walk today, he says. No chance of killing anything. No worrying about that. 

Right, I say. 

He pops the chamber open and tosses me back my bullet. I catch it, and the relief I feel is palpable. 

Can I change my mind? I ask, and he shrugs.

Whenever you want. Hunt or don’t. It’s not the hunting that I’m worried about. It’s seeing you ignore your conscience.

And for a moment, I'm there in the real world with him, and my gloves are off, and reality is a metal cube in my hand: Sharp and cold and heavy.

Or maybe that’s just the bullet.

---

We make it back to camp a bit later than my dad. We get there and he’s waiting for us. If he's tired, he doesn't show it. 

How'd it go? he asks. My grandpa looks at me, and I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to explain it, and I am scared. 

Great, he replies. It's a shame Babs only has a doe tag. We saw a five-point out there. Close enough to hit with a football. 

No, my dad says. If his grin was a half inch wider, both ends of his mouth would meet in the back of his head and everything above his tongue would slide off.

Tell him Babs, grandpa says. And, not for the first time, and especially not the last, I try my hand at spinning a yarn. 

It's pretty good. But at 13, I still have a lot to learn.

[valiantothello]

I often see the sentiment of "Dick grayson has a temper/is a huge asshole" percolate across this fandom and I want to talk about a few panels people typically use to show this.

Here's one from his New Titans days:

"YOU SEE THAT? "PLAYBOY POWS PAPARAZZI!" I CAN SELL THIS ONE TO EVERY PAPER IN THE COUNTRY! "I THINK HE BROKE MY JAW!" "PRINT THAT PHOTO AND I'LL BREAK SOMETHING THAT WON'T HEAL!" "I'LL SUE YOU, GRAYSON! I GOT IT ON FILM! I GOT WITNESSES!"

New Titans #97

But most people like to omit the previous panel:

"KORY, DON'T! KORY! YOU KNOW I DON'T CARE FOR HER. I WASN'T PAYING ATTEN-- I MEAN, I DIDN'T KNOW I WAS SLEEPING WITH HER. I THOUGHT IT WAS YOU! OH, GOD--KORY, YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU. KORY!?!"

"MAN, IT WAS A GOOD THING WE WERE FOLLOWING HIM!" "'PLAYBOY SLEEPS WITH GIRL-FRIEND'S TWIN AND DOESN'T KNOW IT!'" "MAN, IF I HAD A GIRLFRIEND LIKE THAT, I'D NEVER NEED TO LOOK AT ANYONE ELSE."

New Titans #97

Is Dick, who is being mocked and goaded for his own rape, lashing out and showing his "temper"? Or is he showing a reasonable reaction to the horrific things that are happening to him?

Another example is the time Dick killed the joker:

"ALL THE DEATHS! ALL THE PAIN! WHEN IS ENOUGH ENOUGH, JOKER!?"

"AW... JEEZ.. I HIT JASON A LOT HARDER THAN THAT. HIS NAME WAS JASON, RIGHT? SHUUH- SHOULDA VIDEOED THIS. OOOOH."

People often forget about this guy:

"WHATEVER STOKES YOU UP, PRETTY BOY... WHATEVER FEEDS THAT YUMMY-TASTY HATE BUBBLIN' UP INSIDE YOU."

Joker: Last Laugh #6

This is a classic moment of Dick Grayson being brainwashed, mind-controlled etc. The character creeping on Dick is called Rancor - a white supremacist meta who has the ability to dramatically increase the anger/hatred someone is feeling. Yes, Dick was furious that the Joker "killed" Tim, but there was no guarantee Dick was out to kill the Joker.

"NO ONE HATES HIM MORE THAN ME. NO ONE WANTS HIM DEAD MORE THAN ME. BUT THIS ISN'T THE WAY. "I KNOW, BABS. GOD HELP ME, I KNOW."

Dick admits to Barbara that he knows that he shouldn't kill the Joker despite expressing clearly that he wants to. But immediately after, Dinah says this to Barbara:

"I TRIED TO STOP KIM... BUT HE SUCKER-PUNCHED ME AND TOOK MY BIKE. HE DID APOLOGIZE THOUGH... STALWART TO A FAULT, YOUR GUY."

This panel immediately picks up after the last one. Dick fights with Dinah off-panel and apologises for it. We also know that Rancor was following him the whole time. Its reasonable to assume that Dick was lashing out at Dinah because of his altered emotions via Rancor's mind-control. Is it really fair to assume that had Rancor not been there, Dick would've went through with killing the Joker? I don't think so.

Another infamous one is Dick's fight with Donna:

"ON TOP OF ALL THAT, KOLE'S DEAD, AND WHAT DID YOU DO WHILE ALL THIS WAS HAPPENING? WHAT MENACE WERE YOU FIGHTING? WHAT WAS DISTRACTING YOU FROM FOLLOWING UP ON RAVEN'S "PLEASE, DICK--DON'T SAY IT."

"DISAPPEARANCE OR MENTO'S INSANITY? YOUR HUSBAND NEEDED HELP WRITING SOME COLLEGE PAPER! THE WORLD GOES TO HELL IN A HANDCART BUT YOU STAY AT HOME HELPING SOMEONE WRITE A LOUSY STORY!"

"STOP IT, DICK... STOP IT!"

New teen titans Vol 2 #19

The panels before it:

"I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU GIVE UP, DICK. KORY MAY BE MARRIED, BUT IT'S NOT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE. NOT FOR HER OR FOR YOU. AND I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU TAKE OUT YOUR FRUSTRATIONS ON THE REST OF US. DO YOU HEAR WHAT I'M SAYING, DICK?"

"DONNA, YOUR MISTAKE IS YOU ASSUME I GIVE A DAMN ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE SAYING. I DON'T. MOVE ASIDE, PLEASE. I WANT TO GO OUT." "NO. I'M NOT DONE." "I SAID I DON'T CARE, NOW PLEASE... MOVE." "NO."

New teen titans Vol 2 #19

Notice how Dick repeatedly tells Donna to let it be. He clearly didn't want to discuss the Karras-Kory marriage because he was also being ACTIVELY BRAINWASHED in this moment and is canonically lashing out at his friends and girlfriend because of it. Donna refuses to leave Dick alone, even adding a defiant "No." after he asks.

After Dick snaps and starts yelling some very, very harsh truths at her, Donna starts to violently lash out at Dick.

Notably, Dick doesn't hit Donna back despite his altered mind state. Whilst I'm not villifying Donna for having this reaction at all, she wasn't in the right either. Despite Dick telling her to back off, she did not. Despite knowing Dick was volatile at that moment - the whole reason she wanted to have the talk- Donna still couldn't handle Dick's anger without responding with violence. As such, this isn't; a show of Dick "losing his temper" due to him actively fighting brainwashing, a particularly good representation of their friendship or a girlboss moment for Donna.

There are other moments I could point out that fandom uses to display Dick's "temper" or him being "an asshole" (🙄) and the more I see, the more I notice how out of context these moments are displayed to be.

There's something very disingenuous about deliberately posting panels of Dick acting a certain way with zero context which leads people to believe he is acting that way with no provocation - which is usually not the case- all in the name of giving him a "character flaw". If you can't find said flaw without the character being mind-controlled or literally out of their mind in grief, is it really a character flaw or just fanon?.

[bi-bi-buckleys]

A Post 8 x 11 Fix-It of Sorts

I wrote this last night and throughout the day in my notes app. I might add it to AO3 later, but for now it’s a tumblr fic. It’s a bit of fluff and a lot of “Buck and Tommy talk things out.” Rated T.

~~~~~

The last thing Buck is expecting when he answers the door that morning is Tommy.

“Uh, h-hey Tommy.” He tries and fails not to think of the first time he ever opened his door to see Tommy standing there.

“Hey Evan.” Tommy replies with a small guarded smile, like he’s going for casual. Like this is the norm.

“What brings you by?” Buck asks trying not to sound like he’s hoping for a repeat of the other night, but honestly who could blame him? He’s only human and Tommy is wearing a dark green plaid flannel with a tight white tee shirt underneath, his jeans snug as usual. His curls are slightly mussed and he has a days worth of stubble. He looks gorgeous and Buck feels his face heat.

“I bought you a housewarming present.” Tommy responds, sounding proud of himself.

“Oh? You uh, you didn’t have to do that.” Buck blinks a bit in surprise, unable to hold back his smile.

“I know,” Tommy shrugs, casual as anything. “But I wanted to.”

Tommy turns to the side and starts pulling a handcart with a large box on it.

“What-“ Buck starts to ask before he sees the picture on the box.

“It’s a kitchen island.” Tommy says. “Never noticed before that Diaz didn’t have one until I cooked breakfast the other morning.”

Tommy wheels the handcart into the kitchen and carefully slides the box off of it.

“Your counter space is abysmal,“ Tommy continues, turning to face him with his eyebrows raised. “I know how much you like to cook, so you need something. The island at your loft was massive, and this really doesn’t compare, but it’s a good one. I asked my buddy at the hardware store for recommendations.”

Buck is at a loss for words. He had been thinking the same thing just last night. It never fails to amaze him how Tommy just seems to know what he wants.

“Thanks, Tommy.” Buck knows he’s smiling like an idiot and he doesn’t care.

“You’re welcome.” Tommy smiles back, soft and adoring.

Before Buck can say anything else, Tommy grabs the handcart and starts to leave the kitchen.

“Well, I’ll let you get to it. It might take you a while to put together.” Tommy says, walking towards the door.

“W-wait…” Buck feels like he’s experiencing whiplash right now. He trails Tommy through the living room.

Tommy laughs at the look on his face.

“I’m kidding.” Tommy props the handcart just outside the front door then walks back inside. “I’m not making you put that thing together by yourself. Not that I don’t think you could, but still. It’s always nice to have an extra pair of hands.”

Buck huffs out a relieved laugh as they make their way back to the kitchen, giving his ex a playful swat to the shoulder. Tommy laughs again and flicks his bicep. Buck thinks about how they left things the last time, and it should feel awkward but it doesn’t. Being with Tommy feels like the most natural thing in the world.

They open the box and Tommy sorts everything out on the floor in front of them while Buck reads over the instructions. They work together companionably, falling into a rhythm they established during their six months together. When they are about halfway through assembling the island, Buck looks at Tommy and makes a decision.

“You know I didn’t mean what I said the other morning, right?”

“Hmm?” Tommy responds, focusing on the hinge he’s screwing on the cabinet door on his lap. Tommy had stripped off his flannel and was just wearing the white tee now. Buck watches his arms flex and has to force himself to remember why it’s so important to talk right now.

“When I said ‘I don’t have to have feelings for everyone I sleep with,’” Buck says on a nervous swallow.

“It’s fine, we don’t have to talk about that.” Tommy says, still not looking at Buck.

“No, w-we do, Tommy. I didn’t mean it. Well, I mean… technically, yeah, I-I don’t have to have feelings for everyone I sleep with.”

Tommy sighs and he works on tightening the next screw.

Buck slides forward towards where Tommy is sitting on the floor and leans into his line of sight, gently lifting Tommy’s chin with his thumb and finger. Their eyes meet.

“But you’re not everyone.” Buck hopes Tommy can read the sincerity and vulnerability in his eyes.

Tommy takes in a shaky breath, but he stays quiet letting Buck continue.

“We were together for six months Tommy. Of course I had feelings for you, and I still do. I never stopped. I only said that because I was mad at you.” Buck sits back on his heels, but doesn’t take his eyes away from Tommy.

“You really spent our whole relationship thinking I was into someone else?” Buck asks, difficult as it is. When Tommy doesn’t respond Buck continues. “That hurts, to know that you were keeping something like that from me and that you could think I would ever feel something for someone who isn’t you especially while being with you.”

“I’m sorry, Evan.” Tommy responds, sounding truly remorseful. “I really am. It’s my own insecurities and I should have said something to you about it. There’s a lot of things I wish I had said to you but I just never did because of my own hang ups.”

Tommy sighs as he sets aside the cabinet door he’s working on. Buck can tell he’s steeling himself to say something, so he waits patiently until Tommy speaks.

“You told me I seem so confident, but I’m not. And I was worried that you’d see that and decide you don’t actually want me the way you thought. Which, again, that’s my own issue and one I never dealt with. I probably should, and I definitely should have told you how I was feeling. But instead I let my fears control me and I ran. You have no idea how much I regret that.”

“Probably as much as I regret not stopping you from running. Both that night and the other morning. But I let my insecurities get to me too. I’ve been left before, and I always just let it happen. But I don’t want to lose you again. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since…well technically since we met but especially since you dumped me. I’ve been baking as a coping mechanism. You have no idea how much flour I’ve gone through.”

Buck says it with a smile, which Tommy returns.

“I didn’t realize you missed me that much.” Tommy says, softly. He almost sounds amazed.

“Of course I missed you,” Buck shakes his head in slight exasperation. “I asked you to move in with me because I wanted you around all the time and then suddenly I didn’t have you! It sucked!”

“I’m so sorry, Evan. It sucked for me too.”

“I know. So, let’s fix it. Let’s work on our crap,” Buck reaches for Tommy’s hand and laces their fingers. “Together.”

“Okay,” Tommy says, squeezing Buck’s hand with a smile. “Where should we start?”

“Well,” Buck ventures, “I think you were so concerned about going at my pace, that you didn’t consider that maybe I operate at a quicker speed than you. But Tommy, what you want in a relationship matters just as much as what I want. I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for, and I want you to tell me what you’re feeling. Even if I might not like it. A-and I need to work on not letting it get to me and lash out like I did. I really hate that I hurt you, and that I made you think I don’t have feelings for you when nothing could be further from the truth.”

“I know,” Tommy nods, covering their linked hands with his free one. “And I appreciate you apologizing. But I shouldn’t have assumed you had feelings for Eddie beyond those of friendship. And I don’t want you to think it was constantly on my mind. More like a really annoying voice in the back of my head that would pop up every now and then. It’s not even just Eddie; it’s waiting for you to see through the confident facade and realize you deserve someone better.”

“Tommy, you being confident isn’t the only thing I like about you. You’re funny in a really snarky, deadpan, kinda dark sort of way. You’re sweet and considerate. You’re smart. You’re brave. You’re dorky. You’re so many things! And it’s ok that you’re not Mr. Confident, who is? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I hate hearing that you think so low of yourself that you believe I could ever find someone else to have those feelings for. But I get it. From a deeply personal perspective. But I also choose to trust you and your feelings for me. I’d like it if you could do the same for me.”

“I will. Or at least, I’ll work on it. And I’ll work on not running when I get scared and trusting that I can talk to you about these things. It might take me some time to get there, but I’ll try my damndest to do it.”

“You’re good at trying your damndest.” Buck smiles, thinking of the last time Tommy said that and actually managed to come through for Buck, covered in soot and exhausted.

“You’re worth it.” Tommy says with a shrug, like it’s obvious.

Buck’s breath catches and he leans forward to kiss Tommy. Just for a second, a simple press of lips, but it’s perfect.

“So,” Buck asks, feeling nervous despite knowing the answer. “You wanna give us another try?”

“Yes,” Tommy answers immediately. “There’s nothing I want more.”

“Good,” Buck beams at him. “Me too.”

“Good,” Tommy responds, his whole face crinkling with that smile of his.

They finish assembling the island, discussing a few more issues they never really addressed the first time around. Buck tells Tommy about his past experiences with love and Tommy tells him his. They talk about their families, their childhoods, leaving home. It’s as if a floodgate has been opened, and it feels amazing. Being able to just talk about the things they went through and knowing the other will listen and not judge. It slows the process of their project down, as they occasionally stop to focus on each other, but it doesn’t matter. They have time.

When they’re done they look at their finished project and Buck is beaming. They’re standing side by side and Buck raises his hand to high five Tommy.

“Oh, but I’m the dorky one?” Tommy asks with an unimpressed eyebrow raised.

Buck keeps his hand up, his face hurting from his smile. Tommy’s fighting a smile of his own, a fight he loses as he raises his hand to meet Buck’s.

Buck turns his attention back to the island. Tommy picked one out that goes with the rest of the kitchen cabinets and Buck squints playfully at the other man.

“Did you take a picture of my kitchen so you could find the perfect one?” he points an accusing finger at Tommy.

“Evan, your kitchen is white. That’s not that hard to remember.” Tommy rolls his eyes, and it amazes Buck how he can sound both bitchy and fond at the same time. Buck has to kiss him. It’s slow and sweet, but there is a bit of heat behind it.

Buck breaks the kiss to hop up on the island and smirks at Tommy with his tongue between his teeth.

“What do you say we test the sturdiness of it?” Buck waggles his eyebrows seductively at Tommy who snorts a laugh as he stands in between Bucks legs, his hands resting on his thighs. He looks like he’s considering something.

“I want you to know I’m truly sorry for assuming that I knew better than you how you feel and what you want. I did it to you when I left on our first date, telling you that you weren’t ready. I did it when I broke up with you, telling you that you would just end up breaking my heart. And I did it when I assumed you had feelings for Eddie even though you never actually did anything to insinuate that. You don’t deserve to have anyone telling you how you feel. I do trust you, Evan. I trust that you know your feelings and that you mean what you say. And if I ever try to put words in your mouth again, you have to remind me of this moment and what I’m saying and how much I mean it. Deal?”

Buck can feel his eyes stinging and he can see the exact moment Tommy clocks his tears. Concern creeps over the other man’s face.

“Hey,” Tommy reaches up and cradles Buck’s face in his hands, stroking Bucks cheeks with his thumbs.

“Sorry it’s just you have no idea…” Buck takes a steadying breath. “People have been constantly telling me how I should feel, or react, or what I should do. And to have you acknowledge that you did that, and apologize for it, and promise to do better… Tommy that really means a lot to me. Thank you.”

Tommy leans forward and kisses him, gently.

“Of course, baby. You deserve the best, you know that?” Tommy tilts his head down, making sure Buck can see the truth of it in his eyes.

“I have the best,” Buck responds reaching out to hold Tommy by the hips. “You may not think that about yourself right now, but I fully intend on changing that, okay?”

“Okay,” Tommy says.

“Okay. And you deserve the best too.” Buck is determined to make this man care about himself as much as Buck does.

“I have the best.” Tommy parrots, eyes full of warmth.

“I know,” Buck says cheekily.

Tommy snorts out a laugh and they both dissolve into giggles before Tommy captures Bucks lips in a searing kiss.

Later, curled up in bed together Buck goes to the website for the hardware store Tommy got the island from. He finds the exact one and types out his review:

“Very sturdy. Holds up well. 10/10.”

Tommy sighs and shakes his head as he reads what his boyfriend typed. He’s laying on his side facing Buck who is laying on his back next to him. When Buck turns to look at Tommy, he sees nothing but fondness on his face.

“Are you going to leave a review for your new bed frame too?” Tommy asks as he stretches and turns more onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow.

“How do you know I got a new bed frame?” Buck asks turning more towards him.

“Doesn’t squeak the same.” Tommy states matter of factly, his words muffled slightly by the pillow.

After a beat, they burst into laughter. Buck scoots closer to Tommy, nudging his way into his space. Tommy turns back onto his side, more than happy to accommodate him. He wraps his arms around Buck and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“We need to thoroughly clean that island before we prep food on it, you know that right?” Tommy says after a moment of comfortable silence.

“Sure, but uh, later,” Buck replies, gently pushing Tommy on his back so he can straddle him. “First, we need to test out my new bed frame again before I can leave that review.”

[one-flower-one-sword]

Hello I have a question everyone is going on about Hua Cheng hating Feng Xin despite being loyal to Xie Lian. What do you think of the reason Hua Cheng hatred towards Feng Xin?

Hey Anon! thank you for your question, I'll do my best to answer it :)

First of all, I think it's important to keep in mind that Hua Cheng has reasons to hate Feng Xin outside of his treatment of Xie Lian. Though out of the two, Mu Qing treated Hong Hong-er the worst - arguing that a visibly starved and abused child was lying about having no one caring for him and then later kicking him out of the army out of jealousy - Feng Xin really wasn't much better:

The young child shook his head, but Mu Qing said, “There must be. If he doesn't go back, his family will surely be worried sick looking for him.”

“No, no way! There's nobody!” that young child cried, sounding like he was afraid to be sent back, and he opened his arms reaching for Xie Lian. He was still covered with mud and blood, and Feng Xin couldn't stand it anymore.

“What're ya doin’, kid? Things were urgent earlier, so whatever, but shouldn't you know better by now? This is the crown prince. His Highness the Crown Prince. Do you understand?”

That young child's arms immediately shrank back, but he was still gazing at Xie Lian.

Vol 2, page 362

We see this treatment of Hua Cheng continue all the way to the reveal in Mount Tonglu's caves: because of what Hua Cheng is - a beggar child, a ghost king - he shouldn't be near Xie Lian - a crown prince, a god - and his adoration for Xie Lian and desire to be near him is openly treated by Feng Xin as inappropriate and disgusting, as something Xie Lian needs to be “protected” from at all cost - if Xie Lian wants to or not.

After walking for a while, Feng Xin spoke up. “No. I still don't think Your Highness should hold a strange child for everyone to see.”

“What's the problem?” Xie Lian asked.

“You're the crown prince!” Feng Xin exclaimed. While he spoke, he saw a worn-down handcart further up the alley and said, “Put the kid in the cart and pull it.”

Mu Qing immediately voiced, “Just so we're clear, I will not pull that thing up the mountain.”

”No one's asking you to,” Feng Xin said. He reached out and yanked the child from Xie Lian's arms, and the child started struggling again.

Vol 2, page 364

Because Xie Lian is nobility, in Feng Xin's eyes he shouldn't be seen carrying a child of the lowest class. Keep in mind that it was Xie Lian's own decision to carry Hong Hong-er himself and that the child had repeatedly made clear it didn't want to be carried by anyone else. But Feng Xin still takes Hong Hong-er away from Xie Lian, the only person that the child feels safe with and is being treated well by. Not to mention that he's yanking a child around that he knows has recently been brutally beaten, with no apparent care for its injuries.

Once Mei Nianqing divines Hong-er's fate, Feng Xin treats him like everyone else does except for Xie Lian - as if he's not a human being but some kind of dangerous monster that Xie Lian shouldn't even touch:

The Deputy State Preceptors blocked Hong Hong-er, and the State Preceptor backed away, yelling, “Make him leave the mountain, hurry! Don't touch him, I mean it! That fortune is too toxic; don't touch him!” The Deputy State Preceptors hurriedly moved aside, and Mu Qing and Feng Xin didn't know whether to act.

Seeing that everyone was avoiding him like he was poisonous vermin, the child was shaken and started thrashing even harder, biting and screaming with all his might. “I'm not! I'm not!! I'M NOT!!!”

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, encircling his small form. A voice came from above his head. “You're not. I know you're not. Don't cry, now. I know you're not.”

[...] A while later, the State Preceptor said, “I mean it. It's best if you let go.”

Feng Xin finally came to his senses and exclaimed, “Your Highness! Let go! Be careful of…”

Vol 2 page 380+ 382

So what we've established is that Feng Xin treated Hong Hong-er at best like a nuisance that Xie Lian shouldn't be seen caring for because of the class differences, and some kind of dangerous inhuman thing at worst. Now, since that was the way everyone but Xie Lian was treating him back then, I actually don't think it would stand out to Hua Cheng that much - but what would stand out to him was that Feng Xin, just like Mu Qing, repeatedly tried to separate him from Xie Lian, both through words and through actions, and that he went against Xie Lian's wishes in doing so.

Now we can tackle the other part of your question, Hua Cheng hating Feng Xin despite his being loyal to Xie Lian. And I think to answer it fully, we must first ask ourselves - was he loyal?

It's true that Feng Xin stayed with Xie Lian longer than Mu Qing did after the banishment, but his choices during that time tell their own story:

“Actually, it's… Your Highness, do you still have any money on you? Or something that can be pawned?”

Xie Lian was perplexed that he'd ask such a foolish question at a time like this. “Huh? Why do you ask?”

Feng Xin was sweating, but he replied boldly, “It's nothing… Just… If you happen to have some, can you… lend it to me?”

Xie Lian laughed bitterly. “Do you really think I have anything?”

Feng Xin sighed. “I didn't think so.”

After giving it some thought, Xie Lian asked, “Didn't I give you that golden belt?”

“That's not enough,” Feng Xin mumbled. “Far from it…”

Xie Lian was shocked. “Feng Xin? What exactly did you do? How could a golden belt not be enough to cover what you need? Did you beat someone up and need to pay them off? Tell me?”

Feng Xin came back to himself and quickly said, “Oh no! Don't take this to heart. I was only asking!”

Xie Lian pressed him over and over, but Feng Xin still swore everything was fine. Finally, Xie Lian said with worry, “Well, if there's anything, you must tell me. We can think of a solution together.”

“Don't worry about me,” Feng Xin said. “There's no way a solution will just fall from the sky. Your Highness, you just focus on solving your own problems.”

Vol 6, page 219

While superficially this might look like Feng Xin is trying not to burden Xie Lian with his problems, when we look at the actual context we realize that that's not why he is lying about what's going on. This is set during the time where they're barely managing to scrape enough food together not to starve, and are struggling to make enough money to buy medicine for Xie Lian's sick father. And Feng Xin knows this, knows that anything of value should go towards their continued survival - that's why he rejects Xie Lian's repeated offers of help and lies to him about there being no particular reason he's asking for money. Is that loyalty?

Soon after, he heard the Queen sigh. “If this keeps up, how will my son ever get better?”

Xie Lian could feel something amiss with those words, and Feng Xin replied in a quiet voice. “He's only like this because he's exhausted. Too much has happened lately. Will Your Majesties also keep a close eye on him? Please let me know as soon as possible if there's anything not right with His Highness, but don't tell him you did. Also avoid saying anything that might provoke him-”

Vol 6, page 220-221

Feng Xin told Xie Lian he believed him when he said that Bai WuXiang was back and was stalking him, but behind his back, it's a different story. Not only does he doubt Xie Lian’s grip on reality and his own mind, he urges Xie Lian's parents to also keep up the pretense and then report to Feng Xin behind Xie Lian's back. Is that loyalty?

And we need to keep in mind that this isn't a one time deal but a pattern of behavior that keeps repeating. Feng Xin keeps treating Xie Lian as too naive to be trusted to make his own choices, hence his trying to keep Xie Lian from caring for Hong Hong-er, trying to “manage” Xie Lian like an unruly child, and then all the way to conspiring with Mu Qing to kidnap Xie Lian away from Hua Cheng no matter what Xie Lian wants because they think they know better.

Xie Lian knelt by the stream and puked his guts out for over an hour, heaving until blood came up. After descending the mountain, he walked through the city for a long time, aimlessly wandering the main streets without a destination in mind. Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him into an alley. Xie Lian looked around and saw an incoming fist before he even glimpsed the other's face.

“Where did you run off to for so long?!” Behind the fist was Feng Xin's furious expression, but by the time Xie Lian saw, he'd already been knocked to the ground by the punch. Feng Xin hadn't expected to knock him down so easily. Confused, he looked at his own fist, then at Xie Lian on the ground. Before he could think to help him up, Xie Lian had already crawled back up by himself.

Feng Xin's face changed, but in the end, his temper was still flaring. “You've got such an attitude! Dropping only a word before running away and disappearing for two months! Do you know how worried Their Majesties have been?!”

Vol 6, page 263

This is after Xie Lian ran away when he found out Feng Xin didn't believe him and was then lured to the abandoned temple by Bai WuXiang and severely tortured and violated. He was obviously not alright when he left and just from the fact that he disappeared for that long it should be obvious that something is seriously wrong - yet Feng Xin doesn't care about finding out, he's so angry at the way Xie Lian is “failing” to be the perfect image he's made up in his head that the moment he sees him again, he punches him in the face. Is that loyalty?

“Why are you being like this? When did you become this way?” Feng Xin mumbled. “I… I really don't know… I'm… Why did I follow you all this time - ?”

“Then stop following,” Xie Lian said.

Feng Xin couldn't wrap his head around that. “What?”

“I said, don't follow me anymore,” Xie Lian repeated. Then he slammed the door.

Four hours later, there was finally some rustling outside the room and low voices speaking. It seemed Feng Xin was bidding farewell to Xie Lian's mother and father. Feng Xin's voice was extremely low, the queen's voice was choked with sobs, and the king didn't say much, but there was a lot of coughing. The door opened a moment later, then closed. Feng Xin's voice vanished, and the sound of his footsteps grew more and more distant. Feng Xin had left.

[...] Before Feng Xin had left, Xie Lian had been afraid. Now that Feng Xin was gone, he wasn't scared anymore. But even though he no longer felt fear, he felt a deeper agony. Xie Lian had initially held a one-in-a-million bit of hope at the bottom of his heart. He'd hoped that Feng Xin would still stay even if Xie Lian admitted he had done things he shouldn't have, even if he became the worst version of himself. After all, the two had never left each other's side since he turned fourteen and Feng Xin was selected to be his personal attendant. They were master and servant, but more than that, they were friends. And Feng Xin had no one to care for aside from the crown prince either - or, at most, him, and the king and queen. But Feng Xin had really left.

Vol 6, page 273-274

And finally, as Xie Lian begins to crack under the weight of his trauma, Feng Xin leaves. Is that loyalty? Or, more precisely, we have to ask ourselves - who was it that Feng Xin used to be loyal to? Because from what we've seen, it was less Xie Lian the person and more the perfect image of a crown prince and a god Feng Xin wanted and repeatedly tried to force Xie Lian to be - a crown prince who doesn't behave inappropriately by carrying beggar children, who doesn't go against the orders of his Shifu, a perfect god who never falters and doesn't show mental or physical strain no matter what he goes through.

Xie Lian stopped eating and said gently, “But I can sort of understand… your feelings.” After a pause, he continued, “There was a period in my own life that wasn't easy. Back then, I'd always think about how wonderful it would be if someone could still love me for who I was, even if they saw me rolling in the dirt and couldn't get up. Though I don't know if there's anyone out there like that. And I'm scared of showing that part of myself too. But if it's someone San Lang yearns for… I think that even if they saw you at your worst, they wouldn't say something like, ‘ah, you're not so great after all'”.

His face grew solemn. “To me, the one basking in infinite glory is you; the one fallen from grace is also you. What matters is you, not the state of you. [...]”

Vol 4, page 182

This is why ‘what matters is you, not the state of you” is the foundation of Xie Lian and Hua Cheng’s love - they love each other for who the other is, not who they could be or should be by any given standard.

Now, someone might say this is all well and good but Hua Cheng wasn't present for the above scenes with Feng Xin and Xie Lian, so those can't be reasons for him to hate Feng Xin. To which I would say, 1. the above examination was about questioning whether Feng Xin really was as loyal to Xie Lian as that discourse seems to insist by looking at what the text actually tells us. And 2., Hua Cheng did encounter Xie Lian several times during his first banishment. And every single time, Xie Lian was alone, in increasingly bad mental and physical states, with no one helping or caring for him.

The first time they meet again, after Mu Qing has just left Xie Lian and Hua Cheng is a ghost fire:

“I won't forget. Your Highness, I am forever your most devoted believer.”

Xie Lian forced down a sob. “...I've already lost all my believers. Believing in me won't do you any good; it might even bring disaster. Did you know? Even my friend has left me.”

The nameless ghost declared as if swearing an oath, “I won't.”

“You will,” Xie Lian said.

The ghost was insistent. “Believe me, Your Highness.”

“I don't,” Xie Lian said. He no longer believed in anyone, especially himself.

Vol 6, page 136-137

After the failed robbery attempt, when Xie Lian gets drunk and falls into a grave:

“God fucking dammit!” He slapped the ground and yelled, “Is anyone there? Is there anyone who can help pull me out?!”

Of course there wasn't anyone. There was only a small ball of haunting ghost fire, blazing unceasingly as it flitted about. After Xie Lian fell into the pit, the ball of ghost fire rushed over, seeming to want to pull him up - but it would never be able to touch him.

Vol 6, page 175

When the group of heavenly officials and Mu Qing drive Xie Lian off the blessed land and Hua Cheng can't help him because he's still a ghost fire:

Xie Lian lay sprawled face-down on the ground in a state of disbelief, his eyes bulging. One of the heavenly officials had shoved him while he was standing there at a loss and made him take that hideous fall in front of so many eyes. It was too humiliating. There were voices all around Xie Lian, high and low, filling the air and invading Xie Lian's ears. He stared with eyes that couldn't be wider at the blackened ground in front of his nose, then he slowly raised his head.

Mu Qing was standing not too far away from him - standing among those heavenly officials, his head turned away, not looking at Xie Lian. Just like the rest of them, he had no intention of lending Xie Lian a hand to help him up. And thus, Xie Lian understood. No one would lend him a hand to help him up.

Vol 6, page 196

When Xie Lian is brutally tortured and violated by being stabbed over and over:

Unwilling to consider this any further, Xie Lian couldn't help but cry out. “Hel-”

Before the phrase “Help me” could leave his throat, the same icy black belt was thrust into his body once again. Xie Lian's eyes widened in horror. The razor-sharp sword was stabbed in, then pulled out. The next person followed without wasting a second, and the next stab was shoved into practically the same spot. The sound locked in Xie Lian's throat finally broke free, and a long, painful scream tore through his entire body.

Vol 6, page 255

And it doesn't stop there - Feng Xin and Mu Qing both ascend again while Xie Lian is lost in the mortal realm, and Hua Cheng is the only one looking for him. That Feng Xin spent so much time in the mortal realm because he was searching for Xie Lian appears to be entirely fanon, as I cannot recall a single instance where the text actually suggests this. And then when Xie Lian ascends for a third time, Feng Xin and Mu Qing are too cowardly to face him, and only seek him out in disguise. And again, they repeatedly try to separate Hua Cheng from Xie Lian:

After a moment, Feng Xin turned to Xie Lian. “If there's nothing else, you’d better hurry back to the Heavenly Court. Many of the heavenly officials have no idea what happened in that ruckus, and they're still waiting for news above. Jun Wu should have been informed by now. You need to report back and give them a proper account.”

Hua Cheng laughed out loud at his words.

“What're you laughing at?” Feng Xin demanded.

“And here I was marveling at how straightforward you are, but it turns out you like beating around the bush too,” Hua Cheng said. “You just don't want His Highness to associate with the likes of demons and ghosts like me, so why not say so openly? Think it's not your place?”

Xie Lian cleared his throat softly. “San Lang…”

“As long as you're aware that he shouldn't be associating with the likes of demons and ghosts,” Feng Xin said coldly.

Vol 2, page 261-262

So, to sum up, when we look at all this from Hua Cheng's perspective - why wouldn't he hate Feng Xin? He's had zero positive interactions with the man, repeatedly witnessed him going against Xie Lian's wishes, and had Feng Xin try and separate him from Xie Lian over and over again. From Hua Cheng's perspective, Feng Xin abandoned Xie Lian to his suffering and forgot about him, while Hua Cheng never wavered in his faith, and didn't give up on looking for Xie Lian even after hundreds of years.

Throughout the entire novel, Hua Cheng is the only one who consistently respects Xie Lian's autonomy - the only times he ever intervenes is when Xie Lian is about to do something that threatens his own physical and/or mental wellbeing. Many other characters, Feng Xin included, repeatedly ignore or even violate Xie Lian's autonomy and the novel makes quite clear how important and profound the distinction is between how Hua Cheng treats Xie Lian and how everyone else does:

Feng Xin glanced at him and couldn't help but say, “...I'm a little surprised.”

“What?” Hua Cheng replied, not turning or showing a single trace of curiosity.

Feng Xin scratched his head. “Since you're so biased against Mu Qing, I assumed you'd think he wasn't worth saving and wouldn't want His Highness rescuing him. I thought you'd prevent him from going.”

Only then did Hua Cheng spare him a glance. “Half-wrong, half-right.”

“Huh?”

“The first part isn't wrong - I certainly don't think he's worth saving,” Hua Cheng said. “I don't care if he lives or dies.”

“Isn't that a little too blunt?!” Seeing that apathetic expression made Feng Xin start to sweat; when he realized that this man definitely held the same attitude toward him, he sweat even harder!

Hua Cheng snorted, then after a pause, he added, “But only His Highness can decide what he wants to do. I will never oppose his decisions.”

“...” Feng Xin had never heard anyone say something like that before - not a man to a woman, and most definitely not one man to another. But he was quite sure that Xie Lian would only get all worked up and flustered again if he'd been here to hear it. “Ah… I see,” Feng Xin said, not knowing what face to make.

Vol 8, page 44-45

And just to make this clear - this is not me hating on Feng Xin. We also could probably all have lengthy but ultimately futile discussions on what loyalty personally means to each and every one of us, which is why when it comes to discourse like this I think we have to focus on what the text says. And I think through this examination it's become quite clear where the limits of Feng Xin's loyalty lay in relation to how it was tied less to Xie Lian the person and more to who he thought Xie Lian should be, and how even beyond Feng Xin's ultimate lack of loyalty Hua Cheng has many legitimate reasons to hate him in regards to how both he himself and Xie Lian were treated by Feng Xin.

Hope this answered your question!

[scary-grace]

among the wildflowers - a shigaraki x f!reader oneshot

You were raised to hide your magic, but Tenko didn't learn about his until it was too late. When it erupts with deadly consequences and splits the two of you apart, you turn to your own magic for a solution, even knowing that it could change you for good. If it brings Tenko back to you, it'll all be worth it - no matter how long it takes.

This is a slightly late submission for Challenge Friday over @pixelcafe-network, for which I received the prompts 'striped carnation' and 'stock flower'! I decided to combine them into one fic, which naturally got sort of long. 7.1k, lowkey medieval au, magic, flower symbolism, setting-appropriate violence, pining, etc. dividers by @strangergraphics.

Once upon a time, you were a little girl who lived with her mother in a small cottage at the edge of a great estate. Your mother tended to the estate’s vast gardens, sometimes accompanied by the lady of the house, and you followed at her heels, speaking only when spoken to but learning by watching the rest of the time. You don’t remember the first day you set out with your mother and a handcart full of tools and supplies. It was what you always did.

You remember the day you met the lord and lady’s children, though. As though it was yesterday. All you have to do is close your eyes and think back, and suddenly you’re there again – sitting up in the wild section of the gardens mere seconds before Hana and Tenko could trip over you. Hana stopped in time. Tenko couldn’t. He knocked you over completely and the two of you sprawled out in the dirt. Hana fell down, too, but only because she was laughing so hard. “I warned you, Tenko! I said to watch out –”

“I couldn’t see,” Tenko protested. “The grass was too high. Are you all right?”

You nodded. Your mother had told you not to speak to the lord and lady’s children unless spoken to, and while Tenko did speak to you, you didn’t need to answer out loud. Tenko scratched idly at the side of his neck and peered closer at you. “Where did you come from? Are you alone?”

“She’s not alone, silly. Her mother is the gardener.” Hana smiled, offered you a hand up. Not taking it would be rude, so you took it. “What are you doing out here?”

“Listening to the flowers,” you said. For some reason, you were more comfortable speaking to Hana than Tenko. Tenko made you shy. “They can talk.”

“I knew it! That’s why we’re here.” Tenko produced a book, one that looked far too frail to be dragged out into the garden. “This says flowers have their own language, and if we can learn to talk in it, we’ll be able to send messages without anybody else understanding. If you already know it, you can teach us!”

“And talk to us, too!” Hana beamed. She was still holding your hand, and when she sat down, she pulled you down with her. Tenko sat down on her other side and handed over the book. “It’s all right if you can’t read. Tenko can’t read yet, either.”

“I can too –”

“I’ll read it out loud,” Hana said importantly. She opened the book, flipped through it to a certain page, and started reading. “Abecedary. Volatility. Abatina – that’s fickleness –”

“Those aren’t good,” Tenko said, frowning. “I don’t even know what those are.”

You didn’t, either. “I know all the flowers in the garden, but not those. Keep reading – please.”

You only remembered please at the last second, remembered you were talking to nobility far too late, and cringed in expectation of a punishment. Even the village children, confident that they were your betters, were always quick to reprimand. But Tenko was nodding in agreement, and Hana kept reading, as requested. “Acacia – friendship. Do you know that one?”

You did, and you brought back a sprig for each of them. That was how you made your best and only friends.

Sometimes they both came to find you in the gardens, but as the years passed, more often it was Tenko alone, fleeing his father or already banished from the house. He brought the book with him, and sometimes his dog, too, and no matter where you were in the gardens, they always found their way to where you played. Tenko could read by then, and you were learning, a little. Enough to read about the language of flowers, and the meaning of each bloom you and your mother tended to.

“You said you could understand the flowers,” Tenko said to you one day, and you nodded. “You didn’t mean it like this.”

He tapped the book. You nodded again. “I can hear what they say to each other. I can’t always understand it, but I hear.”

Tenko’s dog was sleeping in the grass a few feet away, snoring. Tenko watched you with bright eyes and a smile that still made you shy. “Tell me what they’re saying.”

“They gossip and chatter like hens in a henhouse.”

“Or like my grandparents at tea,” Tenko said, and laughed. “Do they talk about us?”

The flowers really only have one thing to say. “They want Mon to stop watering them.”

Tenko laughed harder, and beneath the sweet, raspy sound, you could hear the flowers whispering. Urging care, urging caution. “Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“I won’t. I swear,” Tenko said earnestly. He held out his hand to link little fingers and swear, and you crooked your finger around his. “Tell me when they say things about me.”

“I will,” you promised. “Keep reading?”

Tenko turned the page, still clumsier than Hana ever did. “Alyssum – worth beyond beauty. Amaranth – immortality and unfading love.” He stumbled over the next few, his mouth tangling around the syllables, until his lips split and he worked it out. “Ambrosia – love returned. Oh, no –”

His lip was bleeding. “Let me,” you said without thinking, and you ran your fingertip over the split, coaxing it to heal quickly. Tenko froze beneath your hand. “I’m sorry –”

“You fixed it,” Tenko said. He raised the hand that had been scratching his neck and nudged your hand aside, tracing over the healed split himself. “You’re magic –”

You shushed him hurriedly. “Don’t tell anyone about that, either.”

“I won’t,” Tenko said. “Not even Hana. She talks to Father, and Father doesn’t like magic.”

You knew. You’d heard shouting from the manor, heard a few details from Tenko himself when he came running after the latest fight. Tenko’s grandmother, long dead by then, was a witch with tremendous power, who abandoned Tenko’s father to be raised by strangers so she could pursue an old enemy. Hana and Tenko weren’t supposed to know about that, and neither were you. “He says magic makes people selfish,” Tenko said. He looked at you with something like awe. “But you aren’t.”

“My mother says magic doesn’t change who a person is. It’s all about how they use it.”

Tenko smiled again, and a different split opened in his lips. “What are you going to use it for?”

You sealed the new split, too. “This,” you said, and almost immediately you felt his lips stretch into a wider smile beneath your fingers.

Your magic is the magic of wild places, of things that grow and change, and you had only small uses for it until the summer of your twelfth year. That was the year plague swallowed the countryside, scoured the village, and left the manor house untouched. It left your cottage untouched, too. Your mother went to the village one day, leaving you home to tend the gardens, and never returned. A messenger brought word that she had fallen sick. Another brought word that she had died, not half an hour later.

Tenko’s father was not unkind to you. He ensured your mother was laid to rest properly, at his own expense, and when you begged an audience from him with tears still drying on your cheeks, he granted it and let you make your case for why you should be allowed to take on your mother’s role rather than being cast out. “I have followed her since I was able to walk. I know all that she knew about the gardens, and I could learn more, for I can read. I am a diligent worker. I will ask for nothing. Only – please, do not send me away.”

“You’re still a child,” Tenko’s father said, almost dismissively. “How do you expect to care for yourself alone?”

“I know what to do,” you said stubbornly. Even though your hope was fading, you held firm. “I can tend to the gardens, and to myself.”

It was quiet for a moment. “Due to your inexperience, you’ll receive half your mother’s previous wage,” Tenko’s father said. “And you’ll take your evening meal here, at six o’clock each evening. Do you understand?”

It was more than you had hoped for. You nodded enthusiastically, smiling so hard your face hurt, and at your first meal with the Shimuras, you spent most of it staring down at your bowl, tears slipping down your face. Hana walked you home, with a bundle of food from the cook for your breakfast, and although you looked for Tenko, he was nowhere to be found. Hana was long gone and you were lighting the candles when he dropped something on your doorstep and ran away.

“Tenko?” you called out. “Tenko, come back.”

He was gone. On your doorstep was a bouquet, tied messily with twine, and as you sorted through it, you named the flowers one by one. Evergreen thorn – solace in adversity. Everlasting – never-ceasing remembrance. Marigold – grief. It made for an awkward bouquet, but you did not love it for its appearance. You replanted the bouquet in dark soil and coaxed them back to life, and many years later, you sang to them until they grew into a strange hybrid tree, one with thorns and flowers. It grows still. If anyone asks you, you could show it to them.

You mourned your mother. You would mourn her forever. You were always lonely, but the evenings you spent with Tenko’s family were peaceful ones. Looking back, you think that your presence kept the worst of Tenko’s father’s temper quiet, simply because he did not wish to misbehave in front of a stranger. Lady Shimura was always kind to you, and Hana and Tenko had been your friends for many years by then. You were never foolish enough to think you were part of their family. You were grateful for the time you had.

The night the Shimuras died, you’d retired early. You felt ill, and ill at ease, and you couldn’t explain why. Whenever you came upon a feeling you couldn’t explain, you were apt to blame magic, and you thought it wise to experience whatever was about to happen out of sight. You were correct to believe that magic was at fault for the discomfort and unease that swept over you. It just wasn’t your magic that caused it.

The legends say that Hell woke within the Shimuras’ house that night, wrecked it from the inside out until nothing but the foundation was left. If a piece of damnation came through, it left Hell far from empty behind it. You heard screams and terrible sounds, and the flowers whispered to you of what had happened at the manor house in the dark of the moon. They told you all they could see and all they had heard. By the time Tenko fell heavily against your doorstep, you knew most things.

Most things, save one. You brought him inside, cleaned blood off his hands, resolved to say nothing – and even as you were so resolved, you were opening your mouth. “Did you mean to do it?”

“No.” Tenko shivered, in spite of the blanket you wrapped around his shoulders. “Not all of it.”

“Your father,” you said. Tenko nodded, cringed away from you when you reached for him again. “Let me help.”

“I could hurt you.”

“Your magic needs time to build back up. Mine does, when I use a lot of it,” you said. “It’s safe, for a little while.”

“Why don’t you hate me?” Tenko looked at you. His grey eyes had gone red, his black hair gone blueish-grey. There were fresh cuts over his eye and lip. “I killed all of them. Why aren’t you scared? Why aren’t you sad?”

You were. You’d show it more, later, once you finally wandered up to the ruins of the manor house and saw what had befallen the people who’d been kind to you. In that moment, all you could see was your best friend in front of you, bleeding and frightened and alone except for you. “I know why it happened,” you said to Tenko, and his shoulders stiffened beneath your hands. “It’s your magic, but there’s something within it. I can see it. Like corruption or root-rot. I could draw it out –”

“No.” Tenko recoiled from you. “It’s not safe.”

“If it’s unsafe for me, it’s unsafe for you, too,” you argued. “Please, Tenko. Let me help you.”

Tenko hesitated for a long moment. Somewhere in that moment, you reached for him, tracing your finger along the cut over his eye and healing it closed. For the first time, it didn’t heal smoothly. What happened to Tenko the night his magic erupted would leave a scar. It was the same with the one on his lip, too. He spoke before you could pull away. “In the morning.”

“In the morning,” you agreed, and as easily as taking the next step down on a staircase, you leaned in and kissed him.

In a love story, a true romance, you would have made love all night, and he would have left something behind with you – a child, maybe, with eyes like his used to be and your life-magic in its veins. The truth was simpler. You kissed your best friend and he kissed you back, his hands shaking and his mouth uncertain against yours. You led him to your bed and the two of you slept in each other’s arms. Slept, and nothing more. Tenko fell asleep within moments, wrung dry by the horror he’d been part of, and you stayed awake a while longer, sensing the corruption within him, planning how to draw it out when daylight came.

When you woke in the morning, your bed was cold, and when you went in search of Tenko, he was gone. The plants told you he had left, gone far beyond your reach, and if you had entertained any thoughts of chasing after him, they dissipated when you saw what he had left for you: A striped carnation, white with red edging the petals. You knew he knew what it meant. You could hear it in his voice as he read from the book – striped carnation, refusal. Tenko was gone, and he didn’t want you to follow him. You were alone.

It was a full day and night before you ventured up to the manor house, and even then, it was out of obligation. The Shimuras had offered your mother proper funeral rites, so you owed them the same. As you walked, you saw that sections of the gardens had begun to die, a black stain spreading across the grounds towards the ones that still lived. Corruption, the same as that which infested Tenko’s magic. An infestation that would only spread. You could have helped. Why wouldn’t he let you?

You reached the manor, and you saw why. You did what funeral rites you could, but there was barely enough of the Shimuras left to perform them for. Even Mon hadn’t been spared. You thought of what the flowers told you, of how terrified Tenko was as his magic slipped from his control and turned wild, and your heart broke again. It was easy to imagine why Tenko had fled rather than allow you to try to heal him. If it hadn’t worked, you would have died. Just like your best friend’s family did. And because corrupted magic corrodes and decays, it had begun to spread. It would consume the Shimura estate, destroying all your hard work and your mother’s, erasing every place you and your friends had been happy, leaving nothing but a wasteland.

You sat down in the midst of it all and wept – for their loss, and soon, every loss you had ever felt. Tears splatted down into the stinking dirt and crushed flagstones, but you paid them no heed as you mourned Lord and Lady Shimura, Hana and Mon, your mother and the garden she’d loved, and for Tenko. Tenko, who left you to save you. Tenko, who left you here, amidst the ruin of everything either of you had ever loved.

It seemed as though you wept for an age. When your tears ran dry and you wiped your eyes, you found that something strange had occurred in the places where your tears struck the ground. The dirt they’d soaked into was no longer rotting. It was black and cool to the touch, loamy when you picked it up to crumble between your fingers. The Shimura estate was devastated, yes. But there was no law that said it must remain that way.

You thought of how far the corruption had already spread. How much it would continue to spread as you worked against it, one small patch at a time. Restoring this place to life would be the work of a lifetime, or of several – and yet, it would be worth doing. It would be worth doing even if Tenko never came home. But as you sunk your hands into the next patch of ruined earth, biting the inside of your cheek against the sting and letting your sorrow bleed through, you hoped that he would. That he would come home, and find a place that had healed, just as he could.

The work of a lifetime, or several, but you were thinking in terms of a human lifespan, and with every day you spent using your magic to its limit, your lifespan shifted. A year spent clearing an area the size of a single garden plot was nothing to you. The ten years or more you spent breathing life back into a single tree flew by, barely missed. The years changed you, but not in the way they should have, and still, you kept count of time. You spent a century repairing the corruption before the corruption began to fight back.

It was a living thing, the darkness that had twisted your best friend. It thought to wear you down, to force you to leave in defeat. But you fought it every day, not tirelessly but ceaselessly, for every square foot of soil, until at last it gave up the areas you had reclaimed as lost for good. You were not fool enough to think that you had won. The corruption had left the bounds of the Shimura estate many years ago. It was abroad in the world, and it needed its strength for a greater purpose.

Although you fought your hardest, there were some scraps of corruption that you could not eradicate, some scars in the earth that could not be healed. So you drew them up instead, weaving them into the roots of the trees, shaping blossoms resilient enough to stand the rot. Those plants were wild and dangerous, but part of your garden all the same. You tended to them just as you tended to the others, and soon they stood proud among the rest.

All around you was proof that the corruption was not irreversible, that it could be survived, that one could carve out a life in the aftermath of destruction. When a great darkness arose on the far side of the world and people fled before it, some of them found their way to you. Your garden had spread far beyond the bounds of the Shimura estate by then, too, and they dwelt in peace at its edges. The heart of the new forest was the Shimuras’ old house. No one ever ventured there.

You rarely allowed yourself to be seen, but when you did, it was to learn of the outside world. When you asked the new arrivals what had driven them from their lands, they all gave the same answer, under different names. Destruction embodied. The Lord of Evil. The Demon King. The Symbol of Fear, Shigaraki Tomura, a dark magician whose life meant death for everyone he touched. Old beyond counting, eater of souls. The enemy of all that was good.

“He will destroy this world,��� an old woman said to you solemnly, her voice devoid of hope. “All life is his enemy. He’ll come for you.”

Your forest teems with life. Life bursts into being every day, every second. You were not sure whether she was telling you to flee or simply relaying your doom, but you knew you could not run. You were making this place for proof, for a boy who must have been long dead, a man who would never come to see it. See, you wished you could say to Tenko, it’s healed. It was hard, but it’s healthy now.

You vowed then that you would stay. As more refugees fled into your forest’s embrace, as the Symbol of Fear crept slowly across the land, you held true. You will hold true until your own death, or until Tenko comes home for good.

“I grow flowers,” you say to the boy who’s come to the Shimura house to speak to you. “Entire gardens of them. They would tell the whole of the story I just told you, if anyone still knew to read their meanings – or knew how to listen.”

“It’s said that art was lost long ago,” the boy says. He leans forward, his eyes bright with interest. “Can you teach me?”

“Izuku,” the man who accompanied him says uncomfortably. He’s tall and rail-thin, scarred by the battle against the corruption, his years of fighting long past. “Ask the question.”

They explained who they were to you, but you knew already. The flowers had brought you warning of them, and you needed to look at them only a moment to understand what was happening here. The old man can fight no longer. He’s entrusted all to the boy. This boy is meant to slay the Symbol of Fear. “How old are you?” you ask, and the boy stammers out an answer. “Fifteen. I was that same age when the estate fell into ruin.”

“Was brought to ruin, you mean,” an even older man tells you. This one is short and stooped. “No matter what you have done to it, this is still the birthplace of the evil we face.”

“The boy who carried it was born here, yes,” you allow. “But he was not its source.”

The old man lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Was? Is. Shigaraki Tomura lives still.”

Your heart goes still for a moment, and once more, the flowers whisper to you – urging caution, urging care. “It’s my job to defeat him,” Izuku says to you. He shows you the sword he’s carrying – a mighty blade, almost too heavy for him to lift, woven with the magic of seven sorcerers before him. “Will you help me?”

“Defeat him? Or kill him?” You watch the older men exchange guilty glances. “I can help you with neither.”

“But you’ve stood against him all this time –”

“I have been waiting for him,” you say. Tenko still lives. Magic has changed you, lengthened your life – why would it not have done the same to him? “I want him to come home, so he can be healed.”

“Healed?” the old man scoffs. “The Symbol of Fear knows no peace. The rest of us will find it only in his death.”

The younger of the two old man puts up an argument of some kind, and beneath it, Izuku turns to you. “You would heal him?” he asks. “How?”

“You see this place?” You gesture around at it. “It was once wracked by the same corruption that troubles my friend. Evidence of it still lingers. What happened here will never be forgotten entirely. But it has healed. So, too, could he be. If he chose.”

“I have faced him before,” Izuku says. There’s a strange, hopeful light in his eyes, faint and flickering. “I saw what haunts him. He looked as if – as if –”

You wait. “As if he was asking to be rescued,” Izuku says, and although it’s been many years since you cried, a tear slips down your cheek. “I don’t want to kill him, if I could save him instead.”

“Then we shall not kill him,” you say. “When the Symbol of Fear comes to us, we will face him together. You will not need your sword.”

“But –”

“Your sword has done what it needed to do. It brought you this far,” you tell him. Izuku nods slowly. “Now your heart must lead you.”

Izuku’s heart must lead him, as your heart has always led you. As Tenko’s heart, what remains of it, leads him home.

You know when the Symbol of Fear reaches the forest, because the refugees who have settled there begin to flee inwards. Once, armies rode with him, but they long since turned against him, fought him or fled. Now only a few dark magicians ride at his side, each bearing their own wound that will not heal. That has not healed yet, you remind yourself, as the flowers sing to you of their coming. There is always a chance for healing.

You had feared you would lose pieces of the forest to the corruption as Shigaraki Tomura traveled through it, either to his purposeful efforts or to the dark magic grown into them, reverting to its original purpose. But you had not counted on life, on hope. Growing alongside the darkness has made your forest resilient, has made it wily and strong. Although the corruption sinks into the earth with every step Shigaraki Tomura takes, it spreads no further.

When he’s close, but not yet within sight of the ruins, he comes to a stop. You sense him there, even if the flowers were not whispering of it, and when you realize where he’s stopped, your heart lifts. You rise to your feet, and Izuku scrambles up, too. “Is it time?”

“Yes,” you say. “Remember what we spoke of.”

“I remember,” Izuku says – but still, he brings along his sword.

You hear their voices before you see them. “Why are we stopped?” one says irritably. “The heart of the forest lies beyond.”

“Give him time,” another says. “Perhaps something important lies here.”

“What could be important? This place has been abandoned for a hundred years.”

Longer, unless you’ve mistaken your count of mortal time. It would appear abandoned to their eyes. You come into view of your old cottage just as a shadowy, white-haired figure steps out of it. In his hand, he clutches a striped carnation. “That flower was cut recently,” one of the dark magicians observes. “Someone still dwells there.”

“No.” Shigaraki’s voice is painful to hear, because it’s Tenko’s voice, pierced through with shards of glass and dragged over rough stones. “This has been here for a long time.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s magic, silly,” a female voice says. “It’s – oh!”

You don’t see what startled her, but Izuku must, because he neglects his feet and snaps a twig. The sound echoes sharply, and Shigaraki Tomura’s head snaps up, and as you meet his red eyes for the first time in hundreds of years, you’re overcome with feelings you couldn’t describe even if you had all the flowers in the world to spell them out.

He’s terrifying to behold. Wreathed in darkness shot through with bloodred, his hair long and wild, his face scarred. His hand is missing a few fingers and his stance is uneven, as though he’s prepared at any moment to lunge into battle or topple to his knees. The corruption writhes beneath his skin. His lips are dry and cracked, and as he studies you, his mouth splits into a smile more horrific than Tenko ever wore. Still, he bleeds the same.

“I saw the fairy-story written in the flowers,” he says. “You must be its author.”

“I am.” You incline your head. “What did you think?”

“Foolish.” The corruption has ahold of Shigaraki’s jaw, making it move awkwardly. “I never trifle with such useless things.”

“The language of flowers is long forgotten,” you say. “When did you learn to read it?”

“When did you?”

“I’ve always understood them,” you say. “You were the one who taught me to read.”

For a moment, you believe you see him falter; then he lets the striped carnation fall, and draws his sword. “This forest resists our efforts, and you willed it to life. Our position will be much improved when I kill you.”

“Kill me if you must.” You stay Izuku’s hand as he reaches for his sword. “First, I must show you something. Come with me.”

Putting your back to Shigaraki is dangerous, but he remembered enough for the cottage to stymie him. Maybe he remembers enough for this. You let Izuku walk ahead of you when the path narrows, and soon enough, you’re standing in the same field where you first met Hana and Tenko. “Do you remember this?” you ask. He looks blankly at you. “Then this, perhaps. The first flower I ever brought to you.”

“Acacia,” the Lord of Evil says after a long pause. “For friendship.”

You keep walking. A glance over your shoulder shows you that the dark magicians are inspecting the field, trying to divine the magic that made it what it is. Shigaraki Tomura marks your steps closely. “You are an illusionist,” he accuses. “This place was ruined long ago.”

“What does your heart tell you?” you ask, and he scoffs. “Do not tell me you have no heart. I hear it beating.”

His hand rises to his chest, rubs at it as though he’s in pain. “You should be more frightened than you are. I intend to corrupt this place so thoroughly that nothing will grow here ever again.”

“You will have a hard time with that,” you say. “It’s happened before.”

The flowers are descendants of the first flowers you woke out the ground, but the trees are old enough to have survived the corruption. You show the Symbol of Fear the veins of assimilated dark magic running through their trunks and in the veins of their leaves. He scoffs. “You call this healing?”

“What happened cannot be forgotten,” you say. “But life continues. It can grow. It can be good once more.”

You keep walking, Izuku at your side, the Symbol of Fear following, and his allies following further behind. “You are a fool,” the Symbol says to you. You ignore him, and he changes targets. “And you, brat. We’ve fought before. What nonsense has she filled your head with, to make you stay your hand?”

“I do not stay my hand,” Izuku says. “I promised I would try her way first.”

As far as answers Izuku could have given, it could be worse. You stop walking and turn to face the Symbol of Fear, who barely stops walking in time to avoid knocking you over. It was otherwise the first time you met, and based on the expression that flickers briefly across his face, he recalls it, too. For a moment, the shadows seem to lift, and you see the man Tenko’s become beneath them. If you die today, as well you might, at least you saw him one last time before the end.

On the walk to the old house, you pluck flowers from the ground, collecting every flower you remember Tenko reading aloud to you, every flower he offered. Marigold, everlasting, evergreen thorn; alyssum, amaranth, ambrosia; a bouquet that makes no sense save as part of a story. The flowers hum to you, and when you check over your shoulder again, you see the female magician picking a few flowers of her own, passing them to the others. For study, you think, until you see her tuck hers behind her ear. Oak-leaf geranium – true friendship.

“Your friends are young,” you say to the Symbol of Fear. “Their wounds are fresh compared to yours.”

“They could still be healed,” the Symbol of Fear says. You sense Izuku’s eyes darting between the two of you, shocked into silence. “If you heal them, and keep them here, perhaps I will leave this place untouched.”

“You know better than to think you can do that,” you say. “This is still your home.”

“It was never home,” the Demon King insists, and yet, he keeps walking. “Why do you delay the inevitable?”

“I do not delay,” you say. You pluck one last flower, round one last turn. “This is what I wished to show you.”

The Shimura house was destroyed down to its foundations, the earth turned hot and poisonous, such that nothing would grow there again. It took you a long time to work the darkness free of it, and longer still to coax seeds to take root there. Longer than that, even, for them to grow tall, and when they grew, their branches formed the outline of the house that once stood here, without your knowledge or your will to guide them. Shigaraki stops cold, stares. The shadows that surround him writhe and whirl in your peripheral vision. “It’s still here.”

“It’s not as it once was,” you admit, “but it is still here. And so am I.”

“I am not.” Tenko’s voice is rough and bitter. When you turn to face him, you find the shadows peeling back, enough to see his scarred mouth, a glimpse of his cheek. “There is nothing left of me but horror.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say. “And even if I did –”

You meant to give the bouquet to him whole, but you change your mind. Instead you pluck a single flower from it and hold it out. “Do you remember this one?”

The shadows begin to creep over his mouth, but he raises the hand with the missing fingers and claws them away. They attack his hand instead, and you see them biting into his skin. Izuku sees, too. He draws his sword. Tenko speaks in that same rough voice. “Stock flower,” he says. “You will always –”

He breaks off, staring at you. “You will always be beautiful to me,” you complete the sentence. “You’re home now, Tenko. Let me help you.”

“I can’t.” Tenko loses his grip on the shadows, and they swarm back over his face, leaving his hands raw and bleeding. “It won’t let me.”

You reach for him, but Izuku stays your hand. He steps forward, sword drawn, and looks into Tenko’s eyes. “It’s my task to save others from you,” he says. “But I see before me someone who needs saving just as much.”

“There is no salvation for me,” the Symbol of Fear says. The shadows are consuming Tenko’s body. You can see it. “Only destruction. Yours, and everyone’s.”

Izuku’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightens, and your heart seizes with it at the thought that all is lost. A twig snaps behind you, and when you look around, you see that while most have fled, some of the refugees have been drawn in to witness. The Symbol’s magicians are poised for a fight in turn – and rather than stepping forward with a swing of his sword, Izuku speaks. “What afflicts you? Show me.”

For a moment, all is still and silent – or it must be, to all but you. The flowers hum and the trees breathe in and out, and the people who stand amongst them swarm and throb with life in their turn. You feel the unevenness of those who are wounded, the fog that surrounds those who are sick at heart. Tenko’s companions are both, and so is he. You see it for a split second, when he tears himself free of the shadow entirely and casts it aside.

It wounds him. You see skin rip, blood spurt. But the corruption is gone from him, separated completely for the smallest of moments. Within that moment, there’s more than enough time for Izuku’s enchanted sword to decapitate it where it stands.

The corruption does not die cleanly. It screams, a sound that shreds your eardrums and makes the flowers mute, a sound that the rest experience only as a gust of rotting wind. Even in pieces, it still lives. Tenko’s magicians cast their spells upon it, breaking it apart again, but it’s Tenko who delivers the blow that scatters it to near-nothingness for good. You’ve never seen Tenko’s magic, corrupted or otherwise. It’s snow-sky grey, the way his eyes once were, and its touch is softer than you thought it would be. Under his power, the corruption dissolves into pieces your forest was born to absorb.

The forest is Tenko’s, too. You know by the way it bends towards him as he falls, the life within it surging to meet him. One of the dark magicians races forward to catch him, and you catch him, too. The two of you lower him to the earth together.

Tenko is terribly wounded. The corruption tore away pieces of his flesh as he pulled free, and his magic is overtaxed. Even if none of those things were true, his body is still rent by old wounds and poorly healed scars. To survive this will ask a great deal from him. All your skill and power will mean nothing if he does not wish to live on. You touch your best friend’s face for the first time since he left you, heal a split of his lip with a single trace of your finger, and pray that he will try.

His magicians have surrounded you, Izuku shoved thoroughly to one side. The magician who caught Tenko with you meets your eyes, his features contorted with fear and confusion. “Will he live?”

“He may,” you say. “Time will tell.”

The corruption no longer lives in this world, but its effects remain, and there are lesser wounds, lesser evils, that abound. There is only so far your forest can spread by your own will. At some point, others must take on the task alongside you. Those who wish to return their homes carry seeds and saplings from the forest with them. Wherever they plant them, they will grow alongside the darkness, and grow strong.

One day, you’ll walk past the edges of the forest and see things for yourself, but that is a long time away. You determined to renew this place for Tenko, should he ever choose to come home. It took a long time to heal, and so will he. So will his friends, with their own wounds and sorrows, but time is something you have in abundance.

“I studied magic,” Tenko tells you as you lay on your backs in the grass, staring up at the sky through a canopy of leaves and a scattering of clouds. “It’s not meant to do this.”

He gestures at the two of you, using the hand that’s missing two fingers. You take his hand, raise it to your lips and kiss it. “What do you mean?”

“It should not have cast us out of time,” Tenko says. “Magicians live and die like anyone else. Or at least they should.”

“I never studied magic,” you admit. “Perhaps I broke some rule in renewing this place. I don’t know.”

“If you had broken a rule, you’d feel it,” Tenko mumbles. You glance over at him and find him grimacing. “I feel it daily.”

You’ve heard tell of the terrible things Tenko did in the throes of the corruption, and what you haven’t heard in tales, he’s told you himself. You know what it cost him. “Does it itch or hurt? Or ache?”

“Today it aches. Like the cold of a grave.” Tenko edges closer to you, and you close the gap until you’re lying in each other’s arms once more. “You need not use magic to make me feel better. I always felt better with you, even when we were children.”

When the two of you lie this close, it’s always an effort not to fall asleep. It’s as if your body intends to make up for the centuries of nights lost as quickly as possible, even in the middle of the day. You kiss Tenko’s hand again and burrow a little closer against his side. “This is where we always met up,” you say. “It took me a long time to make it grow again. What do you think?”

“It’s different,” Tenko says. His hand turns in yours, holding it securely against his heart. “But it feels the same as before.”

The two of you lie there for a while in silence, and you cast your mind out, seeking the edge of  your forest, seeking the saplings and sprouts that have been planted far past its boundaries. Someday, when the world has long forgotten Shigaraki Tomura, you and Tenko will venture out to visit them. You’ve spent so long in your small corner of the world. You’d like to see more of it. And you know Tenko would like to see it with unclouded eyes.

The corruption may be gone, but it haunts him still. His body rattles sometimes with the memory of pain, or else his skin crawls at the phantom sensation of a force outside himself, peeling up his skin and making him itch. Sometimes, when his body rebels, he drowns himself in you. Other times, he can hardly bear to be touched. It frustrates him, more so for the fact that he thinks it frustrates you. It doesn’t. You know better than anyone else that healing takes time.

“We were always here,” Tenko says aloud, after a long time. You nod into his shoulder. “I always asked you what the flowers were saying about me.”

“I always thought it was funny that you never asked me to teach you.”

“I was worried I couldn’t,” Tenko says. “And I knew you’d tell me the good things.”

You laugh. Tenko’s voice takes on a hesitant note. “What are they saying now?”

“They say that I love you, and that you love me.”

“I do.” Tenko’s cheek is flushed when you kiss it, and he turns his head for a longer kiss, too. “What else do they say?”

You tell him, in between kisses, as life continues around you – a life that looks different than it did before, a life that will never be the same. A life that has changed, and still a life worth saving. A life worth living, too. You and Tenko are a long way from an ending, if one even exists for the two of you. But if you were to close the tale here, you know you could call it a happy one.

[nerdygaymormon]

David, I've just been prompted to reread the Book of Mormon again and to ignore this year's Come Follow Me. The first verse of First Nephi Chapter 1 just hit me with a spiritual sack of bricks that said 'You are exactly as Nephi would be just the way you are'. David. I'm gay, drink iced coffee, and have personal beef with Dallin H. Oaks. Any insight? Am I overthinking what is a blunt, self-explaining prompting? Why is I like Nephi when I is gay?

Carol Lynn Pearson wrote a post titled "Why I Stay" for Sunstone. She says she stays because "One—I find a great deal of love in this church. Two—where I do not find love, I have an opportunity to help create love."

That's a beautiful sentiment.

I think of how thousands of Latter-day Saints mobilize after natural disasters, what a beautiful demonstration of loving their neighbors.

I also think of the hurtful things taught about me and my queer siblings and the harmful policies in effect. That's not love, quite the opposite. I haven't thought of this as an opportunity to create love, what a hopeful way to frame things.

The part of her post that I find the most helpful, and I think it fits with what you're saying, is how she is able to stay.

I also believe an important reason that I am able to stay is that in some ways I do not stay. I do not stay in concepts that I do not accept. I do not stay in traditions that I do not believe in. I move, in my own very imperfect way, toward the horizon that truly calls to me. I believe the best thing I received from my pioneer ancestors was not a destination, but an invitation. They gave me the model of being a pioneer and encouraged me to follow in their footsteps.

She is able to stay because in some ways she does not stay. I do that, too. And sounds like so do you.

Like her Mormon pioneers, Carol Lynn metaphorically walks along the prairie pulling her handcart. She'll stop for the night and rest, but in the morning will yet carry on, until she can finally say, "This is the place." Perhaps she is looking for that place and will one day find it, or perhaps she is making it for herself in what she accepts and in what she does not.

You're LDS, gay, drink iced coffee, and have personal beef with Dallin H. Oaks. You stay but in some ways you do not stay. Nephi killed a man, stole the brass plates, and left behind Jerusalem & the temple, yet still considered himself an observant Jew. He stayed with his faith but in some ways did not stay.

[marlinspirkhall]

The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

[soranyuus]

The florist | eren jeager

chapter 01/???

Flowers speak in whispers. A language older than war, softer than sorrow.

A bouquet can confess love or weave a silent curse. A lily at a doorstep means sympathy, but at a grave, it means goodbye. Daisies are innocence. Peonies, longing. Poppies, remembrance. Some flowers bloom only in the presence of death—jasmine creeping over headstones, lilies unfolding in mourning halls. Others belong to lovers, pressed between pages, hidden in coat pockets, carried like secrets against the skin.

And then, there are the flowers that grow where they shouldn't. The stubborn ones. The ones that break through cracks in forgotten roads, daring to bloom in places ruined by fire and grief.

Those are the ones [Y/N] understands best.

"Oh dear, there you go again, losing yourself in those bouquets."

Ms. Schmidt's voice pulled her from her thoughts. The old woman shook her head with a fond smile, just as she did every day. She was the grandmother of a fallen soldier, one of the many left waiting, clinging to ghosts. She had said the same thing before her grandson went to war, before he became a name on a casualty list, before she started living in a yesterday that would never return.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Schmidt. Flowers have a language of their own. Would you care for one?"

She offered, though she already knew the answer.

"No, dear. I'll wait until Otto comes back. He promised to buy this old lady a purple hyacinth bouquet. I hear it's a sign of victory."

A simple smile. Hope in her eyes. Hope that didn't know how to die.

[Y/N] swallowed. "Yes, Ms. Schmidt. They do mean victory."

She couldn't bring herself to say the rest.

Purple hyacinths mean victory, but they also mean sorrow.

"I thought so. Well, I don't want to disrupt your stand, so I'll be on my way."

Ms. Schmidt turned with the same quiet enthusiasm she carried every day, making her way toward the post office, where she would sit from morning till dusk, waiting for a letter that would never come.

The usual hum of Liberio pressed in around [Y/N]'s flower stand, a low thrum of voices, the rhythmic clatter of a handcart rolling over uneven cobblestones, the distant laughter of children playing in the alleyways. Even in the early morning, the internment zone was alive, restless, a hive of subdued movement. So many people, all confined within the same unyielding walls.

"Excuse me, miss! Can you help me pick a flower? I want to give it to a boy."

The voice was small, nearly lost in the noise.

A little girl, no older than twelve, stood before the stand, her fingers curled in the fabric of her dress.

[Y/N] smiled, stepping around the stall to kneel at eye level. "Of course, love. Tell me, what is he like?"

She always liked to know about the people receiving her flowers. It made the bouquets feel more personal, more like messages whispered between hearts.

The girl scrunched up her nose, thinking hard. "Well... he has blond hair and big hazel eyes... oh! And he's brave, I think. And he wants to fly."

Fly?

[Y/N] let the word sit on her tongue, tasting the innocence of childhood dreams. She reached for a cluster of soft yellow roses. "These," she said, holding one out for the girl to see. "They mean friendship and kindness. A sweet gesture for a brave boy."

The girl's eyes lit up. "Yes! He'd like those."

She carefully counted out her small collection of coins, trading them for the flowers before clutching them tightly to her chest. Then, just as quickly as she had come, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

[Y/N] watched her go, a faint smile touching her lips. Fly, she mused. Children and their dreams.

She loved her job. In a place weighed down by grief, she had the rare privilege of offering something beautiful—something that, even for a fleeting moment, could make people forget the hell they lived in. She cherished the way their faces softened as they spoke of their loved ones, how their eyes brightened when they described them, how, just for a heartbeat, they seemed to step outside the misery of their world.

[Y/N] was carefully arranging a bouquet of scarlet poppies when she noticed a small contingent of Marleyan soldiers walking briskly down the street. They flanked a man who favored his left leg, his face pale and drawn. Another wounded soldier, another casualty of the endless tension that suffocated Liberio. She barely spared them a glance before returning to her work. The hospital was in that direction. Such sights were nothing new.

A woman standing nearby had stopped to stare, but her partner quickly tugged at her sleeve. "Come on, we can't look at the soldiers too long. Who knows what the Marleyans might do to us? Let's buy our bouquet and go."

The man turned to [Y/N] with weary eyes, the kind that had seen too much yet still burned with quiet desperation. "Hi, can we buy a bouquet? It's for her mother. I'm trying to get her blessing."

[Y/N] offered a small smile. "Of course. Tell me about her. Every bouquet should feel like it belongs."

The woman hesitated, then spoke softly. "She's reserved. Always hoped the world would be different. Her hands..." she looked down at her own, tracing invisible lines against her palm. "They're worn, full of creases. She knits a lot."

[Y/N] nodded and reached for the first flower. A white camellia. "For maternal love," she murmured, tucking it into the bouquet.

Next, she selected a purple aster. "She must be a patient woman, waiting for a world that never changed."

The gladiolus came next, its tall, strong stalk standing out among the delicate petals. "This one is for her strength. Endurance."

She paused before adding a dark red carnation, glancing at the man. "Deep love, but also caution." The unspoken words lingered in the air.

An olive branch, a quiet promise of peace and protection. A myrtle blossom, symbolizing devotion.

Finally, she lifted a chrysanthemum, turning it between her fingers. "And this... for the unspoken things. The sorrows we carry."

The woman took the finished bouquet as if holding something fragile, something sacred. "Oh my... it's lovely," she breathed, eyes glistening as she turned to her partner. "She'll love this, darling."

The sight of her smile alone seemed to lift the weight from his shoulders. If only for a moment, he forgot the war waiting for him. And only the stars knew whether he would return.

She glanced at the sky. It was nearly noon now. The warm sun hung in the air, casting long shadows on the cobblestones beneath her feet. It was time to close up her stand. As always, she moved with quiet grace, her fingers brushing the petals one last time, as if saying goodbye to each flower.

She gently pushed the small camellia bud down into the bin where she kept the others. The camellia was still a bud—fragile and waiting. Each day, she hoped it would bloom, and each day, she watched it patiently, knowing that it would open on its own time.

The old watering can, already filled with water from the early morning, was perched by the stand. She lifted it carefully, giving each flower the water it needed, her hands moving with practiced ease. The marigolds, their bright orange petals beginning to wilt, still held some vitality. She watered them gently, fingers brushing against the edges of the petals, feeling the last traces of their life.

There was something meditative about the routine. As she watered, she took a moment to breathe in the scent of the earth and flowers—a quiet reminder of the life she tended to each day, even in the midst of chaos. The flowers were her sanctuary.

When the watering was done, she set the can back beside the stand. Then, moving with the same tenderness, she picked up the drying marigolds. Their vibrant petals were curling slightly at the edges, the color fading, but they still held a touch of warmth. These would be perfect for tea, she thought. She had promised a friend some of her herbal blend, and the marigolds were a key ingredient. They helped calm the mind, ease the body, and lift the spirits.

She placed the marigolds gently into a small pouch, her fingers brushing over the petals as if to send them off with a blessing. The pouch was small, but it would be just enough. She tucked it carefully into her basket, alongside her notebook, pen, and coin pouch.

"Goodbye, dears," she murmured softly, almost as if speaking to a group of old friends. "I'll be back soon." Her voice was quiet, but firm in its assurance. The flowers, now tucked away for the day, seemed to rest in peace beneath the wooden shelves of the stand.

With one last lingering glance at the corner of the market, she turned and began to start her Chores.

Her first stop would be the Karpov Bakery. It was a small, familiar haven tucked between the rows of overcrowded market stalls. As [Y/N] passed by the other stands, she overheard the endless bargaining and the harsh calls for rations—voices raised in frustration, the collective pulse of the market vibrating in the air. Oh dear, another day filled with sounds of suffering, she thought, feeling the weight of it press down on her. She tried to distract herself by counting the stones underfoot—an old habit, a simple act that never truly shielded her from the harsh reality.

Dust, dry earth, and blood, a cocktail of scents clung to everything in the internment zone. Yet, despite the oppressive atmosphere, it was the comforting smell of warm bread and yeasty sweetness that drew her forward, a faint glimmer of solace in an otherwise bleak world. The Karpov Bakery, with its homely scent of freshly baked goods, was one of the few places where, for a moment, life felt a little softer.

She was almost at the bakery when the sharp voice of a patrolling officer sliced through the low hum of the market.

"You, stop right there!"

Everyone froze, eyes shifting nervously towards the source. The officer's face twisted with disdain as he pointed an accusing finger at a man. "Where is your band, devil?"

The word made [Y/N]'s stomach tighten in disgust. It was a word she had grown to loathe, associated with them, the Eldians, merely for the sins of the past. She could feel the weight of history in it, the condemnation, the hatred, all of it directed at the innocent.

Her gaze flicked toward the man, watching as the officer's hand clutched his rifle tighter. She couldn't stand to witness the cruelty that would inevitably follow. It was something she had seen far too many times, and each time, it burned her in the same way. Without thinking, she ducked into the nearest alley, her heart pounding as she quickened her steps.

As soon as she turned the corner, the stifling heat of the bakery wrapped around her, soft and comforting, pushing away the harshness of the outside world. The yeasty air carried the scent of freshly baked loaves and pastries, filling her lungs with warmth. It felt like stepping into a different world, even if only for a moment.

Behind the counter, Jannie Karpov, her friend and the bakery's owner, looked up from her kneading. Flour dusted her apron, and a faint streak of dough marked her cheek. When she saw [Y/N], a smile spread across her face, the familiar, crinkled lines at the corners of her eyes deepening.

"[Y/N]! Good to see you. The usual?" Jannie's voice was light, a welcomed contrast to the tension in the streets outside.

[Y/N] smiled, feeling a little lighter. "Morning, Jannie. Yes, please. And how are things smelling in here today?" She stepped inside, letting the warmth soothe her.

Jannie chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face with the back of her hand. "Busy as ever. Everyone seems to need a bit of comfort in these times, and bread's a good place to start." Her voice dropped slightly, as if weighed down by a quiet worry. "I heard they brought in a few more injured at the hospital last night. You heading that way later?" Her gaze held a flicker of concern.

[Y/N] nodded, keeping her tone steady. "Just my usual deliveries," she said, though her heart ached. She could already see the crowded wards in her mind—the stench of antiseptic, the quiet groans, the lost hope.

Jannie sighed softly, her gaze momentarily far away. "Well, you be careful out there. This place... it feels like a tinderbox sometimes." She reached for a warm loaf, her hands moving with practiced ease. Then, with a wink, she slipped something extra into [Y/N]'s basket. "And for my favorite florist, a little something extra."

[Y/N] glanced down to see a golden, sweet roll nestled among the other goods. She smiled at the gesture. "Thank you," she said softly, slipping the roll into her basket.

"And," she added, her voice warm but slightly teasing, "I brought you what I promised."

From the folds of her apron, [Y/N] pulled out the small pouch of drying marigolds, careful not to let them unravel. She held it out gently, her fingers tracing the edges of the pouch as if to remind herself that they still had purpose.

Jannie's eyes lit up when she saw it. "You really do spoil me," she laughed softly, accepting the pouch with gratitude. "These will make a lovely tea. I'll be sure to save them for when I need a little peace."

[Y/N] smiled, though her thoughts lingered on the woman's words. Everyone needed peace these days, but it was a rare commodity. "I'm happy to help," she replied quietly. "I know how hard it can get here."

Jannie smiled back, though there was a sadness in her gaze that spoke volumes. "We all need something to hold onto. I'm just glad you're here to share that with me."

They stood in a moment of quiet understanding before [Y/N] broke the silence. "I'll leave you to it. I've got to get back to work."

"Of course," Jannie replied, her smile returning. "Take care, [Y/N]. And remember, if you ever need a break, you know where to find me."

With a nod and a final smile, [Y/N] picked up her basket and turned toward the door, the comforting warmth of the bakery still lingering as she stepped back into the chaos outside.

The familiar weight of her basket settled comfortably on her arm as [Y/N] turned down the well-worn path toward the Liberio Hospital.

The route took her past rows of tightly packed houses, their walls sagging under years of neglect. Laundry hung precariously from makeshift lines, fluttering weakly in the dry wind. The muted murmur of countless lives echoed from behind those thin walls, each home holding its own small universe of stories. She passed children playing in a dusty patch of ground, their laughter hollow and muted, a far cry from the carefree joy she imagined the world once had, before the war.

A knot of worry tightened in her chest at the thought of Jannie's words, about the ever-growing number of injuries. The hospital had become a constant fixture of pain and suffering in this corner of the world—a grim reminder that peace was something they could only dream of.

The gates of the hospital loomed ahead, rusted and battered by time, bearing the scars of struggle and neglect. It was a far cry from the pristine, well-kept facilities of the Marleyans.

As she stepped into the courtyard, the atmosphere was heavy, filled with the quiet hum of people trying to heal from the war. A few patients, still in the early stages of recovery, attempted to walk with shaky steps, while others sat with family members who had come to visit. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the palpable weight of suffering. But there was a quiet resilience too, visible in the patients' eyes as they clung to the fragments of life that remained.

A nurse quickly approached her, her face lighting up with recognition. "We missed you yesterday, [Y/N]! We've had so many new patients, each one worse than the last." Mira's voice carried a mixture of warmth and concern as she guided [Y/N] toward the main office.

[Y/N] laughed softly, though the sound was tinged with apology. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to make it yesterday. I wasn't feeling well, but I do hope to make up for it today. Oh, and Ms. Schmidt passed by my stand again, as she does every day. Is she feeling any better?"

Mira's expression darkened for a moment. "No, I'm afraid she's getting worse." She sighed, her voice soft with sorrow. "I wish I could spend more time with her, but the constant flow of new patients... it's overwhelming. But here, these are our newest arrivals, and the ones you missed yesterday." She handed [Y/N] a packet of papers, the crisp sheets filled with names and photos of the patients. "Take care of yourself, alright? Don't overwork."

"I won't," [Y/N] promised, tucking the packet under her arm as she walked quietly down the hall. The first name on her list was Len Orlovo, a man who had lost two fingers in the war.

She reached his room and paused outside the door, listening to the muffled sounds of movement inside. Taking a deep breath, she knocked gently. "Mr. Orlovo, may I come in? It's [Y/N], the florist," she called, her voice soft but clear. She always introduced herself this way, many of the patients here were cynical and jaded, and she'd learned the hard way that only those who knew who was coming would open their doors.

There was a pause before she heard a gravelly voice from inside. "Come in," it called, and she slowly turned the handle.

Inside the room sat an old man, his face weathered and worn, yet his eyes still held a flicker of hope. [Y/N] was accustomed to seeing soldiers of all ages; to the Marleyans, age mattered little, if you could walk, you were sent to the frontlines.

"May I sit?" she asked, gesturing to the seat across from the bed where Mr. Orlovo sat. He nodded without a word.

She always tried to lighten the mood, offering a gentle smile in an attempt to break the heaviness of the war-torn silence. "If I may ask, Mr. Orlovo, how was your life before the war? You look quite dashing, one can only imagine what you were like in your younger years."

There was a slight pause, and his eyes softened, as though the question had taken him back to a time before the war. "I was a farmer. With my brothers, I tended to the livestock..." His voice carried a wistful note.

[Y/N] pulled out her pen and notebook, making quick notes on the fresh page. Mr. Len Orlovo—farmer, tended to livestock, has brothers. She made sure to capture every detail, as these memories would guide her in crafting a bouquet that could transport him back to those moments, if only for a while. "That sounds lovely. I imagine you enjoyed being with the animals. You seem to have a kind heart, someone who understands the quiet nature of animals."

He glanced down at his hands, his gaze lingering on the missing fingers. "I was. I can still remember the soft touch of the sheep, and the warmth of the sun as I worked through the harsh afternoons..." His voice grew quieter, and for a brief moment, it was as if he could feel the warmth of those memories once again.

[Y/N] silently jotted down the details. Loves soft sheep, remembers the harsh sun of the afternoon. She closed her notebook and looked up, giving him a soft smile. "Thank you, Mr. Orlovo. It was wonderful to hear about your past. I promise to come back again tomorrow."

She bowed slightly, as a sign of respect, and he smiled faintly in return, the brief connection between them evident. "I'll be here, [Y/N]."

With that, she slowly turned, walking toward the door, and gently closed it behind her, the weight of his memories lingering in her mind.

[Y/N] consulted the next name on her list: "??? Kruger."

She found the room number and walked down the hall, her footsteps echoing softly on the linoleum floor. Reaching the door, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to center herself after her previous encounter with Mr. Orlovo. She knocked gently. "Mr. Kruger? May I come in? It's [Y/N], the florist."

She waited, but the silence stretched longer than expected. 'Is there no one inside?' she wondered. It wasn't uncommon for some soldiers to prefer isolation, unwilling to face strangers when they were so deeply entrenched in their personal struggles.

As [Y/N] began to turn away, she heard a faint voice, raspy and filled with weariness. "Come in."

"Thank you, Mr. Kruger," she replied softly, opening the door just enough to step inside. She knew not to appear too eager or intrusive—some soldiers could be deeply cynical, and her gentle approach often helped to bridge that gap.

Inside, Mr. Kruger lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His hair was overgrown, partially obscuring the bandage wrapped around his face, covering the eye that had clearly suffered a severe injury. Beside the bed, a crutch leaned against the wall, and where his left leg should have been, only fabric was tied to the bedframe, marking the absence of his limb.

"You must be new here, Mr. Kruger," [Y/N] said, keeping her tone light and respectful. "I make custom bouquets for those who stay in the hospital." She held her hands in front of her, an unspoken gesture of peace, an attempt to provide comfort in the subtle way she knew best.

But Mr. Kruger only exhaled, a heavy sigh, and closed his eyes, as if the weight of the world had become too much to bear.

[Y/N] stood quietly for a moment, sensing his reluctance. She was no stranger to soldiers in pain—physical, emotional, or both—but each person had their own walls to put up, and she never pushed too hard. 

She simply waited, giving him space, knowing that sometimes silence was the only thing soldiers needed. After a few more moments passed in stillness, [Y/N] took a small, almost imperceptible step back, her hand lightly resting on the handle of her woven basket.

"I understand if you're not feeling up to visitors right now, Mr. Kruger," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking louder might disrupt the fragile air between them.

"I just wanted to let you know that I visit the hospital each day with fresh flowers. If you ever feel like having some color in your room... or if you'd like me to create a bouquet for you, please don't hesitate to let Nurse Mira know." She gestured vaguely toward the hallway, nodding slightly, her tone gentle and understanding. "There's no pressure at all."

He turned his head just enough to face her. His green eyes, unlike the others she'd encountered, were void of any glimmer of hope. Instead, they seemed distant, almost hollow, as if he had long since abandoned any expectation of kindness or recovery. There was a flicker of something else—perhaps disdain, but it was difficult to decipher in the stillness of the room.

[Y/N] gave a soft smile, though it was tinged with sadness for what lay behind those eyes. "Alright, Mr. Kruger. I hope you feel better soon," she said, bowing slightly, her respect and empathy lingering in her voice.

With that, she quietly turned, her footsteps muffled by the soft carpet as she exited the room, her thoughts lingering on the soldier whose soul seemed as broken as his body.

She moved on, but the encounter remained, heavy like a shadow, as she continued her rounds.

The scent of the flowers, faint but persistent, lingered in the sterile air long after she left. Kruger remained staring at the ceiling, his body still and his mind working overtime, sifting through the fragments of information he'd gathered from the brief encounter.

The woman with the flowers... Her kindness had been a fleeting anomaly, an unexpected splash of unwanted color in the otherwise gray, desolate world he had made for himself here. He couldn't afford distractions. A gentle touch, a smile—these were things he had no use for, especially in a place like this. His purpose was clear, unwavering, and these small acts of compassion had no place in it.

He forced himself to push the thought away, focusing instead on the faces of those who truly mattered—his comrades, the mission, the greater cause. His resolve, already a brittle thing, began to harden again. The scent of blossoms, once so intrusive, now faded into the background, replaced by the bitter, almost metallic taste of his resolve.

Flowers. What a pointless gesture in a place like this.

| next chapter

[animalceramics]

I updated my Dubai-era 'Daniel Molloy is a mean bitch' fic.

Here is an excerpt from the latest chapter:

“You know, you might have been born in the sixteenth century or whatever, but you died relatively soon after – still a kid – and it shows Armand. It shows. Yeah, my life has been messy, down in the shit with the rest of the cattle, but it was real and I’m still breathing, yeah? I’ve got 70 years of humanity under my belt, you remember that, huh? Humanity? Something you’ll never touch again, so far in the rear view you can’t even remember the shape of it, however much you play-act.”

Armand flinches, his jaw clenching. “Humanity is a plague upon the earth,” he spits, lip curling.

“Couldn’t agree more pal. Humanity is fucked and hurtling to hell in a handcart even faster than me. So here’s a thought for you.. it ever cross your mind to do something about that? What with all that freaky supernatural power you’re packing? Fuck me Armand, you can read minds! You’re a self-styled master of manipulation. Ever think about using that to steer the course of things? Prevent a genocide or two, distract Oppenheimer with tits, or how about using some of that infinite wealth and time to help those in need?”

Here is a link to the story if you want to read it:

[frostgears]

dream of where it came from

My suit motion sensor lit up. I checked my weapons: I didn't have any. Just fists. Size was consistent with one of the other side's light infantry fighters. IFF was hostile red. It cleared the corner. And kept going. A vertical handcart/gurney, rolling along on its own, its passenger me, dead and desiccated. It kept rolling past, turned another corner, vanished.

I looked around. The girders of the station were melted and shattered, severed sections floating next to those they shattered from. There were rents ripped straight into space I could see stars through. I pushed against the ground, testing. This was not zero G. Not the station's modest spin gravity. At a guess, a full one G. My suit sensors told me there was oxygen outside. I kept the helmet on.

Flickering lighting beckoned me towards the steady glow coming from what I knew was the entrance to the program psych office. Someone bade me come in and sit. I came in; I didn't sit. He kept talking.

There were a handful of pins and patches on several table, stacked next to a bunch of old phones and PDAs. They looked familiar, like they might be mine, but the logos on the pins didn't make sense. I'd pull data off the phones later, if I could. I told my suit assistant to record. I kept putting them into my suit pockets. A minute later, I'd pat my pockets, find them empty. This happened several times. No response from my suit assistant. No indication of suit compromise.

He told me to sit again. I came to his desk to tell him I'd stand. He was gone. His laptop was still there, turned towards the patient side of the desk; an older model with a fast e-ink screen, backlight not working, screen cracked. I held it up to the light, trying to make out the screen. It was some sort of release form. It was signed in my own handwriting, but not as the patient: as the releasing official. The names of both were illegible.

I walked through the doorway past his desk and back into the hallway. I woke up. □

[adainesjacket]

“Would you ever consider… marriage?” “Why do you ask?” “Oh. I’m—for a friend.” for Hawke/Anders/Justice

~ @lordgoretash

thank you! written with @lottiesnotebook for @dadrunkwriting justice/hawke/anders, fluff, 696 words

"I have concerns about this move," Justice intoned as he passed a box of manifesto drafts to Rhiannon Hawke's eagerly waiting arms. "As does your mother."

“I didn’t know you and Mama were on such intimate terms,” she said, a brow arched, and that mischievous, enchanting smile curving her lips. “Should I be worried?”

"You should consistently be worried. We are in a city full of hazards and you have invited an apostate and a spirit into your home."

“I think,” Rhiannon replied, hefting the box onto her hip while she scooped up another, “that would have been a more sensible worry to raise before we had a baby. At this point it’s a little late to be disentangled, don’t you think?”

"I raised this concern several times," Justice pointed out, then paused. "Anders called me a 'spoilsport'. I do not believe he would say this to Leandra for her concerns."

“That’s because he is quite reasonably terrified of Mama, which is ironic, because she adores him. And apparently you.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and set the stack of boxes in the handcart. “Is this bag going too, or is it rubbish? And how long have you and Mama been sharing your concerns?”

"Our supplies are scant but useful," Justice answered, taking it from her. "Leandra is a welcoming and erudite woman who is simply concerned for your public image."

“Ah yes, the public image of a mysterious mercenary from a scandalous family with a daughter of no known origin. Having you two move in is probably the least scandalous thing I’ve done since coming back to Kirkwall. You shouldn’t listen to Mama’s opinions - she still lives under the illusion I have a reputation to be ruined.”

"Everyone has a reputation." Justice paused for a moment, stacking the meagre pile of boxes more efficiently. He seemed to be making an effort to sound casual when he asked: "For example, if you were to marry, would you do so in a Chantry?"

Rhiannon gave a giggle that emerged as more of a squeak. “If I married? Married- I mean-” She sniffed, swallowed, began again: “We… haven’t really discussed marriage, as yet. Anders and I, I mean. You and Mama seem to have discussed it extensively, but- look, why are you asking?”

Justice raised an eyebrow and said, in his most deadpan tone: "For a friend."

This time she did laugh, a sound too loud, too bright for the grim alleys of Darktown. “Right, for a friend. No, I don’t have my heart set on a big Chantry wedding. Do you have your heart set on a wedding at all, or are you warning me off? Have you and Mama picked out the flowers already?”

"We have done no such thing," Justice protested. "I merely ask - I have no place or interest in your religious buildings. The sentiment Anders still holds for the practice confuses me. Yet, there is a certain… security, to the act." Justice's fingers brushed hers as they continued to pack. "He has been without family for a long time."

“Well, he has you, now,” she reminds him, “and Cara, and- me, of course. We’re not going anywhere. And if our names in a book in the Chantry will remind you both of that, I’d take you there tomorrow, if it wouldn’t give Mama conniptions.”

"I will relay this," Justice said, and only Rhiannon's familiarity with him alerted her to the tint of amusement in his voice, "to my friend."

“Of course,” she agreed, “and if I were to ask your opinion on the same subject?”

Justice felt his skin heat, the effect of her gaze as potent on the body regardless of the soul in ascendence. “Spirits do not marry,” he said, honestly, “and the protection it provides does not necessitate the permanence mortals associate with it. And yet… from what I have of Kristoff’s memories, it was his greatest joy. That, I think, is something Anders and I could share in.”

[morri-draws]

Gwaine x Reader - 'The Threads That Bind Us' - Chapter 2

Story Summary:

You, a humble dressmaker from Camelot’s lower town, are commissioned to make a new gown for Queen Guinevere. Impressed by your skills, she offers you the position of Royal Clothier. During your time in the castle, you catch the eye of one of the knights of King Arthur’s inner circle, Sir Gwaine. What starts as a sweet courtship is turned upside down when misfortune strikes and you must deal with the aftermath, as well as an unwelcome visit from Gwaine’s unpleasant sister.

Rating: Mature

Tags: Female Reader/Gwaine, set between seasons 4 and 5, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Words: 4,757

Read Chapter 1

Read on Ao3

Loading up the last of your belongings in a small, borrowed handcart, you begin the difficult ascent from your small shop in the lower town to Camelot’s citadel. The journey is prolonged somewhat by the need for regular stops to rest, but eventually you make it across the bridge and into the castle’s large courtyard.

You wheel the cart about halfway across the square when a young man with short, dark hair and a red neckerchief approaches.

“Are you (Y/N)?” He asks.

“Yes, that’s me,”

“I’m Merlin, King Arthur’s manservant,” He introduces himself with a bright smile. “He asked me to assist you with moving your belongings into your new chambers,”

“Oh, that was thoughtful of him,” You set the cart down and shake the ache from your arms. “We might have to do a few trips,”

Merlin peers into the cart. “I think we can make it in one,”

You raise your brows in disbelief.

“I’m really good at carrying things,” He assures.

Merlin grips the cart’s handles and wheels it across the remaining length of the courtyard, positioning it beside the main entrance stairs, then begins removing your belongings from the cart, placing them over his shoulders and under his arms. You join him, taking your bag of clothing and the wicker basket, which is filled with sewing implements and kitchen supplies. Glancing at Merlin, you see he’s loaded himself up like a pack horse.

“I admit, I might have to come back for those,” He inclines his head to the remaining bolts of fabric in the bottom of the cart.

“A splendid effort, nonetheless. Are you sure you can carry all that up the stairs?”

“I’m sure,” He grins. “Shall we head up?”

As Merlin leads you through the castle, you try to memorise each staircase, corridor and corner to your new home, until Merlin stops in front of a door in a quiet passage.

“Here we are,” He says, reaching into his jacket pocket with some difficulty.

He pulls out a key and inserts it into the door’s keyhole. With a turn and a click, the door swings open, emitting a brief creak. You step into a large, rectangular room which is indeed well-lit, with several small windows along the right wall. To the far-left is a fireplace, with two chairs placed in front with a small round table between them. In the middle-left of the room is a dining table with a long bench on either side. On the right of the room, against the windows, are two large worktables, perfect for spreading and cutting fabric. Next to those is a full-length mirror, a wooden dressing screen and a large shelving unit. A few well-placed rugs already give the place a homey feel. You can’t wait to arrange your belongings in here.

In the centre of the far wall is another door. You stride across the room and open it to reveal a smaller chamber. Sunlight floods the room from a window on the left wall, under which is a bed, about double the width of the one in your old home. On the right side of the room is a wardrobe, a trunk and a modest bookshelf. Against the wall closest (the one which the door is positioned) is a washbasin with a small mirror, and a bathtub.

“This place is amazing!” You say as you step back into the main room.

“I’m glad you think so,” Merlin smiles as he places your belongings down on the dining table. “I’ll just go and fetch the rest of your things,”

“Let me help,” You rush forward to go with him.

Merlin holds out his hands to stop you. “It’s alright, I’m good at carrying things, remember?”

“If you’re sure?”

“I am. You can start making yourself at home,” He shoots you a toothy grin and heads out, closing the door behind him.

You only manage to put your clothing away in the wardrobe and trunk in the bedroom by the time Merlin returns. He places the last bolts of fabric on the table next to your other belongings.

“Before I go, Arthur wanted me to tell you that some of the knights will be stopping by tomorrow. Something about gambesons, I think,”

“Alright, thank you for letting me know, and for all your help today. I highly appreciate it, Merlin,”

 “You’re welcome. It’s nice to be appreciated.” Merlin smiles. “Anyway, I’d better get back to Arthur. Bye!”

He rushes out the door before you can respond.

~

The next morning, you find a place for your remaining belongings, making sure everything is neat and presentable. The shelves in the main chamber are now filled with fabrics, and atop one of the large tables, your sewing journal, quill and ink are ready for the day’s work.

A knock at your door startles you, but you take a deep breath, ready to greet your first client. You open the door to find not a knight, but the queen.

“My lady,” You greet her with surprise.

“Gwen,” She corrects you with a smile.

“Of course. Please come in, Gwen,” You step aside and gesture for her to enter.

She steps inside and looks around. “I hope everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Oh yes, I am more than satisfied. This will do very nicely indeed,”

“I am glad,” Gwen smiles. “Arthur informed me this morning that he’s planning to send some of the knights to you today. I thought he may have been a bit hasty, so if you need more time to prepare, I can put them off,”

“No, that’s quite alright, thank you. I am ready to get to work,”

“Very well, I should leave you to it. The first of the knights shouldn’t be too far off. Good luck on your first day,”

“Thank you my lad– Gwen,”

She nods with a smile and leaves your chambers.

About twenty minutes later, there are three firm knocks upon your chamber door. You rush to answer, and are greeted by a knight, one you believe you saw riding through the lower town a few days ago. He is tall and slim, with curly, dark blonde hair and a short beard.

“Welcome, sir?” You say, beckoning him inside.

“Leon,” He says, stepping into your chambers.

“Sir Leon, how may I be of assistance?”

“I’m in need of a new gambeson,”

“Alright, if you could just strip down to your tunic and trousers, I can take some measurements,”

The knight stiffens, brow furrowed in confusion. “Shouldn’t we wait until the clothier arrives?”

“I am the new clothier,” You state.

Sir Leon’s cheeks redden. “I’m sorry, I meant no offence. Just… is it really appropriate for a woman to fit a man’s clothes?”

“Since I haven’t asked you to strip down to just your unmentionables, I think we’ll be alright,” You smirk.

You swear you see the knight’s cheeks deepen further, as he nods and begins to unbuckle his cloak. You step closer and take his cloak when he’s removed it, standing by to do the same for his chainmail shirt and gambeson. You take the clothing to one of the worktables and place them down neatly, grabbing your tape measure.

“Lift your arms please,” You say as you approach him.

He does so, and you slip the measuring tape around his chest, bringing it together at centre front. You mutter the number to yourself, and step over to the table to mark it down in your journal. You do the same for his waist, then measure the length of his arms, before standing behind him to measure the width of his shoulders and the length of his torso.

Once all the figures are written down, you take his old gambeson from the pile of clothes and spread it out on the table. It’s clearly been well-used, the fabric worn through in some places, as well as rips and slashes in other areas. Grease stains cover the garment, made by the armour worn over it.

“And the new gambeson is to be in the same style and colour as this one?” You ask.

“Yes, thank you,”

You flip to a new page in your journal and take a quick sketch of the design.

“Very well, Sir Leon, I should have your new gambeson made up in a few days,”

You grab his pile of clothes and take them to him. He hastily gets dressed and clears his throat.

“Thank you,” Hey says, heading for the door. “Sorry about before,”

“That’s quite alright. Until next we meet,”

You close the door behind him once he’s stepped out, and exhale. You hope not all the other knights will be the same. You’re sure you’ll get sick of having to explain over again that you are in fact the woman for the job, not just an assistant.

You hardly have time to relax before there’s another person at the door. You answer to find Sir Gwaine.

“Sir Gwaine, please come in,”

He steps inside, looking about the room. “Nice place you’ve got,” He spins around to look at you. “I just saw Sir Leon on my way here. He looked flustered. What did you do to him?” He gives a lopsided grin.

“I didn’t do anything,” You defend yourself. “He was perhaps embarrassed that he basically said it should be a man in my role,”

Gwaine shakes his head playfully. “Ah, that’s Leon for you. You’ve got to cut him some slack. He’s been around since Uther’s time, so I suppose you could say he has a bit more of a… traditional outlook on some things,” He smiles. “Then again, he may have just been flustered from being alone in the presence of a beautiful woman,”

You scoff. “I don’t think so,”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it. Leon is the nervous type. He’s not so skilled at talking to ladies,”

“Whereas I suppose you are, and are very confident in yourself,”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Gwaine shrugs.

“Anyway, I have a job to do. Stand here please,” You gesture for him to stand by the worktable. “What is it you need today?”

“A new cloak,” He grabs the sides of his cloak and spreads it out like scarlet wings, revealing several rips.

“What did you do, get dragged behind a horse?”

He laughs. “Something like that,”

“Well, remove the cloak please,”

He undoes the buckle at his throat and does as you say, passing the bundled cloak to you. You place it on the table and grab the tape measure. You stand behind Gwaine, measuring his shoulder width, marking it down in your journal before returning to your spot behind him, placing one end of the tape measure at the nape of his neck.

“Hold this here please,”

Gwaine reaches his hand behind his head and glides his fingers down until they brush against yours and over the tape measure.

“That’s it, now keep it still,”

He does as you say, and you extend the tape measure down, lowering into a crouch until the tape meets the floor. You mutter the measurement to yourself and stand.

“Thank you,” You retrieve the tape end from under Gwaine’s finger and he drops his arm down.

Back at the table, you mark down the number in your journal and unfold the cloak partially, to reveal the embroidered insignia. Flipping to a new page, you begin to sketch the design of the golden dragon for you to use as reference later. Sir Gwaine comes into your peripheral, leaning against the edge of the table next to yours. You feel his eyes on you and glance up.

“I expect you to take better care of the cloak I will make for you,” You say. “I will be very cross if you return here with it ripped to shreds,”

“Upon my honour, I will treat my new cloak as my most prized possession,”

Finishing your sketch, you pass the cloak back to him. He swings it around his shoulders and starts on the fastening when your stomach rumbles loudly.

“Please excuse me,” You say, embarrassed.

“Have you eaten today?” Gwaine asks.

“I admit I… may have forgotten. I’ve been busy getting ready for my first day,”

“No matter, let’s go to the baker’s and get you something,” He finishes fastening his cloak and heads for the door before looking back at you expectantly.

“I thank you, but there’s no need to trouble yourself,”

You glance over to the kitchen area of your chambers, spotting only a stale end of a loaf of bread to eat.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” Gwaine says, following your gaze.

“Alright then, I suppose I should get some things from the market as well while I’m out,”

You cross the room swiftly and pick up your basket before heading for the door.

“Let’s go,”

You walk with Gwaine from the castle to the town’s market street. He leads you to a small and familiar bread shop.

“I enjoy the fruit buns from here,” You say as you cross the shopfront.

“Have you ever tried the ones with custard in them?” Gwaine asks as he holds the door open for you.

“No, I haven’t.” You reply. “Since they cost a bit more,”

“Today’s your lucky day then,” He smiles before approaching the shop counter.

He orders two of the buns and the baker retrieves them from the angled shelves behind him, placing each bun in a small sheet of paper and passing them to Gwaine. The knight drops a few coins in the baker’s hand and steps back outside, where you follow him to a nearby bench to sit and eat. Gwaine waits for you to take a bite first, after which you look up at him with wide eyes.

“Good, isn’t it?” He grins.

You nod enthusiastically while chewing the mouthful.

You both eat the buns, Gwaine finishing his in three large bites. When you’ve finished yours, you wipe your mouth on the back of your hand.

“I really should do my shopping so I can head back and get started,”

Gwaine sighs. “I should head back as well. I hope you enjoyed your late breakfast?”

“I did, thank you Gwaine. I shall have to return the favour one day,”

“Nonsense. Having a fine cloak made by your hands will be repayment enough,” He stands and extends a hand to you.

You take it and stand as well, brushing crumbs off your dress. He lets go of your hand and gives a small bow.

“Good day to you, my lady,”

He smiles and turns around, walking back up the street to the castle.

After doing some shopping at the market, you head back to your chambers and use the rest of the day to start working on Sir Leon’s gambeson and Sir Gwaine’s cloak.

~

The next morning, you remember to eat breakfast, and with no new clients for the day, continue working on Sir Leon’s gambeson. An hour or so into work, a sharp pain swells in your lower abdomen. At first you push through, continuing with your sewing, but the pain intensifies, to the point you’re doubled over, gritting your teeth. You berate yourself for losing track of your cycle. You’re usually on top of it, but with all the changes recently, you’d let it slip your mind.

You rest for a while, waiting for the pain to pass, but every time it seems it’s going to subside, it rears its ugly head again. Irritated that if it continues, you won’t be able to get more work done today, you decide that you need to visit the herbalist in the lower town. You have seen her in the past for when your monthly pains have been particularly bad. You fetch your cloak from your bedroom and head out.

You slowly make your way through the castle, taking careful steps as not to jostle yourself too much. The stairs are particularly difficult and you take them at a snail’s pace. At last you reach the exit and start your descent down the main stairs into the courtyard.

“Hello, how are you settling in?”

The voice startles you, and you look up to find Merlin, giving you a warm smile.

“Oh, hello Merlin,”

Your jaw clenches as a wave of pain rolls over you, causing you to stoop over. Suddenly a hand is on your back.

“(Y/N), you’re unwell. I’ll take you to see Gaius right away,”

You look up at Merlin, his face lined with concern.

“That’s quite alright, Merlin. I’m just going to a herbalist in the town. She has helped me before,”

“You can’t walk all that way in this condition. I’ll take you to Gaius, he’ll be able to help you,”

You groan at another attack of pain, and lower yourself so you’re sitting on the steps, holding your knees against your chest. Merlin kneels on a lower step in front of you.

“I appreciate the offer, Merlin, but what afflicts me is… a women’s issue,” You say, sure it will get the man to leave you alone at last.

But he shows no revulsion, not even the slightest flinch.

“Gaius is a very skilled physician, and knows how to treat all sorts of ailments,”

You sigh, thinking how you would rather not have to walk through the busy streets of the town.

“Alright, you’ve convinced me,”

You reach a hand to Merlin and he stands, pulling you upright. He offers you an arm, which you grip firmly as he guides you up the stairs.

You remain on Merlin’s arm until he stops at a worn wooden door in a part of the castle you haven’t seen yet. He opens the door and guides you inside, an arm around your back. An old man with shoulder-length, silvery-white hair looks up from a book he was perusing, snapping to attention when he sees you.

“This is (Y/N),” Merlin says. “I caught her struggling down the stairs in the courtyard. She has severe menstrual cramps,”

“Bring her to the bed here,” The old man gestures to a simple bed nearby.

Merlin escorts you there and helps you to sit on the edge.

“A pleasure to meet you, (Y/N). I am Gaius, the court physician. Are you taking anything for the pain currently?”

“Not at the moment. I was just on my way to get something from a herbalist woman in the town,” You explain.

“You need not make the journey, you can come straight to me if you have any ailment,” He points at you with his thumb every few syllables, his voice stern but kind. “Do you know when your cycle is due to begin?”

“With the way I feel right now, I’d say tomorrow. I’m usually on top of this, just with the move into my new lodgings and everything, I lost track,”

“That’s quite alright. These things happen,” Gaius steps away to a long wooden workbench.

He sets up some equipment and beckons Merlin over, instructing him on certain ingredients he needs. Merlin swiftly steps across the room to a large bookshelf, packed with small glass bottles filled with various liquids, herbs and other things you don’t recognise. Merlin picks out some of the bottles and brings them to Gaius, who begins using the ingredients immediately.

“I will give you something for the pain now,” He turns his head toward you as he speaks. “But in future, I will be able to give you something to take a few days before your cycle, which should ease the discomfort,”

You hear crunching and scraping as he uses a mortar and pestle, followed by a low bubbling as a plume of steam rises from his workbench. You watch the physician work, until he presents you with a small bottle filled with a translucent green liquid.

“Take this now,” He says, passing you the bottle.

You hold it against your lips and tip the contents into your mouth, tasting an unpleasant bitterness as you swallow it.

“It should take effect in about twenty minutes. I will give you some vials to take with you,”

You hear a clink of glass on glass before Gaius turns around with a small parcel wrapped in hessian cloth.

“You can only take this once every six hours I’m afraid, but it should help. You may rest here until you feel ready to return to your chambers,”

“Thank you, Gaius,” you give the old man a smile, which he returns. “And you too, Merlin,”

After having rested for a time in the physician’s chambers, Merlin takes you back to your rooms and you part ways. Feeling quite worn out, you head to your room to lie down, hands clasped over your belly. Eyelids becoming heavy, you begin to sink into a slumber when a knock at your chamber door startles you. Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you get up and head to the door. You open it to find Sir Gwaine looking back at you.

“I saw you in the courtyard earlier with Merlin while I was coming back from training,” He says, brow furrowed. “Is everything alright? You looked unwell,”

You step aside to let Gwaine in and he steps inside, his eyes still locked on you.

“I was unwell, but Merlin took me to see Gaius and I’m feeling much better now,”

A dull throb courses through your lower abdomen, causing you to flinch.

“What is it?” Gwaine asks, rushing to you, an arm on your shoulder.

“It is nothing to be concerned about,”

“I can take you back to Gaius, he ca–”

“If you must know,” You interrupt. “It is women’s monthly issues I am dealing with,”

Understanding washes over Gwaine’s face.

“And you are now the third man today I’ve had to speak to about it, so feel free to leave in disgust,”

“I’m not disgusted and I’m not leaving,” Gwaine stands firm. “Come and sit by the fire,”

He gently leads you across the room and into a chair in front of the fireplace, before beginning to pile kindling and firewood in the grate. After a few moments, he’s started a fire and steps back, taking the other chair beside you.

“I’ve heard the warmth can help,” He says, holding out his palms to feel the heat.

“You’ve heard?”

“Living with my mother and sister had me learn of these things,” He explains.

“I didn’t know you had a sister. Is she here, in Camelot?”

“No,” Gwaine says, reaching for the iron poker and jabbing it into the flames. “And that’s for the best,”

“Why do you say that?” You ask. When you look at him, you see his expression is not a pleasant one. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,”

“No, it’s alright,” He sighs. “I suppose you could say that we don’t see eye to eye,”

You nod in understanding. “Family can be complicated,”

Gwaine hums in agreement, staring into the fire for a moment, before he gets up.

“I’m sorry to leave so soon, but I need to get ready for training,”

You start to stand.

“No, don’t get up, I can find my own way out,” He says. “I hope you feel better soon. I’ll check in tomorrow if it’s not a bother?”

Your automatic response is to tell him not to worry about you, but it has been nice to be looked after.

“It won’t be a bother. See you tomorrow,”

~

You plod along the next day, doing bits of sewing here and there, taking rests in between. The day seems to crawl on especially slowly, until at last the sunlight fades and you put your sewing away. Having no motivation to cook anything, you eat a simple dinner before sitting by the fire with a candle beside you, making a start on the dragon embroidery for Sir Gwaine’s new cloak.

You bundle your legs up on the chair as the pain returns, wondering if Gwaine will be visiting after all. Perhaps he is very busy of perhaps he forgot. You try to decide which to be more likely when there’s a soft knock at your chamber door. Placing the embroidery hoop down on the small table beside you, you get up and cross the room.

“Sorry I’m calling late,” Gwaine says as you open the door. “I went to the market straight after training and spent ages trying to find what I wanted, then I had to head back to my chambers and get washed and changed, and – you don’t need to know all this,” He gives an abashed smile.

“What matters most is that you’re here now,” You give him an assuring smile and beckon him inside.

He steps into your chambers when you realise his different appearance. Until now you’ve only ever seen him in his knight’s kit. Now he’s wearing a brown jacket, with leather bodice and quilted fabric sleeves, over a grey tunic, cinched at the hips with a leather belt. His posture suggests he feels more comfortable than when he’s in uniform, and you can’t blame him. You’re sure the chainmail shirt would weigh one down eventually, even a knight.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Better than yesterday,” You lead him to the fireplace, gesturing for him to sit in the chair beside yours. “Although Gaius’ potion is starting to wear off and I can’t take another dose for a few hours yet,”

“Well I did bring something that’ll hopefully help,” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out what appears to be a red cloth bag and passes it to you. The weight and feel of the bag surprises you, and the contents sag as you hold it. It feels as if it’s filled with grain. Upon inspection, you find that the bag is sewn shut on every side.

“What is it?” You ask.

“My mother and sister used them to help with their monthlies. They called it a wheat bag. You heat it by the fire, then place it against the place that’s painful. The heat is said to help ease the pain,”

“Is this what you got from the market?”

Gwaine nods.

“The thing you spent ages trying to find?” You ask.

“Well…” He scratches the back of his head.

“That is very thoughtful of you,” You say, touched by his actions. “You must show me how it is heated, I don’t want to set it aflame my first time using it,” You pass it to him.

He places in on the ground a few feet in front of the fire.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” He asks.

“I had some bread and cheese earlier. I didn’t want to bother with cooking,” You admit.

“Ah, good old bread and cheese, that’s classic late night tavern fare,”

Gwaine grins, reaching into his jacket again, pulling out a paper bundle. He unwraps it to reveal two fruit and custard buns.

“Will you be wanting some dessert?” He raises his brows.

You gasp and take one of the buns. “How could I resist?”

“I almost couldn’t,” Gwaine takes a bite of his bun. “I considered eating mine before I got here,”

“You showed great restraint,” You say between mouthfuls.

After finishing the bun, Gwaine removes the wheat bag from beside the fire and passes it to you. You place it in your lap, against your lower belly, and take up your embroidery again, stitching away while you and Gwaine talk. He shares amusing stories from his times with the other knights and you share anecdotes about particularly rude or misbehaved customers. Not until you get up to retrieve more thread do you realise that your pain has almost completely subsided.

“That worked wonderfully, thank you Gwaine,” You say as you sit down again. “I must repay you in some way,”

“There is no need for that. To spend time in your company is enough for me,”

Your cheeks warm. Gwaine groans as he stands up.

“Speaking of time, I really should turn in. Morning training tomorrow,” He grimaces.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” You say sympathetically.

“It really isn’t. Sometimes I think our king is in love with sweat and pain. Anyway, goodnight my lady,” He bows.

“You realise I’m not a lady,”

“Perhaps not officially, but to me…” He places a palm against his heart.

“Oh hush. Get out of here before you speak any more nonsense,” You hold back a smile.

“As my lady wishes,” He gives a deeper, exaggerated bow and exits your chamber.