#while they don’t fit the horde much

[goblin-enjoyer]

Oh by the corpses I think I’m loosing it. Earlier I just got back from a friends birthday get together for their 21ST. I’m a bit worn out so I go to watch some background entertainment on YouTube while a get my batteries for wow back (I heard there was a new important quest chain). I see some homestuck comic dubs in my feed. Odd, but makes sense as I have been listening to the music lately. So I turn on those old 3-4 year old videos thinking: “eh this is just some old dubs from 2015-16 might as well watch em while I recharge. See what this old decaying fandom had in its heyday”. I watch for a bit until I find a comp that BLINDSIDES me with a Covid reference comic. I look at the date, 4 years ago. After the video is finished I then proceed to realize that all those videos were from 2020-2022 and then start breaking down somewhat as I realize I’m getting old and starting to think “4 years ago was 2016” . Que this post . Honestly I can’t tell which is worse. The fact that 2016 was almost 10 years ago and as much as things change, every 5 or so years they kinda just reset a tiny bit in the transition from old to new to old again Or the fact that i might be a homestuck fan now. Nonsense of a mad[WOULD PREFER NOT TO SAY] in the tags as I don’t put that crabp in the main post.

[endursent]

- Through the Dark

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , dry humping , a bit of pining , tight spaces , NSFW 】

【 note; i've never written smut/nsfw before, so this is treading new grounds for me, but I need to practice for gss because i want that to be juicy. expect more, lol. it'd also be nice to get requests/suggestions to stir by brain a bit if you'd like.

also, the reader's gender is never mentioned but there are gender-neutral they/them pronouns used twice in the middle to enforce that ambiguity. 】

【 word count; 3.391 | read on ao3 】

���Stop… moving so much,” Sunday strains through grit teeth, he’s trying not to sound annoyed or upset, but it’s an uphill battle. 

  “You’re moving first, I’m just adjusting,” you whisper back, you can’t tell what expression he’s making in the darkness, but you’re sure it’s on some scale of annoyance or frustration by the sound of his voice. 

  “You–”

  You hear footsteps approaching and slap your right hand over his mouth, your heart beats faster as they approach, quick taps against hardwood floors… you feel Sunday still completely, his jaw moves slightly beneath your palm as he swallows thickly. Neither of you move an inch until distant shouts sound and the footsteps fade. You still keep your hand over his mouth for a moment longer just in case. You can’t see out of the closet you’ve squeezed into… what if there’s someone listening on the other side? Just waiting for either of you to make a noise?

  Your heart continues to beat rapidly in your chest, you feel it hammering against your rib cage–and you’re sure Sunday feels it too.

  After a while, you take a gamble and lower your hand from his face, surely they’re gone now? 

  “...” Sunday doesn’t say anything, a tense silence falling between you. His voice is a whisper when he finally does speak. “... is this a usual occurrence?”

  You have to take a moment to try and understand what he means. “Ha? Being stuck in a closet?”

  “Yes,” he just grumbles, disapproval clear in his tone. 

  “... no,” you mumble in return. The how and why of the situation was irrelevant—mostly because it’s your fault and you don’t want to think about it—what was much more important is that you are stuffed into a closet with Sunday with barely any wiggle room and you’re not keen on facing a horde of angry guards who could potentially be hostile with only you and Sunday to fend them off. 

  Your limbs barely have any space, Sunday’s arms are above the both of you, his elbows on either side of your head as the space is so narrow he can’t even lower them—there’s no direction wide enough for his arm to bend. Your chests are pressed together so tightly that the ornament on his scarf has nearly poked you in the eye three times and you felt the tickle of his feathered wings against your cheekbone when you turned your head to the door.

  The rest… is the uncomfortable part—not that being pressed like sardines in a can isn’t uncomfortable in general. Sunday is slightly taller than you and has to spread his legs on either side of you so that he can fit—the closet isn’t exactly tall either, so the two of you are slightly hunched as well, thus you have to tuck your legs under him so that he’s practically sitting on them, your knees press against the wall achingly and one of your thighs is pressing very insistently and directly between his legs.

  The strain in his voice is probably only half due to the uncomfortable, hunched position, and half because with every slight move you make, you’re essentially grinding your thigh against his crotch. It’s hard not to notice the situation, but for his–and your own–sake you pretend not to. 

  Unbeknownst to you, Sunday is fighting for his life. He hasn’t been touched by another… ever? Not like this, even if accidental. He feels the tips of his fingers prickle and his jaw clench unconsciously as he tries his best not to react outwardly. 

  “Okay… they should be gone now,” thankfully your hands were bent downwards, and thus you could push against the closet door with your elbow.

  But it doesn’t budge.

  You press again, nothing. It’s locked, or blocked by something. No matter how you try and push, the door doesn’t budge.

  “What is it?” Sunday frowns, he can’t see what you’re doing and the closet doesn’t have any holes or window on the door to allow light in. “Open it, just…”

  “It’s locked,” you interrupt him. 

  He says nothing… and you can almost sense the mixture of frustration and disappointment in him, but a soft, warm exhale fans over your face, it almost tickles. “Try again,” he urges surprisingly softly. “Perhaps it’s just stiff.”

  You do as he asks, but no luck. “… it doesn’t open.”

  Sunday clicks his tongue. “Alright—stop pushing, be still,” he nudges your head with his elbow. With every press against the door, your body pushes away from it—and your thigh flexes, pressing against him further. 

  There’s another beat of silence, but you can’t stand it—thankfully, an idea flashes in your mind and you decide to give him a heads up… this will require some wriggling. “Sunday, my phone is in my pocket, if I can get it and send a message to the Express group chat, someone must be able to come and pry the door open.” Never have you imagined a more useful task for Dan Heng’s spear.

  “Can you reach it?” he asks as you shift your arm from being stuck between your stomachs and squeeze it between your bodies. His eyes squint at the feeling. 

  You bite your lip in concentration. “Probably… but I’ll need to try and stretch my thighs and waist to fish it out…” 

  “I see…” he understands what that entails, but he’s not sure he likes the idea. “Can you reach my phone instead? It’s in my coat pocket.”

  You pat around his side and try to find it, it could be easier… but to reach down you have to try and bend forwards—which means pressing your forehead and face directly into his chest. The scarf wrapped around his collar is soft… and it smells nice, like cinnamon. Though his chest itself isn’t very soft, he’s rather skinny. 

  But no matter how you reached and even tried to tug his coat up, the pocket was too far down and his phone even deeper inside. There’s no other way.

  “I’m sorry,” you truly are, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. “Maybe if we just wait…”

  “No,” he shakes his head and you feel his hair brush against your nose. “Just do it.”

  Deciding to try and just get it over with, you nod and start shimmying your back and ass upwards as much as you can to try and create space for you to be able to tug your phone out of your pocket. And it has the exact effect expected. 

  Sunday grunts, he tries to bite back any noise and his thighs twitch before he presses them against your hips tightly, as if trying to close his legs… it’s torturous, your thigh drags up and shifts and moves against him as you fish for your phone, he can’t even reach down to still your leg or tug at himself—anything, his arms are at too much of an awkward angle to be able to bend down in the tight space, so he’s stuck just enduring the searing heat that’s pooling dangerously easily between his legs. 

  Finally, you get a proper hold of it and drag your phone out of your pants pocket, you settle back down which elicits a sound from him that shoots through both of you like an arrow. “Sorry!” you quickly try and apologise, but the soft twitching of his body signals that the apology will do precious little.

  Sunday swallows thickly, so much so that you could hear it. His body was warm before, but now it feels like he’s radiating heat against you. He doesn’t want to say anything, worried his voice might not sound right—but the position you realigned into is pressing him almost painfully flat against himself… which also means he feels every small drag or shift you make. 

  You try to tilt your shoulders in a way that lets you see your phone screen… if you can just text the Express group chat that you’re stuck, surely someone can put off what they’re doing and come let you out. 

  It’s tricky to turn the phone in your hand with only one to spare and try to unlock it without seeing the screen, where even is the messaging app again? You just try your best to guess… until you try and type, which is when your phone tilts from your fingers and clatters to the ground.

  “…”

  “…”

  Fuck. 

  An exhale leaves Sunday. “You dropped your phone.”

  “… yeah,” you sound like a puppy being scolded by its owner. With your phone facing up on the floor, he could just barely see you giving him guilty dog side-eyes.

  He couldn’t explain the frustration it brought him that now no one knew of your positions—you had managed to send a … half-message… but it probably didn’t mean much to anyone. 

—

[17:42] You: slfep dmgwlsGn f

[17:43] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: Huh?

[17:46] Himeko: Probably put their phone unlocked in their pocket again...

[17:49] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: lol

—

  The light from your phone turned off as it was left untouched for too long, and you groaned slightly. Great… now what? Surely you’re not going to be stuck here forever.

  He wasn’t going to be able to keep his composure much longer, especially not when your damned body is pressed against his like this, the smell of your clothes and the occasional brush of your hands when you move them in the little space they can be moved. 

  It certainly doesn’t help that he finds you irresistible. 

  How could he, after his world had been turned—his beliefs, his ideals and his goals all turned from reaching forward, to halting in front of a mirror, forced to confront his reflection and pick out the flaws in his own mind before himself. 

  And you treated him just as you would any other person, despite what he had done, despite his false sense of benevolence that he still worked to understand how to redirect to something more realistic, how to understand what it is that drives... 

  His thoughts are interrupted—unfortunately, because it was distracting enough—when you pat his coat again to try and find his phone, but his skin begins to tingle every time you touch him, his poor body highly sensitive from the growing tension in his pants. “S-stop, be still—please,” he breathes, his voice suddenly far closer to your ear than it was before, his soft hair tickling your cheek. 

  Oh, that was…

  You’ve never heard his voice sound like that—not that you’ve known him for long enough to hear many of the pitches of his voice could make, but the way it rose slightly and cut off before pleading with you…

  Why do you want to hear it again?     “Sorry,” you say again, losing count of how many times you’ve said it already. “Are you okay?”

  He wouldn’t admit to his predicament with a gun to his head, but… it’s impossible to ignore, and there’s no way you don’t know either. He takes a deep—shaky—breath. “You can’t… move your leg?”

  You don’t want to lie to him and say yes, your knee is aching from being pressed so firmly against the wall of the closet, and your tailbone isn’t faring better against the other wall. You can pretty much only move it side to side unless you try and straighten your knee out—which as he felt earlier, was far worse. “Not really.”

  He swallows again, Sunday is glad he’s wearing gloves and that the closet is dark, or else you would have felt his sweaty hands or seen it on his brow by now. “I see.”

  He can’t stay like this much longer, his heart thunders against his chest, he hears it clearly as his breath hitches when he tries to provide himself some relief by shifting his hips to one side—but only proceeds to drag against you again, causing maddening friction that makes his thighs flex. 

  The tension in the air is so thick you’re not sure if it’s just the fact the closet doesn’t exactly have a vent, or that your nose is a hair’s width from Sunday’s neck, but it’s making your head feel lighter and your breaths deepen the more he tries to find more comfortable positions and fail, letting out short breaths or grunts. At this point he might as well just find the relief he’s desperately holding back from chasing. It would be less painful. 

  “Sunday,” his name falls from your lips quieter than you meant to, and surprisingly, your own name leaves him equally shyly. A simple breath that made your spine straighten instinctively—causing you to poke yourself in the eye on the ornament on his scarf. “Ow—“

  “Stop moving,” his tone sharpens and you feel a palm on your head. “… nhh—“  Sunday’s body twitches, you feel a throb against your thigh and he fears he’s going to burst if this continues. “…”

  But he can’t in his right mind just ask you if he can use your thigh to satisfy this torturous ache. 

  Thankfully, your mind is usually not ‘right’. “Hey,” you muster up some courage, it helps that neither of you can’t see anything. “If you need to…”

  “No,” he interrupts you, shaking his head—and a wing slaps you in the face, you feel like your face is taking too many swings today. “No, absolutely not.”

  “You sound like you’re about to cry.” His voice is tight, but not because he’s about to cry—he might, if this keeps going for too long—but because he’s reigning in every single willpower he has to hold himself still. “Will it be better if I do it?”

  He clicks his tongue, this entire situation could have been avoided if someone didn’t trigger the alarm. He could’ve gone about his day and not had to—yet again—confront a side of himself left neglected. “No… fine, let me.”

  It was… tentative, shy, as if he thought that short and subtle movements would mean you wouldn’t feel anything or not notice too much. Every shot of warmth from his waist to his fingers and toes made him shudder and his chest tighten, it was a fight on all fronts to both keep quiet and focus on being careful at the same time. 

  It was hard to watch, or rather listen to, as the dark was still all-encompassing. 

  Maybe he would feel better if he didn’t have to think about the uncomfortable silence in the darkness. 

  You can’t reach up, your hands stuck below your chests, otherwise you would have touched his face first. He likely wouldn’t have been as startled as he was when your lips suddenly—yet gently—pressed against his. 

  “Wh—mm you—doin—m—“ it’s almost comedic how his question is only half communicated, surprised and confused by the kiss that he slowly eases into, accepting your offer and splitting his attention. 

  His hips grind against your thigh, slow at first and uncertain, but as your mouth takes half his mind off of it, he begins to move more desperately. He’s been held at a precipice for so many minutes, an agonising hour that felt so long that he thought he would surely explode in some form if it were to continue for much longer. Sunday’s lips are surprisingly soft against yours, warm and inviting as he pushes back, his hand above your head that laid on it is now searching for purchase, as if he wants to take hold of you properly. 

  The two of you pull back to breathe, and Sunday wastes no time to duck his head next to yours, damp lips brushing past your temple and to your ear. He plants wet, open mouthed kisses below it, the sensitive skin tickled by the sensation as his tongue drags against the shell of your ear. 

  But he doesn’t give up, taken by the heated moment and relaxed barriers, his hips continue to cant against your thigh, his worldview narrowing to the sensation of your warm skin under his lips, to the delicious friction created by both your pants. “Hahh…“ he breathes out, a string of saliva separating his lips from your skin. 

  You move your leg in tandem to his grinding, you can’t help but feel his pleasure as if it were your own, the way his body trembles with strain, the breathy sounds below your chin and flex of his hips. You feel your own body respond and warmth pool needily, but you ignore it—he’s the one that’s been suffering for an hour in this stuffy space, you can wait… you try to convince yourself at least, ignoring the subtle throb of your own, at least it was just against air and not pressed against something as well—or perhaps that’s worse. 

  It’s embarrassing, Sunday echoes in the back of his mind, not only that he’s had to resort to this, but also the fact that he wants more. He doesn’t just want to rut against your thigh like this, he wants to touch you with his hands, trapped at an awkward angle over your shoulders. He wants to feel your own heat, the warmth radiating from your clothes against his a tempting tease, a longing of seeing what’s beneath. Your skin, your hair, your eyes, your neck, your lips—he wants to feel all of it. 

  Sunday mumbles your name again before his lips find your ear and the top of your throat once more, a hint of teeth as he captures your earlobe between them, a shiver running through you, you can hear his mouth and tongue so clearly... he kisses a reddened spot left below your ear from his single minded focus and his hips falter and his body twitches together, but he only succeeds in brushing his bangs against your chin and his small wings fluttering outward. The surge of heat emitting from his straining cock was unbearable, he moved faster, a breathy sound of your name on his lips again, Sunday says it for the third time as tension fills his body and all he can focus on is the warmth of your frame against his—a bit too tightly in the cramped closet—the soft warm breaths against his ear and the way your hands unconsciously started grabbing at his coat. 

  You feel him tense and groan, the choked sound foreign on his lips, you never expected to hear such a bodily sound from him, nor could you stop it from raising every hair on your arms. You hold onto him as he practically falls against you, Sunday’s breaths are heavy and his arms tremble by your head, his mind feels like it’s been tossed around a bit before stuffed back in upside down, he can’t straighten up or lie down and has to practically sit on your thigh. 

  “Are you okay?” you prod and poke at his stomach worriedly. “Was that okay? Are—“

  “Please… j-just… one moment,” he pleads, not ready to answer a barrage of questions just yet. His heart is beating so fast it almost worries him, his throat feels dry and his legs are weak. He did nothing but drag his crotch up and down your thigh and this is the state he’s left in? He can’t imagine how you would leave him if he got a real taste—

  He shakes his head and you splutter as you get a mouthful of feathers. “I… might have dirtied your pants,” he says shamefully, the sticky wetness between his legs left behind from the height of pleasure was surely going to stain you too. Though it felt good, certainly, he is having some post-clarity… for you to see him so tense and desperate as this—he always has a careful front, not more so than before, but the habit remains. 

  “I have more,” you try to assure him… you don’t have them with you, but you do own more. “So…”

  He presses his forehead against your shoulder. “… I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  A small smile cracks your lips and you stroke his side. “Okay, we‘ll talk later… how about a second grab for your phone? Now that you’re all, eh… spent?”

  “… don’t send anything until we’re dry.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Damage Control 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Jonathan Pine, Lloyd Hansen

Summary: you’re sent to work intel on a mission with two very combative men.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You switch with Pine as the window seat gives you the flip in your stomach that directly challenges what’s left of your lunch. He obliges. He seems the sort despite his work. He struggles to fit his long legs between his seat and the next row. You feel bad for him, the world isn’t much made for the tall, handsome sort. Pfft. 

The seatbelt light goes off and you settle in with a book you haven’t much focus for. You close it and glance over at the window, blanching and looking at the seat ahead of you. You swallow tightly and let a breath out through your nose. 

You love going to new places but it’s the getting there part that really stinks. You lean into the seat as if you might become a part of it. You keep yourself strapped in and open the book then close it again. The subtle thrum of the plane keeps you on edge. 

Suddenly, the tremble becomes a shake. Not thinking, you reach over to grab the armrest. Instead, you latch onto Pine’s wrist and squee. The rumbling has your heart topturning and when it’s over, you stay clasped on. 

“Alright,” he pets your knuckles. “Just a bit of turbulence.” 

“I’m sorry,” you rip your hand away. “Like I said, I used to be brave. I think sometimes you age into fear. Like a rollercoaster. When you’re young, you don’t think of it then you’re in line as an adult and you’re counting every regret you’ve got.” You give a sheepish smile, “are they serving alcohol?” 

He hums, “think the cart will be out soon. I could go with for a pint myself.” 

“Well, if your taste in lager is anything like your football choices, I think you might be left unsatisfied,” you chortle and try to shake out your nerves. It’s fine. Everyone else is entirely unbothered, don’t be a nervous nelly, now. 

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” He sighs. 

“I’m not judging. I’m just honest,” you smirk then crane to look down the aisle. “Trolly can’t come soon enough.” 

“On that we can agree,” he intones. 

His company calms you. Just enough for you to not grind your teeth to dust. You tuck the book down beside your leg and try to stretch out the tension from your hands and legs. 

The flight wears on. A Stella helps soothe you through the next bought of turbulence as Jonathan distracts you with chatter about some trek he made through the Scottish hills. You know what he’s doing but you’re not unhappy about it. It helps keeps your mind off the distance to the ground. 

After a while, you relax enough to close your eyes. You don’t sleep but you manage to shut off your anxiety for just a little. When the announcement comes to warn of the landing, your knotted up all over again. 

It isn’t until the wheels hit the ground that you notice you’ve grabbed onto your seat neighbour once more. He doesn’t say a word, nor does he seem to mind. You suppose given the nature of your acquaintance; you can expect to be caught in close quarters rather often. 

You nearly cry as you disembark and your feet hit solid ground. You drag your bag through to customs and yawn. You’re ready to keel over but you’ve a long way to go still. 

“I’ll get the rental,” you volunteer as you finally clear the hordes of arrivals. 

“Shall I keep guard of the luggage,” he offers. 

“Oh, sure,” you agree. “I’ll be as quick as a housefly.” 

You stride off and find the right rental kiosk amid the furor. You get your keys and return to Pine. You walk off into the rental lot, slightly disoriented as you check the car number a seventh time. 

“This way,” he gestures with his head as he keeps hold of both bags. 

“Oh, jeez, I can take mine back,” you reach for the suitcase but he swiftly veers away. 

“I can handle it,” he assures you. “Would you pop the boot?” 

You approach the rental and hit the button on the keychain to unlock the hatch. He loads up the bags as you investigate the front seat and adjust the mirrors and incline of the backrest. He gets in as you fiddle with the stereo. 

You finally get it perfect and back out, gripping the wheel tight as you swerve in reverse and slam on the brakes. He glances at you and you return his look coyly. 

“I’ve got to be on the right-side. I nearly forgot. Forgive me,” you smile. “You might have to remind me a few times. 

“If it’s better, I can drive.” 

“No, I can manage. I think. Right, right, right...” you mutter to yourself as you slowly step on the pedal. “Anyhow, now we are free of the commoners,” you kid, “this Hansen fellow. Peculiar. Interesting in a way that makes my skin crawl.” You begin as you stop to signal and follow another car around the slog of airport traffic. “Mercenary for hire but it turns out Roper has diversified his efforts to cause general malaise. It isn’t ideal, but he’s the only lead we’ve got at the moment.” 

You sigh and frown as you think of his file. It wasn’t an easy read. Weeks spent poring over every bit of intel you could find. Typically, you don’t mind your job. You’re good at it but sometimes you wade so far into the depths, you can’t see much for the murk. 

“It would be good to practice caution. It’s rather surprising Hansen wouldn’t foresee Roper’s deceit, considering they seem to be much alike,” you continue. “In fact, I’d be wary that this all might be in itself a ploy. This could be Roper playing into our pursuit.” 

“Yes, I thought the same. Anything I should particularly of this man?” 

“He’s a cockroach. Hard to kill. Presumed dead for some years and then... as if by miracle, there he is. Missing a few parts but still around and worse,” you say. “I’m sure you live by the law of this line of work; never trust anyone.” You follow the curve of the road into the city. “Not even me.” 

[hades-in-bloom]

The Bigger Person

Spawn!Astarion Ancunin x Redeemed Dark Urge!Reader

summary: after saving Baldur’s Gate, Astarion and his partner descend into the Underdark to take care of Cazador’s misdeeds. All seven thousands of them. Was it something the elf truly wanted to do with his freedom?

spoilers for Act 3/Pale Elf and Epilogue

warnings & contents: teethy fluff; established relationship; comfort, sass, and class; hints of existential crisis; the reader could be any gender; mentions of trauma; some hugs; assumed drow or half-drow background of the reader but could be any race

a/n: I am kinda terrified of writing for Astarion as I respect Larian’s work SO MUCH (so Larian, please forgive me, if I ever do this goofy dagger-happy love wrong). This blurb came out of nowhere as I was bored during my long ass flight. As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: miley cyrus — used to be young

***

You watched Astarion from afar as elf was basking in the azure light of a Sussur tree. His pale skin glowing, eyes half-lidded—one of, if not the most beautiful sight you’ve seen in your entire life. Radiance of a Sussur flower might have been the closest thing to the sunlight the vampire spawn had now, after the ever-protecting tadpole was gone.

It was barely a couple of weeks since the Netherbrain crushed into the Chionthar. The exhausting journey was finally over. Your thoughts for a moment went to Gale—how was he fairing now, taking into account his condition? And what any of you was supposed to do with your lives now, after saving the world?

You shook off your guessings by and by—only to notice that it was Astarion’s turn to stare at you. His smooth lips curved into a mischievous grin.

“My once murderous little love, what were you daydreaming of?” The man wondered as he stepped towards you, stretching out a hand for you to touch, inviting you to feel the soothing coldness of his forever-young skin. The elf tilted his head a bit, curiously; studying you.

“You seemed… far from here.” Although his tone was lighthearted, you could see concern in the wandering gaze of garnet eyes. After all these weeks traveling—and now living— together, you could read him quite well.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled before coming to your senses; a gentle, slightly teasing smile appearing on your face. “I was stalking you, actually. You fit quite well with the Underdark, you know.”

Astarion didn’t seem to object your observations.

Obviously.

“Well,” he gestured abstractly, pretending not to care, although he cared quite a bit. “You don’t say, my sweet. Although I'd assume that my features should look aesthetically pleasing in most of the attention worthy places.”

You couldn’t keep a straight face as you laughed, enjoying his lazy attempts to hide a proud smile.

“Behave, Astarion. There are kids in the close vicinity, after all.”

The man changed in the face and let out a soft groan. “Seven thousand of them,” he muttered with slight annoyance in his voice.

Despite grimaces Astarion made regularly, you could see him enjoying it—taking care of the murderous horde of vampire spawns to whom the elf showed mercy in the palace. He was their mentor, their leader now—a counterpart to what Cazador was, the monster that created them all. Now so much better than him.

“I blame you,” Astarion continued in the meantime, playfully pointing a finger in your direction. “That’s all your nasty influence. Be the bigger person, dear!..” he passionately—and painfully accurately—mimicked your tone of voice while saying the last piece. You, though, weren’t offended in the slightest. You liked him even more when he dared to show the silly side of his complex, wounded personality.

You felt his hand crawling around your waist as he huffed next to your ear shortly after. “Why should I be a bigger person, darling, when I can be happy and petty?”

You snorted. “I don’t think you’re holding back on pettiness, love.”

His smile stretched across the skin of your neck in a silent, although eloquent enough reply. None of you said a thing for quite a while, staying motionless close to each other with heads buried deep into your own thoughts.

“Thank you.” You blurted out eventually.

Astarion shifted, looking into your face with his eyebrow raised. He was visibly confused.

“Thank you for choosing this. Choosing them.” you continued as you met his gaze with yours. “Instead of your… freedom.” You struggled to find a better word for that.

Astarion didn’t seem to be convinced; didn’t seem to follow at first. “I’m free,” he replied gravely. “The bastard is dead.”

You shook your head slightly. “You could’ve been anywhere. Doing anything,” you retorted with care. “But you’re here instead.”

His facial features softened as he understood why you were saying what you were saying. There was a pinch of truth in your words—he spent some time thinking about it, too, after you’ve both descended into the Underdark and began building this fort; the safe harbor for Cazador’s cursed—as although perpetually hungry vampire spawns now, these people deserved to have a place to call home, no matter how dangerous or uncivilised per human standards it was.

You heard Astarion letting out a reluctant sigh as he came to terms with his own decision once more.

“This was the right thing to do.” The elf concluded at once.

Mild aversion to his own heroism that manifested itself in his whole appearance in that particular moment made you giggle suddenly.

“My, my. Who thought you'd be up for doing The Right Thing the first time we met.”

The elf gave you a friendly, tad fiendish stare as he rolled his eyes, and you scoffed as he spoke. “Not that you were a paragon of virtuousness back then either, being your daddy’s scion.” You made an unamused face that made him smile.

Astarion reassured you then with playful seriousness, letting his lips and teeth slide affectionately to your neck. “Don’t keep your hopes up, darling. Now my quota of the rightful deeds is fulfilled for the upcoming century.”

You smirked as you locked him into a hug, not believing a single word of what that man just said as you felt him hugging you back.

[justakidicarus]

Linked Universe AU idea: All things come in Three’s

Inspired by being a writer and how all interactions are best done in groups of three or less cause otherwise you always forget someone.

The entire premise is that instead of the chain all meeting each other at the same time or one after the other, the Link’s meet two others, jointly with them for at least 2 months, and then all three groups meet each other and suddenly the group dynamics have been thrown into wack and they have to figure out where 6 others fit into their little world.

Endgame is canon LU dynamic except they fucking tell each other their secrets and shit (Except the Hero’s Shade Twilight is taking that to his grave).

The groups in question:

Wolf Trio - Time, Twilight, Wild

I couldn’t split these three up they are literally the succession line. This groups dynamic is probably the most chaotic out of the three (surprising I know) with Time being the defacto leader, Twilight being the second in command, and Wild being the attack twink. This group may seem to be the quickest to adjust but once the rest of the Chain crack just a little bit under their exteriors they realise the rabbit hole goes deep and they have only barely scratched the surface. Probably the last group to fully open up to the rest of the Chain but never become problematic to the group dynamic. This group faced more savage and ruthless variants of black blooded monsters together, and the occasional dangerous normal monster such as Lynel’s and Iron Knuckles (I haven’t played TP idk what Twilight has)

The Mature Trio - Sky, Four, Warriors

I shoved all the brain cells together. This groups dynamic would be a lot more team based, as these three have all relied on others throughout their journey in meaningful and significant ways. Wars is the main strategist, while Four and Sky’s opinions are respected and incorporated into their resulting battle plans. This group would have the easiest time integrating into the greater Chain, and probably the quickest to share information about themselves. These three faced the more dangerous black blooded monsters during their time as a group of three, alongside large hordes of regular monsters at once.

Chaotic Good (debatable) Trio - Wind, Legend, Hyrule

The rest of Time’s succession line. The most Chaotic group, these three sum up to about twice the craziness Wild gets up to. Legend is the undisputed leader of these three and the other two are content with this, as Legend has some of the craziest battle plans with the most amount of explosives. Also the entire group can’t/refuse to swim. Wind and Legend take turns cooking after Hyrule cooked once and nearly killed them all via the Bubonic Plague. The group (mostly legend) would be the most problematic when joining the greater Chain, but that’s mostly authority issues. Getting Legend to open up is like pulling teeth, Wind does not want to talk about his fear of water or his imposter syndrome but surprisingly Hyrule is the last to open up concerning his Ganon curse, and y’know the fact he has The entire Triforce. These three faced black blooded monsters with gimmicks during their time together.

The meeting

I was thinking they would meet in War’s Hyrule. Time and Wind, having already been there for the War of Era’s and recognise it, both of them taking their groups to the castle to meet Artemis and presumably Wars while the captain in question is taking his group to the castle for some much needed R&R. Wars is talking to Sky and Four about the other Heroes he’s met, Mask and Sailor, when he arrives in castle town, sees six links in the square, and almost nopes out.

Yeah the War of Era’s Trio is the bridge between the three groups.

Don’t really have anything else for this AU, just an idea I wanted to share

[redisaid]

Strangers - Part 3 of ???

Colors and Photographs

I forgot I love this AU a lot. It's more of the same bullshit I always do, but I don't care. Bon appetite.

5006 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Sylvanas Windrunner—burner of trees, blighter of cities, former Warchief of the Horde, former Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, former Ranger General of Quel’thalas, now wearing the title of repentant prisoner and nothing more—sits upon a ridge, looking down at her camp in the Maw, contemplating. Above it, an arcane flare blazes bright in alternating hues of blue and purple, and it is for this reason that she hesitates to return to it.

Next to her, Dori’thur perches on a spur of rock, silent and staring as ever, though the piercing gold of her eyes feels extra judgemental in this moment. Years of time being stared at by an owl have not prepared Sylvanas for this moment, where it seems to be asking her, “Why don’t you go to her?”

The answer is complex. Too complex for an owl to understand.

That’s what she tells herself, at least. In reality, a drop of water rolls down the exposed skin of her arm, chill on chill, to remind her of the real reason. She’d just taken a bath in Korthia. Her hair is still wet.

“Inconvenient,” she mutters in Thalassian.

Dori’thur, she supposes, must be fluent in it now. In moments where she is more prone to amusement, this makes her grin, thinking about the day she will eventually return, and have the beast somehow hooting in her nasty little Highborne dialect. What then, Tyrande?

She wears the new leathers Vereesa sent for her, and they don’t fit quite right. Not yet, at least. Her old set, worn as they were, were perfectly molded to her unchanging form, but comfortable. These are of a similar, but updated style. The top is too baggy for the fine stitching around the sides and neckline. The leggings are too tight in the calf but not enough in the thigh, and woven with useless ties down the sides that don’t even serve to help her in loosening or cinching where needed. Definitely something Vereesa would choose—style over substance.

Sylvanas prefers her clothing like she does anything—simple, precise, and practical. These leathers offer none of that, but she can fix them, with time.

And time, well, she has plenty of time.

It has been some time since Jaina Proudmoore’s ostentatious arcane flares have lit the monotone skies of the Maw. Keeping count of what might equate to days has been her chore between visits. It has not been a pleasant one. Sylvanas has never enjoyed dwelling on time and its terrifying numeracy.

Still, she knows it has been a while since she’s seen Jaina. She knows she’d prefer to do so with dry hair and properly-fitting clothes. There is still a spark within her demanding she not show her enemy any weakness, she supposes. Her lonesome repentance has not dimmed that yet.

Nor does it change the fact that the living always seem to hold a schedule that conflicts with her own.

She relents, after a time. Minutes, petulantly spent dripping onto twisted stones. Sylvanas has names for all the formations, because what else is she to do but invent geographic classifications. There is only so much of her mind that can be occupied by the endless search for lost souls. This rock she calls Broken Tree, because it has branches or sorts, but all end in blunt ends, their sharp edges perhaps snapped off by a rampaging minion of Zovaal’s long ago, or perhaps not long at all.

What does it matter? It doesn’t. Time is irrelevant. It crawls on, unfeeling, with or without her.

So while Sylvanas doesn’t want to be wet and ill-prepared for company, she doesn't want her company to leave because she’s kept them waiting too long. While Jaina Proudmoore isn’t exactly the most welcome of guests, she still makes for better conversation than an owl.

First, before she descends from the stone branches of Broken Tree, she reaches into the pocket of these unnecessarily embellished leathers. Really, isn’t that just like Vereesa to pick something like this? These damn ties. She never had good taste, and apparently still lacks it. Even the compact that Sylvanas pulls out of her pocket is adorned and impractical, its silver embossed with a hunting motif, a deer leaping over a stream, but the latch sticky and difficult to open.

Sylvanas would rather it remained closed, but she is unfortunately in need of a mirror. She hates looking at herself. It has been a dreaded chore since her first death, her first transformation into something she was not meant to be. Now she is changed again, and the blue eyes that look back at her don’t belong on her face and never have. Her eyes were a soft grey before she died, not blue like her sisters. She misses the distinction, even though this blue is not like theirs either.

But the face that stares back still doesn’t feel like hers. The ashen skin, faded hair, wet and stringy and plastered to her gaunt frame. She only sees the banshee within the body—the long fangs and sunken cheeks, the ghastly hands with too long fingers, reaching out to harm but unable to touch. Embodied now, she is still a ghost. A dead thing lingering and not wholly dead, but never to live again. She is a monster, an abomination, a blemish on her own existence.

But still, she sets the compact on a higher branch of Broken Tree, and uses the mirror to ensure she pulls her damp hair into a respectable and straight ponytail, devoid of imperfections. She might be a monster, but she will be a well-groomed one, even if it kills her for whatever time this death would be.

She catches another set of eyes in the mirror. Dori’thur’s yellow eyes reflect back their own glow. The spectral owl tilts her head, amused by the reflection.

“What are you looking at?” Sylvanas asks of her anyway.

Perhaps she too is vain, for the owl seems to be looking at herself rather than her charge for a change.

“Birds,” Sylvanas mutters to herself as she ties the ponytail tight, and gives one quick glance back toward her own reflection before she closes the compact.

She swears she hears a slight huff of disappointment behind her, but when she looks back, Dori’thur is staring at her as passively as ever. Always watching. Never not. It’s maddening, but Sylvanas thinks she might become concerned to see that damn bird do anything but that, should her attention ever be diverted.

She enjoys a brief respite from those yellow orbs as she begins to move toward her camp, and Dori’thur takes to the grey sky above. There is no color in hell, save for the white and pale teal shades of the owl, the yellow of her eyes, and the odd reflection of blazing blue that meets Sylvanas when she dares to look in Vereesa’s gaudy little mirror now and then.

Well, at least today there’s new colors. Blue and purple arcane light still projects into the sky from her camp, and now that she knows what that means, Sylvanas does not meet it with aggression this time.

She thinks it silly to announce herself. Surely Jaina has sighted Dori’thur circling overhead, and well, there is no one else here. Wandering souls do not count, in Sylvanas’ opinion. They are not even akin to ghosts such as herself, and seem to lack awareness of their surroundings, awareness of her, and the ability to do anything but screech out their confusion and fear.

She finds Jaina Proudmoore an array of new colors in her grey world. She is bent over a crackling orange and red fire she’s conjured for herself, but looks up with eyes of natural and subtle blue through stark white hair, streaked with gold. Today, she wears no armor, no regalia, and dresses casually in a white button up shirt and high-waisted navy leggings that tuck into high brown boots with bright, polished brass buckles. The contrast of her is almost blinding. Sylvanas has to blink away the color so it doesn’t overwhelm her vision all at once.

But Jaina is still there when she opens her eyes again, and she’s offering a kind, polite, and rather diplomatic smile—the kind that humans so famously do where they don’t show any teeth. Sylvanas does not deign to return it, and feels the expression would look too ghoulish on her, teeth or not.

Instead, she nods.

“Before you ask,” is what she greets Jaina with, “I have attempted to keep count. It has been about thirty days since I’ve last seen you.”

A month. There was so much Sylvanas could have done with a month on Azeroth. Troops to be trained, equipment to requisition, artillery to inspect. Even without a military to command, she could visit her sisters. She could travel, go to see someplace exotic and far off—Winterspring or Feralas, maybe even a trip back to enjoy Pandaria instead of battling against the mage standing in front of her within its confines. She could read so many books. She could rest, or whatever equivalent of that was left to her.

Counting the days is worse, but she’s done it because she knew Jaina would ask. She feels the corners of her lips pull up into a grin in spite of her resistance when Jaina’s mouth opens, then closes, meaning to utter a greeting but instead having to contemplate what this means for her.

“It’s been a week for me,” Jaina tells her. “And thank you, for counting.”

Sylvanas nods again. She is nothing if not efficient and proficient in her ability to provide necessary information. A good Ranger knows how to observe and report above all else, after all.

But she is not a Ranger. She is a grinning ghoul, a monster, the last devil left in a monotone hell.

She wills her mouth to stillness again, and feels her ears flatten along with it.

Jaina clears her throat. She turns, and Sylvanas can now see she has taken the liberty of setting her tea kettle over the fire to boil. She seems to look for a moment as if Sylvanas will take offense, but that comfort was for her guest, not her. She does not need to drink, nor does she care to. It is not her concern what Jaina does with something that is for her.

It is her concern when Jaina—seeing she’s unchallenged—is so bold as to pour the contents of the kettle into two mugs, and not just one. Sylvanas’ hard-won neutral expression turns to a frown unbidden.

She makes a point of walking past the steaming mug without acknowledging it as she goes to sit on the opposite rock stool from Jaina. To her credit, Jaina does not press the issue, and simply takes up her own, leaving the offending object to sit steaming on the ground, abandoned and unwanted.

There is a glint of recognition of all of this in her eyes as she looks to Sylvanas, sipping at her own tea. Those eyes are nearly as watchful as Dori’thur's and while they aren’t as severe in their judgment, Sylvanas feels as though there is no escaping what they observe in her. There is no doubt that Jaina is picking her apart, piece by piece. She may never say how, and that would be wise of her, but Sylvanas knows she sees every move she makes, every detail of her appearance and demeanor.

The mirror was a cruel thing for Vereesa to give her, at least she thought at first, though perhaps her sister did not know of her dislike of mirrors in undeath. Now Sylvanas understands the gesture. It was a kindness, an odd one. Vereesa was cognizant of her enough to know that, if she was going to be observed, she would want to do so knowing she was presentable. Much less if she was going to be observed by someone with such keen eyes as Jaina Proudmoore.

“Thirty days is a long time,” Jaina notes, finally, mercifully blinking. “Your sister had to arrange for something, and wanted to wait until it was ready.”

“I don’t see why you need to apologize for her then,” Sylvanas tells her as she settles onto the stool, crossing one leg over the other and again cursing the stupid, useless tiles that bite into the sides of her thighs.

“I suppose I was, wasn’t I?” Jaina says. She smiles again over her mug, clutching the bright copper in both hands as if to warm them, or perhaps just for comfort. If she can observe Sylvanas, then Sylvanas can observe her too, after all.

Jaina then points with a nod toward the ground beside Sylvanas’ stool, where a small package wrapped in brown paper resides. Even dull brown paper and flaxen twine are a welcome change from grey.

Vereesa’s handwriting is present on the corner of it, its black ink easily visible as Sylvanas picks the package up, with her messy, rushed scribbling spelling out “Lady Moon” in Thalassian characters. She would always write like she had something better to be doing, and clearly, still thinks that she does.

But what does Sylvanas know about that, really? Her little sister is almost as much a stranger to her as the woman who delivers her letter these days. She knows Vereesa as a disorganized and immature Ranger Captain with a lot of discipline left to learn—a spoiled little sister whom she was part of spoiling, certainly. She doesn't know her as a leader, a mother, a person thoughtful enough to send her mirrors and little paper packages. All of these things are strange to even imagine describing Vereesa as.

Sylvanas is careful as she opens the package. She can save the paper, use it for maps or notes. She still has plenty left of the stack that Jaina brought last time, but who knows how long it will be before she sees her again? Rationing supplies is part of what keeps Sylvanas sane here, and so she saves the paper rather than tearing it, and the twine too.

And she knows Jaina notices all of this, but she does it anyway.

Inside are three things. A small envelope of a different brown paper, which sits atop a long, flat glass bottle, padded with a mate to the towel Vereesa included in her last package. Sylvanas knows what it is without looking at the label. The shape of it, the floral scent that already fills her with nostalgia, even though the bottle is sealed shut—it’s her favorite shampoo, from Quel’thalas.

She nearly drops the bottle.

Her sister is a mother and leader and a person she no longer knows, but she clearly still remembers Sylvanas being angry with her for swiping her bottles of Camberon’s Lemon and Honeysuckle shampoo. It was expensive, after all. Too expensive for little silly girls, Sylvanas remembers saying.

But Jaina is smiling and watching her, conspiratorially so. She eyes the envelope and not the shampoo, and Sylvanas can’t fathom what means more than Vereesa remembering such a small thing.

Still, she sets aside the shampoo and its towel padding. She laments not having either for her bath today, and resolves another is in order sooner rather than later. Her hair does not dry nicely when it’s up, after all.

She opens the envelope to find it contains a small picture, framed simply in pale, knotty pine. A photograph, an invention of gnomish origin relatively recent in the annals of Azeroth’s history, after her death even. She has been photographed, but such perfect images of her likeness were not possible while she was alive. She only has the memory of her reflections, and portraits that have no doubt been burnt or broken by now, both from spite for her actions and disrepair of the places where they once hung proudly.

But on the plate she finds her sisters, their warm skin and shining hair and blue eyes. A bit of purple swirls in Alleria’s that wasn’t there before but it is so small a change compared to what Sylvanas has undergone. They are still themselves, at least on the outside.

With them are three faces Sylvanas doesn’t know, hasn’t seen, but knows who they belong to. Arator no longer has the pudgy baby cheeks that reminded her of her deceased brother. He is long and thin and elegant in many ways that remind her now of her father, but stocky in others that show the human half of him. He looks worried, blue eyes shining with concern as he glances more toward his mother than the camera.

In front of Vereesa are two identical redheaded, gangly youths. Giramar and Galadin. They wear their hair shorter in human tradition, and it makes them look far more human than their cousin of similar heritage. They look like trouble, is all that Sylvanas can think. They look like Vereesa.

Jaina smiles wider, a few teeth on display now. They are flat and distinctly human, even the half-elven boys in the photos still have little blunted fangs, but Jaina lacks them entirely. Still, she seems pleased. She expects a reaction.

Sylvanas does too, but finds herself more interested in her sisters than her nephews. She’s probably still spent more time with Arator than Alleria has, but he was a baby, and he likely does not remember any of it. But her sisters, why is it they get to remain unchanged by it all? Is that part of her penance too? If she had made the right choices, could she look in the mirror and find herself again? Do they even appreciate it when they do?

“I understand the wait, it must have been a real feat to gather them together for this,” is what she offers Jaina, photograph still in hand, eyes squinting at her sister’s faces, looking for any equivalency of change within them.

“I’m sure it won’t surprise you of all people, but Alleria was the hardest to wrangle, apparently,” Jaina reports.

It does not surprise Sylvanas. She huffs a laugh because of course she was. Alleria looks as though she’d rather not be there, and perhaps that is why her son seems worried. Alleria hasn’t been worried about another person and their feelings a day in her life, so for that reason alone, he seems nothing like her, though his long hair shines the same color gold as hers.

There is a bitterness that clouds her thoughts that reminds Sylvanas she is perhaps where she belongs. No doubt she does not belong in this photograph. Her greys would sour the colors of it. The gold and blue of them, of the Alliance. No, those were not colors for her.

“Vereesa told me you helped her with Arator, when he was still a baby,” Jaina goes on. “I remember him as a child too, so it’s so strange to see him grown now.”

Sylvanas realizes she has no idea how old Jaina Proudmoore is. The white of her hair belies an age that is much younger than such a feature would tell of in humans. But still, she knows of her father, her lineage, and does a quick calculation. Yes, she supposes Jaina knew her nephew as a boy, somewhat.

Strange. It’s all very strange. That is a good word indeed.

This woman knows her family so well, sees her sisters and her nephews regularly, yet Sylvanas has only ever seen her here in her prison, and before on a battlefield. Once during a trial. Only in times of stress and duress. Never before today in casual dress. Jaina cuts a fine figure without all those layers of mage robes and armor, actually.

“He was a good child, easy to manage,” Sylvanas reports. “Easier than Vereesa, certainly.”

Jaina laughs at this. Sylvanas wonders if she has the context for the joke. Does she know how her little sister tormented her? How, when she grew out of that, she moved onto constant whining?

Well, she is Vereesa’s friend, after all. No doubt she knows about the whining.

“Vereesa’s boys carry on the illustrious red hair of their father’s name I see. They’ll do well with it in Quel’thalas, should they be welcome there. It is relatively rare among elves,” Sylvanas goes on.

Not as rare as dark hair, of course, but she can still remember Lady Liadrin back when she was just a priestess, and being both too holy and too oblivious to the amount of attention her red-hued locks brought her, back when she was younger.

But Sylvanas supposes she knows little of the dating scene in Quel’thalas these days, and little of chasing redheads. There is only grey in the Maw, except when Jaina Proudmoore visits and colors it to the point of blinding radiance.

Jaina laughs at this too though. She nods sagely. “I don’t think there was any escaping it for them. But yes, they look a lot like their father.”

Their father, who as Sylvanas remembers, died to save the woman in front of her from Garrosh’s bombing of Theramore.

It’s all so complex and entangled. Jaina’s life has brushed up against her own in so many ways, yet they’d never really spoken until that first letter she’d delivered. Even when Sylvanas turned against the Jailer and offered her assistance in defeating him, Jaina would not speak to her, only listening to her counsel with a daring glare. No doubt she blamed her for what happened to Anduin. It was fair, Sylvanas blamed herself too.

Sylvanas wonders if Jaina feels as protective of her nephews as she does of the Alliance’s own High King, who apparently calls himself her nephew in name only.

And now, she searches Sylvanas’ face for signs of reaction, fondness, and humanity when looking at a picture of her own family.

Sylvanas struggles to find anything but nostalgia for connections long cut and things long made untrue by the relentless march of time. Such numbness rings true for the banshee in her, but it strikes a discordant bell for the soul that’s been restored to her. The same soul that gets lost in that nostalgia in the countless lonely hours of searching. Sylvanas misses her sisters. She always has. She knows she will never fit into their happy little photographs. She will never again shine with them in brilliant blue and gold.

She supposes this is what Jaina Proudmoore looks for when she studies her face. She wonders if she’s been able to find it yet.

“I suppose I have you to thank for orchestrating this,” Sylvanas says as she finally looks to her, and sets the photo down on her tie-bedeviled thigh.

Jaina waves off the responsibility, releasing one gloveless hand from the copper mug. Her fingers are practiced and graceful with every movement, aware. A mage through and through.

“No, no,” she says. “I merely brought it up to Vereesa and she ran with it. She said she wanted some photographs for her home anyway.”

Still, Sylvanas sees through her meddling. Mages always want to fix and change and alter. They cannot leave nature well enough alone. Jaina Proudmoore brings her colors and views of a world she cannot have and cannot help it, just as she surely does not know how her fingers look as though they’re tracing runes even when they do not.

But it is Sylvanas’ nature to haunt and wail and linger on a life long gone. She is a ghost, after all.

She supposes it is fitting she may yet spend centuries here, shepherding the dead.

And Jaina Proudmoore will go home to have more tea with her sisters and her nephews and everyone that will certainly be glad Sylvanas isn’t something they have to worry about anymore. She will put happy photographs on her mantle in Boralus. She will meet so many people and do so many things that this odd chore will be just another appointment on her busy calendar.

And yet, she and the things she brings will be the brightest colors Sylvanas sees until her penance is done.

“Vereesa said she didn’t have time to write another letter and apologizes for that,” Jaina relays. “She still wanted me to bring you the photograph, and whatever that bottle is I suppose.”

“Shampoo,” Sylvanas tells her. The Common word for it is so silly. It sounds like something one would name a fluffy little lap dog.

She watches as Jaina cranes her head a bit to read the label. No doubt she can read the Thalassian. Sylvanas is sure she can speak it too, but chooses to speak the human tongue to her anyway.

“Well that was nice of her,” Jaina notes.

It was, but it’s more than nice. It’s both infuriatingly confusing and overwhelmingly loving. Sylvanas deserves neither. She was ready to be forgotten. She was ready for no one to remember her name, to curse its mention, and to forget anything they knew about her, much less such a small detail as her favorite shampoo.

A part of her wants to keep that detail for herself, but it burns within her. She wants to talk, to vent, but also desperately to keep everything within the fortress of herself. Such nostalgia for her is a part of the pain, the loss of it all.

But Jaina Proudmoore, perhaps, is a person who can understand that.

“It was a favorite of mine,” the words spill out before she can rethink them. “Back…before. Vereesa always used it without my permission. It’s expensive.”

But what does Jaina Proudmoore of all people care about elf shampoo? Of photographs and colors and mugs of tea ignored, left to cool on grey dirt. Why did she come back with no letter to deliver? Why does she smile at these words, this time genuinely, where a dull canine peeks past pink lips, unadorned with makeup or the mask of war. She is just a woman, a friend of the family Sylvanas no longer knows, a stranger. Still, she seems happy to listen, intrigued.

“That sounds dreadful. I’m thankful to only have brothers then. Derek and Tandred would never take any of my toiletries, or at least never admit to it,” Jaina tells her through that smile, giving up her own tiny, innocuous details.

Sylvanas remembers Derek Proudmoore, gasping on the deck of her flagship for breaths he no longer needed. The seawater stink of him, the barnacles that still clung to his tattered coat. She remembers questioning even then why she did the things she did, even as her Dark Rangers peered at her with concern in their red eyes. A part of her knew it was wrong, even though those that return to unlife must make the choice to do so themselves. She and her Valkyr lacked the ability to force them as she was forced. That requires a mournblade, but there will be no more of those ever forged. Never again.

And now his sister jokes with her about how he would never steal her things, or whatever makes her white hair shine so brilliantly even when there is no sun to light it.

Perhaps Sylvans should ask her about her hair care routine. What else is she meant to do?

Instead, she apologizes, “About Derek—”

Jaina doesn’t let her. “He’s told me. You don’t need to explain. It was his choice, you merely offered him the vehicle to take it. Honestly, for all of how it worked out, I should thank you, for being part of what brought my brother back to me.”

“You should not,” Sylvanas assures her.

She cannot possibly offer the explanation as to why. It was never meant to be Derek. Some other Kul Tiran admiral was the target, another sailor sleeping in a watery grave. But the opportunity presented itself and Zovaal had told her that Jaina Proudmoore must die, and this was the best way to do it.

She was always far too hard to kill. And Baine always was too soft. In truth, it had all worked out for the best.

Still, it’s a change of heart from the woman who stared daggers at her for daring to put Anduin in the Jailer’s hold, even though it wasn’t entirely by her own choice. Such forgiveness Sylvanas supposes comes with time, though it has only been a year for Jaina since then.

Longer still for her.

But now the words are spilling out of Jaina, and it seems that the silence of the Maw demands filling from the both of them. “I’ve missed him so much. Derek’s death was incredibly hard on my parents. I was young then myself, maybe a bit too young to really understand, but I think a part of me missed him in the way that his absence affected them more than anything else. Even now, I’m happiest seeing him with my mother again, and how much joy he brings her.”

Sylvanas doesn’t often like to dwell on Derek Proudmoore, but the thought of an undead man being embraced by his living family hits her in a place she didn’t know was so exposed. She’s seen so much rejection of her Forsaken, though they are hardly hers anymore, so much hatred for them. She cannot imagine anything else but that for them.

Does Jaina have happy photographs of him next to those of the Windrunners on her mantle?

It isn’t her right to ask the question.

In fact, she can’t say anything at all.

“Derek drinks tea still,” Jaina tells her. “He says he likes how it makes him feel warm for a time. I thought you might enjoy it.”

She wraps her gracile fingers around her mug again, and tilts her head to the second one on the ground.

Sylvanas picks it up, but does not drink from it. She holds it, and admittedly relishes in the warmth that flows into her hands as she listens to Jaina talk about her brother with a fond grin.

[imtrashraccoon]

…..I don’t mean to bother but I’ve had some major art block sooooo maybe a small Drabble for some inspiration? I’ve been on a tangent with undertale and dragons lately(mentally) but I’ve been so freaking busy and tired that I’ve just not had anything to put down onto paper. So dragon au if you don’t mind( Your The Dark Fortress AU has me in a star’s dammed chokehold)

Have a great weekend!

I'm so sorry this took a while but I hope the length makes up for it! These guys may have me in a chokehold too lol

This is a sort of part two to this post.

Future Tumble Edit: I made a prequel to these drabbles.

Donovan

You woke up in a cold sweat, desperately trying to inhale as much oxygen as you could. It was that same dream again; the one where you were constantly running but could never escape the invisible screams. Besides terrifying you, the nightmare served as a continual reminder that you were completely alone in the world.

The little nook you'd claimed as your own was dimly lit by distant firelight but you couldn't tell what time it was otherwise. The dark fortress was silent, as if even the structure itself was resting like it's scaly residents within. You should probably try to go back to sleep but after such a rude awakening, you were reluctant to do so.

Then, you heard heavy footsteps approaching your little hideaway and the dim light was replaced by a cyan glow as the last dragon you had wanted to see peeked inside. Because of his size, Donovan could only fit his head into the entrance but for the moment, he chose to remain outside. Both of you sat there for a moment, just staring at each other silently.

"I could sense your distress earlier. Are you alright?" the black dragon finally asked.

You frowned and averted your gaze. "No..." you whispered.

He seemed to consider your answer for a moment. "I suppose that was a silly question to ask," he started to say. "Would you be willing to talk about it?"

You shook your head, "No, not right now anyways."

He gave you a slight nod. "I won't force you but I am here if you decide you want to."

The idea of unloading everything you'd had to carry since you were a child onto your superior wasn't something you liked, especially because he was the one responsible for your trauma. Sure, he hadn't personally killed everyone you had held dear or destroyed your home town, but indirectly or not, you were still resentful and afraid of him.

"No matter what you believe, I consider you a valued member of my horde," Donovan added. "I value your wellbeing just as much as I do any of the others."

That was surprising. You'd only been here for a short time and in that time, he hadn't given you the impression of being so forthright. Still, he'd never lied to you, or any of the other dragons, as far you knew.

When you nodded silently, you heard him shuffling outside the nook and the cyan glow from his eyelight briefly disappeared. It returned after a moment and you looked over at him curiously.

"Would you like some company at least?" he asked in a soft voice.

You raised an eyebrow and gave him a confused look. Wasn't that what he was already doing?

He seemed to change shape before your eyes into a more compressed form. He still looked like a dragon but now he was wearing some rather formal clothes and was closer to your own height. You had a feeling he was still much larger than you though. The important thing was that he could fit into your little hideaway now, which you weren't sure if you liked.

He rolled his shoulders and flexed his phalanges, giving you the impression that he wasn't used to this form. Notably, he remained outside and waited for you to answer his question.

Once you'd regained your ability to speak, you shrugged. "I guess not?"

He gave you a toothy grin before crawling into your space and settling down at the edge of your makeshift nest. You noticed he had a book tucked under one arm and a part of you felt relieved that he didn't seem interested in just making conversation.

You laid back down and pulled the blanket up to your chin. One of Donovan's tails was resting against your leg but you didn't mind. Just him sitting near you seemed to ease your lingering anxieties. The sound of his breathing and occasionally turning a page soon lulled you into a comfortable slumber. Maybe in the morning you'd ask if he was always able to change his form like this.

Dirk

Steady...

You readjusted your grip on your sword and tried not to dwell on how sore your calves were becoming from squatting for so long. You were perched in an alcove above the courtyard where your opponent was currently searching for you.

You wouldn't exactly call the dragon a friend. He loved to tease and prod until you inevitably snapped. You knew that he got a kick out of seeing you mad but you weren't much better. You had always been a hot-headed person and whenever he wasn't purposely being annoying, you liked to test the limits of his own patience.

Sure, it was basically suicide to poke the literal beast with razer sharp claws and teeth, but you liked to live dangerously. While you also had to stay clear of the blade he liked to strap to his tail, you actually enjoyed the little cat and mouse game you two played. How far was too far? Who would chicken out first to keep from hurting the other?

You couldn't keep yourself from grinning as Dirk slowly stalked through the courtyard. He had an incredible sense of smell so you knew he'd figure out where you were eventually, but by then it'd be too late. As soon as he wandered beneath your hiding spot, you dropped down, landing squarely on his back.

Dirk reacted immediately and with a snarl, did his best impression of a bucking bronco. You stubbornly dug your heels into his sides and held on the best you could, but were soon sent careening across the courtyard.

You scrambled to your feet, inhaling sharply at the pain that would soon become many bruises. With a roar, Dirk charged and you just barely managed to leap to the side. One of his wings came down hard against your back. You struggled to catch your breath.

"Is that...all...you got...?" you panted.

His smile twisted into a cruel grin. "oh i've just barely started, cute stuff~"

You grinned and beckoned him closer.

Dirk didn't hesitate any longer and you braced yourself to meet him. He swept your legs out from under you with his tail. You kicked his stomach and rolled to your feet again. He just barely grazed your back with his claws. You smacked his snout with the flat edge of your sword. He barreled you over onto your back. You clawed at his eye sockets with your own nails.

Then he sat on you and no matter how much you struggled, you couldn't throw him off. Your sword was pressed against his throat, as was his tail blade to yours. You both stared at each other for what felt like ages, daring the other to stand down first.

"you're getting better..." Dirk remarked in a quiet voice. The target that floated above his chest was pulsing wildly but he didn't seem even close to being winded yet.

You huffed and rolled your eyes. "You're an awful liar..."

He snickered and licked a wet stripe up your face. "you're not wrong about that!"

Maul

You let your feet dangle over the edge of the wall and inhaled the cool autumn air. Somehow, you'd managed to survive living in this terrible fortress for three months. Finding your place in the rankings had been difficult but as the days passed, your confidence began to return.

While you still avoided most of the resident dragons whenever possible, there was one who didn't seem to mind your presence. Compared to the others, Maul was even-tempered and patient. The only time you remembered him lashing out was when Dirk attempted to steal his dinner once.

The big guy had left a couple hours ago without saying a word to anyone, which is why you were sitting outside right now. He was different from the others and you couldn't help but wonder why. He definitely took satisfaction in kills but he also wasn't one to boast about them. He also didn't usually go out of his way to hurt people but he was all too willing to defend himself if needed.

Just as you were thinking of going back inside again, you spotted the familiar silhouette of the dragon on the horizon. As he drew closer, you noticed that he was holding a large stag in his talons. You waited until he'd landed before creeping back inside the fortress again.

By the time you'd made your way to his quarters, he'd morphed into a sort of person-sized dragon and was already beginning to dress the carcass. You didn't know that he was able to change his shape but it would explain how he managed to always have preserved food on hand.

Unfortunately, being in a different form certainly hadn't dulled his senses and just as you were thinking of leaving, he paused and slowly turned around until he locked eyes with you. For a moment, you felt rooted to the spot as he studied you suspiciously.

"...do you...want to help?" he asked in a quiet voice.

You had expected him to tell you to leave and when he hadn't, you were taken aback. You didn't have a lot of experience with butchering but it couldn't be so bad if he was allowing you to help.

"Um, I suppose so? What do you want me to do?"

You crossed the room until you were standing next to him, purposely staying on his left side to avoid startling him. He'd already hung up the stag and sliced it's throat to drain the blood into a basin underneath. You could tell that he'd been careful when killing it, likely to avoid losing most of the meat, and it didn't seem like it had needlessly suffered before dying.

Maul retrieved a sharp-looking knife and handed it to you. "...watch," he grumbled.

With his own claws, he began making careful incisions in specific areas along the carcass. You did your best to pay attention but you couldn't help noticing that despite his obvious skill, he had a slight tremor in his hands as he worked. It wasn't so much as to ruin the pelt but you were beginning to understand why he might've wanted help.

He soon had you copy his movements and with some guidance, you helped him peel off the pelt, which was set aside for later. After that came the process of carving up the carcass into various cuts of meat. You weren't sure how he was planning on preserving all of it, but you had a good feeling he would smoke it and a part of you hoped he would let you try some when he was done.

It took several hours and you definitely wanted a bath afterwards, but working together had made the arduous task a lot easier. You could confidently say that you'd butchered an animal now, however you wouldn't say that the process had been enjoyable. Your skin felt sticky from sweat and other fluids, so on top of a bath, you would also have to thoroughly wash your clothes to get all the blood out.

While cleaning up, Maul had started a fire and began roasting a sizeable chunk of venison, which was helping to clear the almost overpowering scent of blood from the air. The tantalizing smell also served to remind your stomach that you hadn't eaten a proper meal all day.

Just as you were about to sneak away, Maul dropped a heavy hand on your shoulder. "...where do you think you're going?" he growled.

"S-sorry, I just thought-"

He didn't let you finish protesting before all but picking you up and dropping you into a chair near the fire. "...stay." He sternly pointed a claw at you to punctuate his demand.

You nodded, feeling more than a little anxious all of the sudden. Why was he upset? Had you ruined something?

Maul sliced off a decent hunk of the roasted venison before approaching you again. At least he had half the mind to set it on a tray before offering the still piping hot meat to you. When he didn't explain and just stared at you expectantly, you took a careful bite. He let out a pleased rumble before pulling up a chair and sitting down himself.

It wasn't anything fancy, but to you, it might as well have been the best thing you'd eaten in years. You couldn't remember the last time you'd had any venison that wasn't tough or incredibly gamey. You hadn't noticed Maul adding any seasoning, but he could've while you were busy cleaning and you wouldn't have noticed.

"It's really good..." you hummed softly.

He gave you what probably passed for a smile as far as dragons were concerned and ruffled your hair. "...you helped, so you deserve to enjoy it."

The finality of his statement stuck with you. While the scarred dragon wasn't much for speaking, you had a feeling that he meant everything he said. The thought that he was happy with how hard you'd worked made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Maybe he actually liked having you around after all?

Reven

You wished you hadn't gotten out of bed today. Not only were you existing on maybe four hours of sleep, but your old scars had decided to act up as well. Needless to say, you were in no mood to deal with any of the dragons' shenanigans and had sequestered yourself on the ramparts, hoping none of them would find you.

A sudden gust of wind had you drawing your cloak even tighter around your aching body. It was a foolish idea to even be out here and while you knew you would regret it later, you really didn't want to go inside. At least you'd had half the mind to bring your whetstone so you could be somewhat productive, but now that your sword was sharp enough to split hairs, you didn't have anything else to do.

For a moment, the sun was blotted out by a large shadow but when you looked up, you didn't see anything. You were starting to consider going inside after all when Reven appeared out of nowhere, landing on the stonework a few meters away.

You held your breath, hoping by some miracle he hadn't spotted you and was simply surveying the area. Of course, you were proven wrong when he turned his head and fixed you with an unimpressed look.

The cloaked dragon was impossible to read even on the best of days but if there was one thing you knew, it was that he was best left alone. He wasn't as "stabby" as Dirk tended to be but you had witnessed how quickly he could snap on multiple occasions. Oftentimes, he seemed to grow irritated for no reason and when that happened, he would lash out at anyone unlucky enough to be nearby, which was usually Dirk.

You regarded Reven silently. It didn't seem like there was anything bothering him at the moment, but you really could only see his eyes beneath his hood and they always seemed full of hate. Today was different though. Sure, he looked like he'd been force fed a lemon for breakfast but there was something else there...

"H-hey..."

He narrowed his eye sockets at the sound of your admittedly pathetic voice. Suddenly, the empty space in the center of his mismatched eyelights constricted and a very familiar realization came over you.

No matter how friendly they could be, there was no changing their nature. You would never be more than prey to them.

Before you could even think of running, Reven had you. The next thing you knew was the deafening sound of wind in your ears and how every movement made your stomach lurch. How sharp daggers threatened to pierce you on every side. How you couldn't move. How you didn't dare open your eyes for fear of what you might witness.

The seconds seemed to stretch on for an eternity. You were still alive? What was he doing? Why hadn't he flung you against the wall? Or dropped you from a thousand feet? Or swallowed you whole? Or...?

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Slowly, you tried moving your fingers and then your toes. The daggers kept you from moving the rest of your body since you weren't about to chance what would certainly prove a horrific way to die.

You chanced a peek at your captor and came face to face with one of his eyelights. While it sharpened slightly as it focused on you, the psychopathic bastard said nothing, but how could he? It was awfully rude to talk with your mouth full.

Reven was apparently hellbent on taking you...somewhere. Unless he had finally gotten fed up and decided to do away with you where Donovan would be unawares? No, who were you kidding? Nothing escaped the corrupted dragon, nonetheless the absence of his favourite pet.

You placed your hand against Reven's jaw. There was nothing you could do but accept whatever he had in mind. So, while it seemed insane, you willed your body to relax. Anything could happen next and you needed to be ready for it.

Your acceptance seemed to do the trick or maybe he had just arrived at his destination. A wave of butterflies welled up in your gut, threatening to burst out as he descended back down to the ground. You felt a jolt pass through his body and into yours as he landed.

He deposited you onto the ground and while you panicked at first, he only gave you an annoyed look and settled down in the grass. To say you were confused was an understatement. He hadn't said a word the whole time and now he was just ignoring you?

"Reven?"

He let out a huff but turned to look at you out of the corner of his eye socket.

"Why did you...kidnap me?" you asked quietly.

He looked away again and towards the horizon. "you were acting like a sad sack all day," he muttered. "thought a change of view would help."

You frowned slightly at that. He'd taken you to a rocky outcrop overlooking a lake surrounded by a pine forest. It was certainly different than the often bleak fortress, so much so, that you could actually see the sunset.

You watched as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon, painting the world in a swash of oranges, yellows, and reds. The sight was certainly spectacular and once the colours began to fade, you turned to Reven again.

"It's beautiful, thank you..."

He only grunted in response but you could feel his gaze on the back of your head when you looked away again. He didn't seem interested in making conversation but that was alright with you. Sometimes just sitting next to someone who cared was comforting in and of itself.

[halaxia]

cw | blood, injury, angst

The sun was bright, almost obnoxiously so, the air smelling of spring, sweets, and flowers. Birds chirped happily as they flew across the bright blue sky, some stopping to observe life beneath them from electrical wires that hung above while others continued their journey, once again singing their joyous tune.

It was a beautiful day, and you were dying.

It was supposed to be an easy mission: survey the area, take out the curse (a fourth grade, the report misinformed), and be on your way. However, the aforementioned “simple mission” took a turn for the worst and resulted in the difficult exorcism of a horde of vicious curses and Inumaki’s hands stained with your blood.

The collar of his uniform was unzipped, mouth opening and closing as he searched for something, anything he could say that wouldn’t curse you far more than you already had been. Just hold on, stay a little longer—he only wished he could offer you his reassurance through more than his pleading gazes and shaking hands.

“It’s not safe here, Toge,” you managed, looking up at the boy who’s lips were stained with his own blood from use of his cursed speech. “You shouldn’t—you can’t use your cursed technique anymore without hurting yourself. The veil hasn’t been lifted yet, th-”

You cut yourself off with a cough as blood sputtered from your lips and Inumaki’s hands applied more pressure to the deep wound in your abdomen, violet eyes widening with worry. The corners of your vision were beginning to darken, Inumaki’s face going in and out of focus before you. You were fading away—you could feel it, as could he.

He had called Ijichi numerous times to no avail (Inumaki’s phone had no signal while yours was shattered following a nasty blow dealt to you by the curse), the older man most likely trying to lower the veil after sensing something had gone awry—you always commended Ijichi on his perceptiveness.

Without a working phone, Inumaki couldn’t reach any of his fellow second years, nor could he his underclassmen, and Gojo was away God knows where on a business trip, though Inumaki was doubtful if his sensei would have been able to break through the veil, had he been there.

Nobody was coming.

A loud bang sounded from around you—it was likely another curse, clumsily stalking it’s prey before launching its attack. Inumaki was far too concerned with your blood seeping through the gaps of his fingers to worry about his surroundings.

“Toge, please,” you sobbed, not even having realized you’d begun crying until you heard your quivering voice plead with the blond. “I-I’m fine, really, I-”

More blood fell from your lips, and more tears welled up in Inumaki’s eyes and fell onto his flushed cheeks. The curse was getting closer, you could feel it.

“If you don’t kill that curse, we’ll both end up dead.” With as much strength as you could muster you pushed Inumaki away from you, leaving the curse just in his line of sight from where he sat a mere foot away from you. You met his worried look with a weak nod of reassurance before rolling him his throat spray which had fallen out of his pocket in his frenzy.

Biting back another coughing fit of blood to the best of your ability, you smiled.

“I’ll be fine, just hurry.”

Another loud bang, and Inumaki knew he could no longer ignore the beast that was quickly approaching. Everything after that happened far too quickly for Inumaki to recall—trying his best to look past the smeared blood on the outside of his throat spray, he downed the bottle quickly before attacking the curse nearly just as fast, and by utilizing both his cursed speech and the cursed weapon he’d borrowed from Maki, he exorcised the curse with such speed that even Gojo Satoru himself would have been impressed.

Unfortunately, Inumaki wasn’t fast enough.

The first thing Ijichi heard once the veil had been lifted was the guttural sound of sobs, and the first thing he saw upon rushing into the previously cursed alleyway was your limp body clutched in Inumaki’s arms.

His voice, hoarse from overuse, repeated your name over and over and over again, each time more desperate and hurt than the last.

“Don’t leave me,” he sobbed, your body still warm in his hands, your blood staining his uniform. “Don’t leave, please don’t leave, please…”

The sun was bright, and the air smelt of spring, sweets, and flowers. Birds chirped happily as they flew across the bright blue sky, some stopping on an adjacent rooftop to listen to Inumaki’s hopeless cries before continuing on their journey, singing their merry songs once more.

It was a beautiful day, and Inumaki had lost you.

[m1d-45]

Occasionally I’d play music in the background while playing the game. Now on this fine day, I’ve played ‘The Plagues’ from the prince of Egypt. I have a certain two brothers on my team. One of them being my main, Kaeya. “This seems too familiar,” I said aloud. In SAGAU, what would their reactions be?

plagued

a/n: voidless, words cannot describe the jealousy i feel knowing you are a diluc haver. also, i had kinda a hard time with this one, so let me know if this isn’t what you wanted!

word count: ~2k (the song itself is abt. 300)

-> warnings: major spoilers for kaeya and diluc lore, biblical references (quotes from the song are used, which itself is an interpretation of the bible), the brothers think you’re the ‘lord’ being referenced, heavy angst, this got so sad so quickly—

-> lowercase intended!

< masterlist >

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky

i don’t think it would register the first 10 seconds or so. they might be interested from the haunted whispers, or wonder how your device managed to capture a choir. they would pause on ‘this saith the lord’ but would get over it quickly. naturally, they would assume it was referring to you, and everything after carries a bit more weight. what if it was a command of yours?

‘Since you refuse to free my people

All through the land of Egypt’

they’d be curious about where ‘egypt’ was, and whether or not you lived there. why were the people captured? were they prisoners of war? they knew how deadly a fight between gods could be- was your world in the midst of war?

‘I send a pestilence and plague

Into your house, into your bed

Into your streams, into your streets

Into your drink, into your bread’

all of a sudden very worried. they’re gonna assume the worst case scenario and worry that you’re suffering through a plague. diluc’s making plans to offer more food the next time he has dinner at the manor, and kaeya’s concerned you might get sick from the poisoned food. they don’t have the most advanced medicine, and certainly not medicine fit for a god.

‘Upon your cattle, on your sheep

Upon your oxen in your field

Into your dreams, into your sleep

Until you break, until you yield’

this will give them pause, if only until they think it over. cattle? ‘oxen’? how could your world be so advanced as to have a device to peer into theirs and yet rely on these animals? they quickly get ahold of it though, don’t worry: naturally, your device was a holy item, only to be used by you, a god. it made sense that the people you ruled over would rely on cows and sheep to live. but then.. was this song one of warning? warning whoever the other party was of your divine retribution?

it makes more sense to diluc than it does kaeya.

’I send the swarm, I send the horde

Thus saith the Lord’

this only cements in their minds that it’s a song of warning. your people there must call you their lord—it made sense, perhaps they should adopt it?—and you were threatening to send a swarm of… something. they hoped they would never have to know. the haunting beauty of the chant is not something they’re keen on ever experiencing.

‘Once I called you brother

Once I thought the chance to make you laugh

Was all I ever wanted’

this hurts.

badly.

horribly, an ache immediately burning their chests. the tired, saddened voice of the brother will echo inside of kaeya’s head, likely long past whenever the song ends, and diluc’s tripping—literally, if you’re mid-battle his model will freeze in place for a few moments—over the realization that this is a hymn meant for brothers.

they refuse to meet each others eyes, each focused on the task you’ve given them. the other members of your party look away, giving them space even if they’re not the type to usually do so. i ask that you leave the brothers off-field, as they’ll surely be delayed in following your commands and will likely get hurt because of it.

’I send the thunder from the sky

I send the fire raining down’

the eerie enactment of your voice suddenly carries so much more weight. in your world, at some point, two brothers had fought over ‘egypt’, and you had sent down plagues in punishment. surely you knew this, right? was this a warning to them? were you angry with them?

’And even now I wish that god had chose another

Serving as your foe on his behalf

Is the last thing that I wanted’

you can’t see it due to the camera being permanently set behind the character—provided he’s on the field—and diluc certainly can’t, since they’re facing away from each other, but kaeya’s eyes are quickly turning glassy. it hurts, the weight of his promise to khaenri’ah, to his father—to both of his fathers—manifesting as a hollow ache in his chest. it’s getting harder to breathe through the block in his throat, and he wonders if you’re intentionally playing this because of him. it wouldn’t be so surprising; he knows he’s not the best or the most devoted, he knows that you likely look down on his lying and secrecy, he knows, he does, but please don’t remind him of it. it already haunts him when he tries to sleep.

‘I send a hail of burning ice

On every field, on every town’

diluc has a better handle on his expressions—read: he’s better at suppressing them—but anybody who looked could see he was distressed. his jaw is tense, every muscle in his body taught. he didn’t move an inch when he was off-field, and he relied heavily on the binds of your device to move him on-field. he feels like a live wire, buzzing with energy and yet no way to vent it. he can’t cope with these feelings the same way he normally would, he can’t throw himself into paperwork or into battle. he can’t stomp through mondstat’s plains, he can’t call flame to his fingertips and burn out the pain. your presence, the heavy air of divinity around him, barely does anything to soothe the ache. if anything, it only burns brighter.

‘This was my home

All this pain and devastation

How it tortures me inside

All the innocent who suffer

From your stubbornness and pride’

oh.

it’s like the words were handcrafted, bent into a hook and cast on a line that swiftly caught kaeya’s soul. he tries to remind himself that it’s not about him, it’s not about diluc and it’s not about khaenri’ah and it’s not about crepus, it’s about some nation in your world called ‘egypt’-

he can’t. the words resonate with his very essence, the core of his being shaking alongside the swelling music and tragic melodies. he feels like a glass in the hand of an opera singer, quivering in place and unable to move an inch, just waiting for the right frequency to make him shatter.

as he chokes on his own air, he wonders why you played this song specifically. did you know how much it would rip him apart? did you realize how much it hurt, to see himself reflected in its lyrics? did you know that it would send him back to his youth, did you want him to relive that pain?

over the turmoil, he can hear your voice. “this seems too familiar..”

so you were aware.

he supposed he deserved it.

’I send the locusts on a wind

Such as the world has never seen

On every leaf, on every stalk

Until there's nothing left of green’

diluc also caught your little comment, and he might have laughed would it not have come out watery. of course you knew. of course you chose this song specifically. of course you put him on the team with your beloved, of course you made him work with his brother, the one you’ve poured the most of your time and effort into. of course. of course. this was all just a jab at him, wasn’t it? perhaps he was being a touch self-centered in that assessment, but really, it wasn’t that far-fetched. he knew his brother was your favorite. he knew that, despite his own feelings about him, your opinion stood higher than any other. no matter how hard he tried, he would always fall to second place.

it made sense that you wanted to remind him.

’I send my scourge, I send my sword

Thus saith the Lord

You who I called brother

Why must you call down another blow?’

cryo vision or not, kaeya’s skin is burning. his heart is thundering at twice the pace it should, his skin flushed with both blood and embarrassment. he couldn’t help but feel like you were directing this at him specifically, like you had picked this song specifically to get under his skin. he didn’t doubt that diluc was affected as well—time apart didn’t change either of their habits—but didn’t dare to look over. surely, if he saw how disheveled mondstat’s cavalry captain had become after a simple few verses, his words would once more line with fire and flame. he knew his brother resented his position as the one in your favor, but now, with this further context…

it feels like you only picked him to fix him.

‘I send my scourge, I send my sword

Let my people go

Thus saith the Lord

Thus saith the Lord’

dilucs mind is racing, trying to pick out the meaning behind the song. it’s a tale of two brothers, that’s obvious enough, and it’s clear you mean for a parallel to be found between those sung about and him and kaeya. maybe- maybe if he can find it, if he can find the message you want them to learn, he can act on it and maybe he could fix whatever you hated so much about their relationship. he wanted to, desperately, because surely there was a reason you chose to play this with them on your team. there had to be meaning in this, there had to be a reason you insisted on placing him besides his brother even when you made it clear which you favored, there had to be a way to fix whatever he did to anger you. he refused to believe otherwise.

‘You who I called brother

How could you have come to hate me so?

Is this what you wanted?’

no, no, it wasn’t, kaeya never meant for this wedge between them to drive so deep, the chasm that separated the two brothers was never meant to be deeper than his pinky was long. he wanted to reconcile, he wanted to reconnect, this was never what he wanted, he never meant to dissolve his relationship with his brother like this. there were days he spent at the bar, bottle in hand and filled with regret over his decisions, wishing for anything to fix it. he would never want this. but of course, as always, your omnipotent presence dared to accuse what mortal men could never speak.

‘I send the swarm, I send the horde

Then let my heart be hardened

And never mind how high the cost may grow

This will still be so’

diluc’s eyes close, his thoughts a swirling mix of the words he’s hearing and memories of stormy nights. memories of blood on his hands and the glinting light of a fatui insignia burn behind his eyes, the implications of your playing this song knowing that it resonated with the two of them lost in the chaos. his mind echoes words back at him, an apparition only there to eat at him. ‘never mind how high the cost may grow,’ it spits, taunting, and he doesn’t have the energy to retaliate. why would he? hes in no place to protest, not when it’s right.

’I will never let your people go

Thus saith the Lord

Thus saith the Lord

I will not-‘

they ask that you never play this song again.

‘Let your (my) people go’

[that-ari-blogger]

The Cycle Continues (Protocol)

Protocol is an episode about the underling. The person victimised by abuse, and the point at which they break. Its an episode about loyalty and where that goes right and where it goes wrong.

The episode has a few scenes that are rich with storytelling and analytical potential, and those scenes are some of the best in the series.

It’s also an exploration of characters who haven’t had the spotlight before. Light Hope gets some backstory and character development that explores the concept of the robot in this context, and Kyle, Lonnie, and Rogelio get their priorities sorted.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD (She-Ra and the Princesses of Power)

This episode is a box episode. The characters are trapped with each other and have to work out their differences. Adora is trapped with Light Hope. The Horde Mook Trio is stuck with each other.

This is usually the lowest budget of a live action series. The team has one or two locations to work with, and not many actors, so they put them together. But an animated series doesn't need to do this, because the budget for one location is the same as the budget for multiple locations, so it's a choice.

I want to stress that box episodes are some of my favourite episodes of television out there. Boom from the new series of Doctor Who is a box episode in which the eponym can't even move for the most part of the series.

Box episodes are limited, which leads to either amazing stories, or forgettable ones. There is no in between.

Protocol, by artificially making use of this format, gets all of the benefits of the characters being trapped together, with none of the limitations, which means its potential is really quite high.

This is Adora's poker face. This is it. She doesn't have another one. I wonder why people keep telling her she's an awful liar.

You would think that the title of Protocol has multiple meanings here, but it's actually exactly the same for all the characters. They are in a chain of command, and they are making a decision as to what to do. Do they follow the protocol, or do they do their own thing?

Starting with the Horde Mook Trio, the protocol is that one of them needs to go outside and fix the vehicle. The protocol says to prioritize the mission over themselves. The protocol does not care about them.

The Hord Mook Trio are in constant conflict with each other and with the protocol itself. Except, I don’t think that the two are separate, I think one causes the other.

She-Ra is a series about the cycle of abuse. That’s why the seasons are structured in such a repetitive fashion, and why the characters are the way they are. Even the villainous ones.

Catra is the obvious example, as a victim who lashes out in an attempt to feel powerful and therefore safe. But others fit this as well. Lonnie is mean to Kyle, for example, he is the butt of all the jokes and while I wouldn’t consider it abuse, the extent to which Lonnie takes out her anger on Kyle isn't the healthiest or most proportional.

Which leads to the protocol. Because what is a protocol but a set of instructions? An order given, a facet of the will of someone more powerful. In this case, the protocol is the hand of the Horde itself, and Catra who has become the face of it.

But I’ve talked too much about Catra in this post. More on her next season. For now, back the Horde Mook Trio.

I like to call this the Azula metaphor. Hair coming down over a character's face, especially when its asymmetrical, is a sign of diminishing sanity. It's a character action to put it back in place and regain composure. Hair as symbolism, Azula metaphor.

"I don't care. I gave you an order. Pick someone, send them outside, and fix it."

The trio exists in a setting that does not value their lives, and they react to it in different ways. Lonnie feels bottled up aggression that she can’t turn on her superiors, so she pushes it down on someone she perceives to be weaker than herself; Rogelio… well I don’t know much about him, I don’t speak lizard; and Kyle does something else. Kyle decides that if nobody will find his life meaningful, then he will, and he offers that mercy to his companions. It takes this episode for them to see it.

The trio are soldiers, they perceive the world in a might makes right system, and characters who are physically weak don’t mesh with that. But there are other forms of strength.

It takes strength to look at what you have been taught about the value of your own life, and to say “no”.

"Catra doesn't care about us. Adora left us. Everything they taught us in the Horde about loyalty is meaningless. Its everyone for themselves."

Loyalty is a fun concept, right? As a storytelling vehicle, there is so much you can do with it. Because it’s a completely amoral thing. Loyalty in this case is twofold and at odds with itself. Loyalty to one another or loyalty to the system.

The loyalty to each other is actively discouraged. They must send one person out to their probable death in order to further the goals of the Horde.

Alternatively, one of them can sacrifice themselves for the others, which is what Kyle does, and it’s the breaking point for Lonnie and Rogelio. Kyle cares about them more than the Horde does, and he nearly gets killed by the protocol.

Kyle hears Lonnie give a speech about how loyalty is meaningless, and selfishness is how to survive, and immediately proves her wrong. He acts selflessly to get them out, but he also makes them immediately try to protect him, against their better judgement.

Light Hope is a similar example of this. Because she’s a robot, she has programming. She has no personality other than that which was given to her. She is pure purpose.

This episode reveals that to be a lie. I’ve commented on Morla Gorrondona’s voice acting in the role before, mostly in how she manages to convey emotion through stoicism. But here we get a different take on the character, one more expressive and happier.

It reframes the previous performance a bit though, making the modern Light Hope seem repressed in comparison. The true version of herself was someone whom Adora could have befriended. Hold on to that thought for a moment.

This version of Light Hope claims to have no personality. That part of her "hasn't loaded yet", but in reality, she displays the richest sense of individuality she has had yet this series. She's fun, she's tricksy, she's oblivious. In other words, the "personality that hasn't loaded" is the personality that is acceptable. Also, this is a rare example of a story leaning into the neurodivergence coding to humanise its robot character. Maybe there's something about repression in that too.

The fact that Light Hope is a robot implies that she was made by someone, that being the First Ones, and we don’t really learn much about them except from what she tells us, and how she acts.

The Protocol made her forget her memories of Mara. Light Hope’s purpose could not exist with her own happiness. Light Hope was brought into this world by people who told her that her own life was not worth anything more than they decreed. In short, Light Hope too is a victim of abuse.

You may say “wait, Light Hope is a robot, she has a purpose. It's not denial of personhood if she never had it.” To this strawman, I answer the following: This episode shows Light Hope displaying autonomy and free thinking when disconnected from her programming. It shows seeking joy and learning new things. It shows Light Hope falling in love.

It shows emotions, reveling in learning a new thing, obvious sadness upon realising she's messed up, wonder at the sight of She-Ra.

It also shows her going against her code. She wants to help, she is kind. She finds the memory and goes looking for it to try and help. She's less perfect on a knowledge basis, but this version of the character makes up for it in effort. This character seems to want to help Adora rather than follow her instructions to the letter.

This episode shows Light Hope as a person, and then shows us her programming taking that away.

As a side note here, I keep describing what Shadow Weaver did to Catra and Adora as programming. She taught them specific responses to stimuli so she could control them. In the context of an autonomous person, that control is villainous. If we consider Light Hope to be an autonomous person as well, you will notice that this is exactly what the first ones did to her.

The scene at the end of Light Hope forgetting is her perpetuating her own misery. The only person who can hold up the protocol now is her, and yet she continues because it is all she has ever known.

You could say that this episode as a whole is a commentary on a system that prioritises stoicism and views emotion and attachment as a weakness and how that leads to abusive relationships. You could say that.

You could also say that this is an example of the self sabotaging nature of evil. By which I mean the villainy here, the abuse and the destruction of the memories to be more efficient and not get attached, not only harms the person perpetuating it, but it also hinders the goal.

Hey look. History repeating itself. Cyclical storytelling. It's almost as if I'm on to something with my analysis.

The happy version of Light Hope is one Adora can get attached to, someone she could befriend and trust. Just like Mara did. The end goal of this all was to earn Adora’s trust and make her into an obedient weapon, so that would have succeeded, right?

Except, that version of Light Hope would have got attached to Adora in return, just like it did with Mara, and judging by the present day. That didn’t end well.

Final Thoughts

Here is my hot take. This episode is one of the best episodes in the series… with the volume off.

This episode has some incredible visual sequences, and the storytelling is done so well through the animation alone. Adora is so well animated, Light Hope’s slight smile conveys her change of character so incredibly well.

But the dialogue is painfully redundant and that actively takes me out of the scene. With one exception, that being the scene with the flowers, almost every line in this episode feels like wasted space. The moment where the Horde Mook Trio try to save Kyle is undercut severely by the fact that they stop to tell you that Catra wants the armour kept safe.

Case and point, Rogelio’s speech is emotional and resonant, and nobody but Kyle and Lonnie can understand it. The emotion isn’t in the words but the reactions.

A lot of this comes from the fact that I don’t find any of the dialogue humour in this episode funny. Light Hope sideways is funny, Light Hope being silly about a bird is funny. You don’t have to point it out.

This episode goes out of its way to explain the plot beats and explain the jokes, and it doesn’t need to in order to get the point across.

If you want to prove my point, put on some music and watch the episode on silent. I recommend the soundtrack from Shadow Of The Collosus, but anything will do. It's amazing just the extent to which the entirety of the plot and humour can be done visually, and that the dialogue is really not necessary for either and, in my opinion, detracts from what was otherwise a genuinely brilliant episode of television.

Next week, I’ll be looking at the episode Princess Scorpia, and addressing a change in my own read of the character. So, stick around if that interests you.

Previous - Next

[fortheloveof-sebastian]

Not So Little Things

Pairings: Sebastian x F!Reader, Imelda x Poppy

Summary: You receive unlikely advice from Imelda about how to focus on the little things in concern to your “overly friendly” boyfriend.

Warnings: kissing, fluff, brief (deserved?) bullying of Leander

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Granted, openly kissing each other in the 1800s at school, in front of teachers, probably wouldn’t realistically happen. But it does in the wizarding world, I’m making it canon. Also, I kind of fell into the grumpy x sunshine trope with Imelda and Poppy and fell in love with it. Enjoy!

“What are you looking at?”

Natty’s voice, warm like honey, washes over you. However, it does nothing to dampen the spark of anger you’re currently nurturing. At first you almost don’t notice her, until she drops her books down rather loudly on the table besides you.

“Oh, hi Natty,” you say absently.

Her brow furrows. “What is with you?”

In lieu of explaining, you motion across fhe Diviation classroom. A horde of other girls in your year surround Sebastian. The room lights up as he smiles, and his adoring fans giggle while he traces the lines in their palms and predicts their future with seasoned showmanship.

A ball of jealousy forms in the pit of your stomach, like you’ve swallowed something unsavory.

He holds their hands so gingerly, the placement of his fingers on the lines of their palm deliberate and earnest. The same fingers that danced across your skin, played with your hair, and now traitorously entertained the likes of those girls.

Your quill snaps in half as your fist tightens.

Quietly, reserving judgement, Natty rummages in her school bag until she finds a spare. “Here,” she says, proffering it.

“Thanks,” you mumble, both sheepish and apologetic.

One of the girls, a pretty redhead, seizes Sebastian’s hand and presses her palm against his so that their fingers are aligned. Of course, his are much larger, and this contends as an incredibly hilarious reason to collapse into another fit of uncontrollable giggles.

“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Natty says, finally settling in besides you.

Your molars grind furiously together. In response, you manage to hiss back, “Exactly.”

“He’s just a stupid boy.”

“Yeah but he’s my stupid boy.”

Class begins and you’re left to ruminate in your anger. You can barely focus on anything that Professor Onai is saying, and she mercifully deigns not to call on you; it’s undecided how much of that was Natty’s influence, as you swore you saw her jerking her thumb across her neck several times when her mother looked over in your direction.

As class concludes, you shoot to your feet and make an immediate beeline for the door.

“You can’t run from your problems,” Natty calls.

You throw over your shoulder, “Watch me!”

A stream of students envelope you in a facade of isolated safety. Above the din of conversation in the hallway, you hear your name being shouted. Cursing, you hunker your shoulders in a bid to make yourself smaller, but it was no use. You once watched Sebastian chase a first year from one end of the castle to the other just to return a dropped book — if he wanted to talk to you, he would find a way.

He manages to make it within earshot then, slightly breathless, asks, “Are you running away from me?”

“No,” you insist. Trenched in despair, your gaze darts back and forth, searching for a possible exit. “Not so much running, particularly, as just walking very fast in the opposite direction.”

Sebastian growls in frustration.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s elbowing his way closer and closer to you, using his advantageously long strides to close the distance faster then you can create it.

“Y/N, wait.” His hand locks around your wrist and spins you around. You’re merely inches from his face, which makes it just all that much harder to concentrate. He orders, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Um.” You swallow. “Can we do this somewhere else?”

“Can you please inform what this is we’re doing? You ran out of class like a dragon was on your heels.”

You debate the rationale of hashing out your issues here in the midst of the gallery tower. Preferably, you would go somewhere private, but that would involve telling Sebastian the problem, which furthermore would lead to you staying rooted to the spot, as you couldn’t imagine him agreeing to put a pause to the conversation to find an empty classroom.

You weren’t going to get your way.

Carefully, you pry off Sebastian’s grip on your wrist. “You basically humiliated me in front of the entire class,” you tell him.

Sebastian blinks, confused. “What?”

“You were like…” you wave your hand, as if hoping to magically summon the appropriate word, “seducing those girls and they were falling all over you.”

“First off,” he says, “if I was seducing someone, you would know it. Secondly, I was just being friendly.”

“Yeah, but do they know that?”

Sebastian’s expression, his usual look of bemused ebullience, shifts. A matter of seriousness crosses his face, so quickly and without warning that you might’ve laughed at him otherwise. “Of course they know that. You’re my best girl.”

A fission cracks through your heart.

“I just — I wish you would show it,” you say, although that’s not exactly what you mean. Words are escaping you. Sebastian shows you, but then he also goes and does that with other girls, and it makes your worries surface all over again.

“You don’t think I show it enough?” Hurt flashes across his handsome features.

You run your hands over your face. “Sebastian—what I’m trying to say — the way you acted in class today, nobody would even know that we’re together.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he sharply replies.

Dread swallows you. You know that you’ve just pushed Sebastian very far from you, and there’s little chance in getting him back now.

The hallway has emptied, giving an echo to his words. You resist the urge to cry. You’re not necessarily upset as you are frustrated; frustrated that you feel this way, and frustrated that you’re not communicating it properly.

“Just forget it,” you say, voice wavering. Before he can see the first tear fall, you turn away from him. “Good luck on your match tonight.”

The only sound filling the Feast Hall is that of a kitchen elf, scrubbing the tiles and muttering about inconveniences. He, at least you thought it was a he, probably wouldn’t have shown his face if it wasn’t for the fact that you were the only one there; everyone else had bundled themselves in their warmest clothes and paraded out to the Quiddith pitch for the upcoming Slytherin versus Gryffindor match.

The roar of the stadium reached your ears even from your position, sprawled out on one of the benches in the Feast Hall. You half heartedly took a bite from your cold dinner.

There was a twinge in your chest, a pinch, that you couldn’t seem to ignore.

You’ve never skipped one of Sebastian’s games before. Even before you were together, you went to every single match. And now, here you were, wallowing in your own self pity, too humiliated and heartbroken to muster the strength to go out to the pitch and face him. It wasn’t like you were even going to talk to him, but just the thought of seeing him hurt like a punch to the gut.

From your view on the bench, a familiar Hufflepuff slides into view. “Y/N, are you still here?”

You nod, trying your best not to appear glum. “I’m not feeling well. But you’ll cheer for me, right?”

Poppy makes a face. “You’ll cheer for yourself! I’m not leaving you here all alone. C’mon.”

“Poppy, really, I —”

The smaller girl had already snatched up your hand before you could finish your protest. For someone her size, she was surprisingly strong. She drags you past the kitchen elf, who apparates himself, towards the massive double doors separating the Feast Hall from the rest of the castle. You stumble upon an impatient-looking Imelda leaning, hip and elbow, against a pillar.

“Imelda?” You look between them.

Maybe it was just a coincidence. Surely Imelda was waiting for someone else, or perhaps to mock anyone going to the match. Last week, during the match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, Imelda had gotten suspended for the rest of the season for punching an opponent.

Despite your theories, however, Poppy breaks every single one by strolling right up to the disgruntled Slytherin and taking her hand. “All ready,” Poppy chirps.

Imelda looks less than thrilled to be holding hands but she doesn’t immediately bite off her head, or even argue. You don’t realize that you’re staring at the two of them in blatant confusion until Imelda returns your stare with a pointed glare.

“Are you just going to stand there with your mouth hanging open like that?” Imelda asks. “We’re already late because Poppy insisted on getting your sorry arse.”

Poppy swats her arm. “Be nice.”

“Um.” You blink. “I didn’t know you guys were together.”

“It’s something new,” Poppy says.

She beams at Imelda. It’s quite infectious, her enthusiasm, and you find yourself smiling. You never would’ve pictured them together, but now that you were witness to it, it was undeniably adorable.

“Let’s go. All of the good seats are going to be taken and I want that Ravenclaw bitch to see my face again.”

With an indignant sniff, Imelda strides off, Poppy skipping after her like a bouncing puffskein. It’s subtle, but you notice Imelda glance down at Poppy with poorly disguised affection. Ever the traitor, your mind turns to Sebastian.

Even Imelda, the grumpiest person you know, makes it clear that she’s with Poppy.

Why was it so hard for Sebastian?

It’s a quite distance from the castle to the pitch. You shuffle behind Imelda and Poppy, grateful for the latter’s nonstop chattering. You don’t think you could collect your thoughts enough to hold a coherent conversation. Fortunate for you, though, the only person who typically could keep up with Poppy’s talking was Poppy herself.

You’re about a hundred yards from the entrance to the pitch when Poppy spots something in the tall grass and darts off with the vague promise to return shortly.

Your stomach plummets. Unlike Poppy, you don’t enjoy Imelda’s company. Especially today, when you’re already feeling low. Ever since you beat Imelda’s time in the broom trial, she had been painfully short with you.

“Why were you alone? Aren’t you, like, courting Sebastian or something?” Imelda asks, disinterest coloring her tone.

Awkwardly, you clear your throat. “I am. I just, um, wasn’t feeling well.”

You cough weakly.

Imelda doesn’t respond right away. Her gaze remains fixed straight ahead, undoubtedly tracking Poppy to make sure she doesn’t get lost. Then, she says, “I know we’re not friends, but you don’t have to lie to me. I saw Sebastian in Diviation today.”

You open your mouth to reply but then promptly shut it again. You’re not sure what to say — how many other people noticed?

“Everyone noticed,” she clarifies.

A groan escapes you. Embarrassed, you slap your hands over your face to cover it.

The start of the Quidditch match is preceded by a deafening cheer. You hear the whistle, then peer between your fingers to watch the miniature-looking players rocket into the sky.

Sebastian happened to be quite talented on a broom, but his reckless and competitive nature made you nervous. The stakes of today’s game would only exacerbate his willingness to ensure a win for Slytherin.

“You can’t let it bother you,” Imelda says, bringing you back. Poppy’s head can be seen, popping in and out of the tall grass.

You exhale. “Yeah.”

“I like to say that I know him well enough, considering that we’re on the same team.” Imelda stuffs her chin further into her scarf. The tips of her cheeks are pink. “He’s just one of those infuriating people person who doesn’t realize he’s crossing any boundaries.”

“Maybe you’re right,” you agree hesitantly. “You’re lucky to have Poppy.”

Imelda tears her gaze away from her girlfriend long enough to scowl. “Please. She’s the second biggest flirt in the school. She doesn’t realize it, of course, because she’s just being nice to everyone. But people misinterpret it.”

You consider this.

“How do you handle it?” You ask Imelda.

The Slytherin lifts a shoulder. “It’s hard sometimes. I try to remember that it’s harmless, it’s the little things she does that reassure me.”

“Imelda, Imelda! I found this for you!”

Poppy bursts out of the grass. She has something in her hand, and you don’t know what it is until she steps away from Imelda to admire her work. A bright yellow flower sits in Imelda’s dark hair.

Poppy claps. “I knew it would look so pretty on you and I was right.”

Imelda pointedly glances at you as if to say see.

You find yourself smiling back at her.

The three of you resume your journey to the Quidditch pitch, the colorful tents rippling in the wind along with the four house flags surrounding the stadium at equidistant intervals. Rows and rows of students fill the bleachers, displaying an array of interest in the game. Some were actually invested in quidditch, while others used the game as an excuse to be sociable or avoid homework.

You maneuver through the crowd, mumbling apologies, until Poppy finds who she’s looking for: Natty, Amit, and Ominis are all huddled together, along with Garreth and Leander. Natty waves as you approach.

“Shoo, Leander,” Garreth says. His arms shoot out and he pushes his fellow Gryffindor onto a lower bench, effectively opening up enough room for you, Poppy, and Imelda to sit. Leander concedes, but not without a betrayed look.

There’s a moment of silent confusion as the former students absorb the cheery yellow flower in Imelda’s hair. Amit lifts a crooked finger, “Imelda, is that —”

“Do you value your life, man?” Garreth asks.

Bickering erupts between Amit and Garreth, joined in by Natty and Poppy.

You drown it out by turning your attention towards the ovular field. You instantly search for Sebastian and spot him cruising above the stadium, appearing relaxed, although you know he’s anything but.

“He doesn’t play well when you’re not here, you know,” says Ominis from besides you. He’s drumming his fingers on his knee.

You feel a twinge of regret. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Hm,” Ominis replies, unimpressed.

Why did no one believe you?

The announcer bellows, “Gryffindor, two hundred points! Slytherin, still behind at only sixty points!”

Quidditch players arc over your heads, emerald and maroon colored uniforms flapping and inciting a gust of wind. There’s plenty to look at during a game — the Beaters, the Chasers; the crowd; the professors, dressed in house colors and pretending not to care about the score — but you can only watch Sebastian.

Seemingly on a whim, he glides closer to where you are in the student section. His brown eyes meet yours. From your seat, you observe him as his spirits visibly lift, and he smiles.

He races off.

“If you care about me or my pocketbook, you won’t miss anymore games,” Ominis comments. “I bet Garreth ten galleons that Slytherin wins.”

You laugh. “That was your first mistake.”

“Betting on Slytherin?”

“No, against Garreth.”

“Sallow from Slytherin has spotted the golden snitch, and Gryffindor is right on his tail!” The announcer declares, voice ringing loudly. There’s a noticeable shift in interest as the crowd focuses on Sebastian’s emerald colored uniform and the Gryffindor chasing after him.

With your untrained eye, it takes you a moment to spy the snitch. It flickers erratically, flashing in the sun above Gryffindor’s goal posts.

“Go Sebastian!” You yell, cupping your hands over your mouth.

Amit, Natty, and Poppy cheer with you, along with Imelda. Garreth and Leader, starkly opposed, shout encouragements at their Gryffindor seeker. Ominis panic grabs your hand and leans into you as you narrate the game to the best of their abilities. When it gets too loud, he can’t hear the announcer, and prefers anyways to listen to your comments since you focus mainly on Sebastian.

Your voice rises and falls as Sebastian races after the snitch, weaving in and out of the podiums. “He’s close! Oh, he almost got hit by a Bludger!”

Ominis grip tightens. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” you reassure him.

Your narration reaches a crescendo as the snitch disappears behind the stadium, the two seekers hot on its trail. Breath hitching in your throat, you shoot to your feet. If Slytherin loses this game, you were never going to be able to forgive yourself.

Unwittingly, Imelda’s words enter your thoughts.

You had to admit, begrudgingly, that she made sense. You couldn’t change Sebastian, or his tendency to be overly friendly. In fact, it was something you loved about him. It was the small things that mattered.

And, if one thing was clear to you now, it was that despite being upset with his actions, you still loved him dearly and wanted the best for him.

Murmurs rise as the seekers fail to return.

On the field the game continues, albeit somewhat slowly. Everyone is waiting for the snitch to be caught, inevitably changing the tide of the game. You held Ominis’s hand tightly. Slytherin’s only shot at winning was if Sebastian caught the snitch, subsequently preventing Gryffindor and securing the one hundred and fifty points.

Garreth bends over Amit and Natty. “Ready to pay up, Gaunt?”

Ominis’s only response is a gesture that could be considered poor sportsmanship. Normally you would’ve laughed but you’re wound too tightly with nerves, holding you together.

A stream of emerald across the sky, then maroon.

Tension fills the stadium, then —

“Sebastian Sallow from Slytherin has the snitch! One hundred and fifty points are awarded to Slytherin, and they win the match!”

Jumping up and down on your feet, you cheer with the rest of the Slytherins as a roar of excitement rumbles through the stadium. Even the other houses could respect a good match, and an even better play on Sebastian’s behalf.

Laughter erupts as Garreth digs into his robes and then miserably hands Ominis a pouch of galleons.

“Butterbeers on Ominis!” You shout, smiling so wide that it hurts. Besides you, Natty’s eyes widen. “What? Is something —”

Diverting your attention to whatever has claimed hers, you discover Sebastian hovering on his broom only a few feet away.

You’re struck by how unfairly handsome he is. Every time you see him, it’s like the first time all over again; a hand reaches into your chest and squeezes your heart.

The wind has ruffled his hair and pinkened his freckled cheeks. His shoulders heave, either from excitement or exertion, but he’s never looked happier than he does now. You know how much he loves Quidditch and how undoubtably thrilled he is about winning the match.

He prompts his broom forward.

Sebastian eclipses your vision, turning so that he’s sideways in front of you, still straddling the broom. He smells deliciously of sweat and the freshly cut grass on the field, and something else; fire, your brain decides in a haze, the danger of an opened flame but warm and safe like a hearth.

His brown eyes twinkle. “This,” he says, grinning broadly, “is how you know I’m seducing someone.”

In a fluid move, Sebastian scoops one hand behind your head to cradle it, then pulls you close and presses his lips to yours. A cry of delight breaks out as he deepens the kiss. For you, however, the rest of the world falls away, and all you can focus on is pouring yourself into this boy. You try to impart your apology, your forgiveness, your love for him, and you can taste on his lips that he understands.

Another shriek of approval echoes as he triumphantly pumps his fist into the air as he continues to kiss you with unabashed abandon, holding up the golden snitch. Finally he pulls away as a few professors start to protest, but instead of looking ashamed he looks even more exhilarated than before.

You grin wildly at each other.

He’s swept away by his teammates, then, and you watch his retreating form as he celebrates.

Your friends and several strangers pat you on the back and congratulate you for the kiss, making you blush. Imelda is last, the yellow flower still sitting in her dark hair. “Maybe with Sebastian it’s just not so little things.”

[n7punk]

“Somewhere Beautiful, We Can Finally Meet” Fic Notes

Okay the Somewhere Beautiful notes are short and sweet, but the tone of the fic didn’t really match shoving this stuff in the author’s notes as they came up, so here they are.

Playlist:

I made a playlist. There’s a whole fucking playlist, all thematic or even hauntingly fitting that I built up for months.

But it just ended up being The Sex Was Good Until It Wasn’t album on repeat for most of the fic. That’s what spurred me to finally pick this up and write the damn thing for real. I then used the actual playlist when editing. On that note, though, here’s the chapter title sources:

Sick Joke: Ch1-2, Ch4-8

earth eyes: Ch3, Ch10

Monster: Ch7

January: Ch9

Chapter 1:

⦁ Before I posted this fic I posted a snippet of what the abysmal outline doc for this thing looked like with parts censored. What it actually said was “Adora transitions when she picks up the sword And then also the dream connection thing” which was very funny to me because “the dream connection thing” was the entire point of the fic. But I write it like that because I already had the dream connection down back to front and the trans angle came along later.

⦁ The title of this fic is one of those things that just came to me, and I tried to change it to “Somewhere Beautiful, We Can Finally Dream” to indicate the, you know, dream thing, but I just couldn’t do it. That’s what it was meant to be.

⦁ Adora’s She-ra magic is what makes this possible, but also She-ra was inside her all along, right, so when Adora used to be able to dream of Catra rarely, those were real too (at least, usually. She does still have normal dreams too). The transition in the dream color (white > golden white > golden hour/twilight) represents the strength of her connection, both to her magic and to Catra, though the gold never could have happened while in the Fright Zone — she didn’t know gold or warmth as a positive color then.

⦁ When one of them dramatically vanishes, it’s because they just woke up suddenly. In the case of Adora’s speech, Catra woke up crying.

⦁ God writing this part was difficult. Threading the needle between anger, betrayal, and confusion without being transphobic was really hard even though that was far from what Catra was actually trying to do. Intent doesn’t really matter when the result is trying to shove someone back in the closet. There was initially supposed to be more of Catra exploring what this new Adora looked like but the idea also read as fetishistic to me so I cut it. I think I did the best I could here while being realistic to the actual characters.

⦁ I was worried saying “her best friend” all the time would feel a little awkward, but I also try to explicitly avoid deadnames when writing since I am extremely sensitive about mine personally so it’s just one of those things I don’t want to deal with even fictionally. Like, we all know what Adora’s dead name obviously is, but I’m still not doing it.

Chapter 2:

⦁ Catra not having her mask on and also having so much of her soft fur exposed is why Adora immediately had to pet her upon the dream forming.

⦁ The boob touch was a real impulse thought that Adora acted on without realizing because it was a dream and then immediately got embarrassed about even though “it wasn’t real”.

⦁ I could be wrong but I think every bed we see in the Horde is either on the floor directly or a bunk bed.

Chapter 3:

⦁ I’ve mentioned it before but “pre-ordering” is a phenomenon where people question their sexuality after being attracted to a “cis” person who doesn’t fall into their usual sexuality only for that person to later transition and make it all click. Sometimes we just know lol.

⦁ Yeah there’s a way more explicit version of this scene for sure, and the initial outline even called for it, but I didn’t really want to write it, not just because smut doesn’t interest me much, but also because of the weird dream situation.

Chapter 6:

⦁ The original outline actually had Adora getting Catra alone and flirting with her to unveil the truth and then, when Catra started to realize what was being affirmed, Adora kissing her, but yeah, that was NOT it or where Adora’s head was at when we reached this point, and we don’t need even more dubious consent in this thing. They were also supposed to have more ongoing interactions in the dream world post-reveal, but the timeline of the fic didn’t end up working out.

Chapter 7:

⦁ Every word from the start of this chapter forward I wrote in one day on September 14th. Because I am unwell.

Chapter 8:

⦁ Catra used claws on her palm to wake herself up.

⦁ I’m tired of keeping quiet. This isn’t the “dreams au”. In everything on my computer, it’s saved as the “DreamS AU”, if not its full title, the “dream sex au”.

Chapter 9:

⦁ Glimmer was realizing in the conversation with Catra what was going on back in that weird conversation about dreams with Adora in chapter 2. They were both too tired at that point for her to get mad at Adora for keeping it a secret. She definitely follows up on it after the war like GIRL. HELLO? But they are past the anger at that point.

Chapter 10:

⦁ Catra’s sexuality was a weird question mark to everyone when they were growing up because she sets off gaydar like caesium by a geiger counter, but like… she was also clearly obsessed with Adora. Not that it was clear to Adora, but she felt like a few moments came up where they almost kissed, and that confused her even more. So yes, Adora tried not to think of Catra that way too much because she thought she wouldn’t want her to, but neither of them ever could, really.

⦁ I’m not doing a real “Epilogue” section, so I’m just sticking it here: now they’re together IRL and like, actually talking, they “need” the dreams less and they become less frequent, but they’re still a fun thing and they mess around in them sometimes.

⦁ I was honestly really worried about writing/posting this fic because I thought people might take it the wrong way, either because of the consent stuff, or because of how I portrayed Adora’s transition/Catra’s sexuality. The way I convinced myself to write it was by telling myself I didn’t have to post it, so I could get it out of my head and see how it was at the end. I wrote the first two chapters under that idea all the way back in May and then set it down for Slipstream. I picked it up against at the start of September after I’d gotten through all of the Sapphic Septmeber prompts and just needed some editing for them. I wrote it all pretty quickly and was like yeah, I’m lying to myself, I am going to post it but I am nervous about it. I referred to it as a bomb in my fic drafts. At the same time, I knew that for certain people this would become their favorite fic, so fuck it, I just threw those warnings on it about the ambiguity and posted it.

Original Outline:

As I’ve mentioned on my tumblr in the tag where I scream about this fic, I wrote this entire fic in my head multiple times — always while falling asleep at night — without ever writing anything down, so the outline changed every time but the rough shape remained the same. However, the tone was usually (not always) lighter than how the fic ended up. I wrote half of the fic over two days (Chapter 5-6 one day and 7-10 the other) and afterwards I was looking at what I wrote like… do I need to rewrite this? But no, this doesn’t match the version in my head, but the version there can stay there and this one is what’s on the page. Big changes were just that the initial version didn’t include trans Adora, but the angst of her transition via She-ra and Catra taking it as brainwashing had too much opportunity to it for me to ignore. The other was that there was an alternate idea for the “season four” chapter where basically Catra’s lack of sleep leads her to getting sloppy and getting caught by the Rebellion, and the second She-ra takes over custody of her she just… gives up. Asks if she can sleep now. Adora can immediately tell what’s going on and says yes, and Catra passes out in her arms. Diverging so much, either by having Catra a prisoner or begrudgingly defecting to save her ass (and get help retrieving Entrapta, which was the idea) would have completely fucked the pacing of the fic, though, and especially screwed with my season 5 plans because even engineering a way for her to still get captured, Catra wouldn’t have been so sure Adora wouldn’t have come for her then. They needed to stay 100% enemies with no chance to talk things out lol. I still like the vulnerability of Catra, captured by the enemy, just trusting Adora (even if she feels it’s because she doesn’t have a choice) to keep her safe while she finally lets herself sleep because there’s nothing to outrun anymore, but I NEEDED to do that Prime dream scene.

Upcoming:

I have one or two short one-shots I’m working on that might come dripping out over the next month, but… I really want to do the fucking novel I’ve let languish for two years and it’s November, so even if Nanowrimo (the organization) sucks eggs, I going to try to do something for Novelember. It would even out these last two insane months of fic lol. So, I’m probably going on a little bit of a hiatus, still going to try to post every two weeks probably, but we’ll see where muses take me.

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

The Rueful Tale of Philip Wittebane

Why Emperor Belos is the Greatest Villain in Modern Media 

I’ve been sitting on this one for a long time. Full disclosure, I never shut up. My username is no joke. So be prepared for me to go on and on. But I unironically think this character is a masterpiece, that he leaves his contemporaries like Bill Cipher and Horde Prime trailing behind, and I’ve been itching to talk about why. Let’s dive in.

Chapter 1 - The Myth.

Belos is first introduced as an idea, an overarching threat that looms over the heroes and their world. He starts out as an enigma, a mystery, and gradually, the layers are peeled back to reveal the monster underneath. In Season 1, the antagonistic force that The Owl House deals with is less Belos himself, and more the world he creates. Because what he represents is in total opposition to the morals of The Owl House crew and to the very message of this show: Acceptance. This is a through-line that remains consistent about the character to the very end, but we see hints of it from the first episode. Little things like how the prison is called the “Conformitorium.” One of the first things that makes Belos a terrific villain is that his very nature is in conflict with that of the protagonists. This is a battle of ideals, and we as an audience are persuaded to see things the way the heroes do, and understand why Belos is wrong. 

Yet he remains in the shadows throughout the first season, creating slow build-up and a good reveal to his character. Instead, we see the impact that his reign has had on the Boiling Isles, and initially the Coven System is presented as an ideological debate. The story toys with the idea that it might even be a good thing, that Eda is ignorant for her resistance.  For a very long time, we know precious little about Belos apart from his image. Even when we meet him, he is posturing and misrepresenting himself as a prophet for The Titan, and he does it all from behind a mask. Figuratively and literally, he conceals his true nature. We don’t learn the real truth about Belos until Season 2. We don’t even learn his real name. He’s built a mythology for himself in The Boiling Isles, but while other villains might embrace these lies and choose to believe them, Belos is a little different. By no means is he in touch with who he really is or why he feels the way he does…but unlike most villains who fit into this trope, Belos disdains his image as much as he does anything else in the Isles. He prefers his real name. 

As the story of The Owl House develops and the characters are fleshed out, as we learn more about this world, Emperor Belos’ disguise is slowly stripped away, as are the lies and propaganda his regime has established. Supposedly, The Isles were in complete chaos until Belos turned up, yet when Luz and Lillith travel back in time to the “savage ages” we see a world that is happy and free. The clues about Belos are pre-set well before the actual moments of revelation. Notably, a book about Grimwalkers can be seen at the beginning of Eclipse Lake. During the scene where we see him unmasked for the first time, as he shares dialogue with none other than Hunter. That’s not a coincidence, anymore than his nostalgia for the human realm as we learn that he’s been there before. The truth is hiding in plain sight, and many viewers picked up on the hints at the time. That Belos was not who he said he was, that he was likely human. Fans guessed that there was something off about Hunter, and Belos was behind it. 

It is here that Belos deviates from expected tropes. 

When a villain is initially presented as a monster, but the following installment provides them with backstory and context for why they are the person they’ve become…normally, this is the part where said villain gains sympathetic qualities. At least, the memorable villains do. One would assume that in Season 2, when we learn where Belos comes from and why he turned out this way…that we could see things from his point of view. That we could see another side to him. Even if he’s still in the wrong, there must be some explanation for his actions, surely? Something that would earn him compassion from the audience. But that’s not what happens. The scene in Eclipse Lake shows us his face, making it easier to personify him. It shows him being softer with Hunter, gentle with him…but there is still the uncomfortable air of manipulation. Which symbolizes the journey that the audience will take with Belos. Upon learning his origins,  we understand him even better…and as a result, we hate him all the more. Any fragment of fondness is snuffed out when we realize that his more likable qualities are not and were never real. This is why we learn about Philip before we learn who he really is. 

Now typically, the greatest villains are the ones who, in another story, could have been heroes. The villains who have justifiable motives, the villains who feel conflicted about their villainous actions. In essence, the most memorable antagonists are the ones that the audience cannot help but root for, the ones they hope to see redeemed. Prince Zuko from ATLA is an iconic example, Catra from SPOP is another. We as an audience have sympathy for villains who are in pain, who could, under the right circumstances, be brought back into the light. That is fundamentally averse to everything about Belos, not just as an antagonist but as a person. The man is irredeemable, and there are several key moments in the story that prove it. A villain must first wish to be redeemed in order for it to happen, they have to make that decision themselves, and Belos will never do it. Yet he exists as proof that villains do not have to be sympathetic to be well-crafted. They can be complex and multi-layered while still being pure evil. Belos does not earn our sympathy, but honestly, that’s a good thing. A man like him should not inspire sympathy. 

If we want to understand Belos, we’ll have to go back to the beginning.

Chapter 2 - The Past

(Artwork by @a-magpie-in-gravesfield)

One of the signs that a character has been written with care, is that they can be broken down to the essentials and then put back together like pieces of a puzzle. If a viewer can analyze Belos as I’m doing right now, examining his life from start to finish, and understand exactly why he is the way he is...that can only mean he was masterfully crafted. This often traces back to their childhood and family, which is especially true for Emperor Belos. Or should I say, Philip Wittebane. Because a psychiatrist would have a field day with this lonely, hateful old man and all of his hangups, which all stem from his traumatic backstory. Philip’s goal is straightforward and horrifically simple, his motive is unwavering. He wants to eradicate all of the Witches in the Boiling Isles, and then return to the human realm where he likely assumes he’ll be hailed as a hero. (At least initially. That last part would change in Season 3, and I’ll talk about that down the road.) This is in spite of the centuries he has spent in The Demon Realm, interacting with Witches time and again. Nothing has widened his perspective. Nothing will change his mind. There are two reasons for this. The first is plain and simple racism. But the second reason…is Caleb. 

We learn the truth about Philip in Thanks To Them, though the story was heavily foreshadowed in Hollow Mind. Growing up in the seventeenth century, he was raised by his older brother Caleb after they were orphaned. When they moved to Gravesfield, Caleb became a Witch Hunter in an effort to be accepted by the village, and trained Philip in the trade as well. At some point, Caleb encountered the Witch known as Evelyn, and the two of them left for The Demon Realm. Philip set off in pursuit, carrying a jagged knife. From here, we don’t know exactly what happened, and this is where the portraits from Hollow Mind can fill in the blanks. Because even in Season 3, likely due to executive meddling, the truth is still obscured and left ambiguous. However, eagle-eyed fans put the portraits together and deduced how this sorry tale ended. Philip journeyed through the Demon Realm until he found Caleb. By that point, he had already begun to consume Palismen, as Caleb is shown embracing Philip in his hidden, monstrous form. This act from Caleb is a symbol of acceptance, in total opposition to Philip’s mindset. He accepts his brother, even in an inhuman state. But Philip cannot return the favor. Dana Terrace has confirmed that Caleb and Evelyn fell in love, that Evelyn was pregnant. But Philip could not tolerate such a reality. 

It is heavily implied that Philip murdered Caleb, though the details are vague. It’s possible that he was aiming for Evelyn, and Caleb shielded her. That would make a lot of sense, as by his own admission, Philip “tried to save” Caleb’s soul. However, one of the portraits shows Caleb likewise holding a knife, looking frightened and upset, as though Philip has challenged him to a duel. Philip was also stunned into silence at Luz’s accusation that “you did it to him first.” Specifically that Philip/Belos had stabbed him in the back. Whether Luz was talking about Hunter or Caleb, whether or not she knew the double meaning of her words, Belos was clearly thinking about Caleb, evidenced by hallucinating an image of him only hours later. (To see images of all the Hollow Mind portraits in detail, follow this link.)

It’s not clear what the circumstances were, and Belos is not exactly a reliable narrator. The murder of his brother had a profound impact on him that lasted through the centuries. But regardless of the details, Belos being responsible for Caleb’s death is spelled out about as directly as Disney would allow in For The Future, with a hallucination of Caleb that features that same jagged dagger floating over his head. The blade is stained with blood and is pointing at Caleb’s head. It’s an image that evokes thoughts of the Shakespeare play Macbeth - a tragedy that depicts a noble hero descending into darkness and murder. Quite appropriate for Belos, who unfailingly views himself as the good guy, as the savior of humanity, the Witchhunter General. He’ll do “anything” to save humanity from “evil.” To that end, Philip murdered his brother, and not just once. I said before that a psychiatrist would have a field day with this man, and truly, they could write an award winning paper on the psyche of Philip Wittebane,and the way he constantly recreates Caleb’s death by means of the Grimwalkers. 

We know little about them, but Grimwalkers appear to be imperfect clones created from the remains of a corpse. Which means Belos preserved Caleb’s body and harvests his DNA for this project. Every time he builds a Grimwalker, Belos attempts to reset his relationship with Caleb back to a state that he prefers. He tries to rewrite history, rewrite his own memories of Caleb so that he needn’t face the fact that the big brother he idolized, actually evolved beyond his prejudice. But it never works. Each and every time, the Grimwalkers “choose to betray” Belos. Just as Caleb “betrayed” Philip by leaving with Evelyn. This pattern never changes, yet Belos won’t stop trying. Paradoxically, he also seems to give up on the Grimwalkers remarkably fast. We can see the exact moment Belos decides to kill Hunter, and it’s for no other reason than because Hunter has learned the truth and demanded an explanation. It’s not surprising that Belos would define this as a “betrayal” but it does mean we should take that version of events with a grain of salt.

Because Belos is a liar, through and through, and his perception of events is warped by his narcissistic tendencies and his seemingly indestructible bigotry. Rather than try to salvage his relationship with Hunter, Belos wrote him off as a lost cause, contaminated by the truth. How many Grimwalkers were killed for asking a question? For learning something that he didn’t want them to know? For talking out of turn? For failing to live up to the idealized vision of a ghost who they don’t even know about? Belos is an old man knee-deep in denial, and he intentionally perpetuates the cycle of abuse on innocent children for no other reason than because they have Caleb’s face. He wants someone to fulfill his fantasy of Caleb making the “right” choice and helping him wipe out the Witches. He wants to hear Caleb tell him that he was right to do what he did. But it will never happen. 

(Artwork by @pespillo)

Chapter 3 - The Other

Unresolved familial issues aren't all there is to it, though. There are also his values. As we’ve talked about, there are two contributing factors at play. The unresolved issues with Caleb, but that wouldn’t be enough on it’s own to motivate a plan of genocide. Such a thing comes from raw, unfettered hatred of witchkind, from a kind of racism. A fear and intolerance for anyone perceived as "other" and the dehumanization of such people that comes with it. Which feeds into his brother-issues as well. Belos surely blames Evelyn for “corrupting” Caleb. Yet if we want to know where this prejudice began, we need look no further than his upbringing. The man hates Witches, partially because of Evelyn, but partially because he was a Witch Hunter. In Connecticut. During the 1600s. There’s a very simple answer if one does the math. Belos is a Christian man. Specifically, he’s a Puritan. If you know your history, you know the Puritans were a rigid, intolerant society that were so extremist in their faith that it bordered on resembling satire. This is the environment Philip Wittebane grew up in.

Of course, this is never directly spelled out in the dialogue, because doing so on a Disney Channel kid’s show is…never going to happen. But we know it’s true. In Dana’s initial concept, The Boiling Isles was actually supposed to be Hell. Belos is a God-fearing Puritan who believes anything “sinful” is evil and must be purged. Witches were seen as consorts of The Devil, they would be no exception. So there we have it. In the series finale, Dana actually sneaks a more overt reference into the script. After possessing The Titan’s corpse, Belos screams “Finally. I can cleanse this Perdition MYSELF!” The word “Perdition” is defined as “a state of eternal punishment and damnation into which a sinful and impenitent person passes after death.” Philip despises The Boiling Isles, and he always will. Because despite having lived there himself for centuries, it will always be a land of sin occupied by the Devil’s children. That’s all that matters. 

This outlook is no accident. This is an essential cornerstone of Belos’ villainy and his character, but also of the themes being explored, and the greater story being told. I said before that acceptance is the message of The Owl House, and one of the greatest problems with religion is how intolerant it can often be of anything that does not “fall in line” with its perspective. Belos is a physical manifestation of everything that’s wrong with The Bible, or at least how it’s often interpreted in modern day. He is hateful, prejudiced, obsessed with his own vision for how the world ought to be, and completely incapable of entertaining the notion that maybe he’s wrong, that the world is bigger than his perception of it. He will not tolerate anyone or anything that contradicts his point of view.

Without getting too political or topical, there are many real life parallels to be drawn from the conflict of this show. People fighting for their rights and freedoms against oppression that is fueled and supported by religious communities. Belos proclaiming that he will “cleanse this perdition” is him announcing his (second) attempt to commit genocide on the Witches. In that line, we hear absolute rage toward the world he despises. The mask has completely fallen away, and in that moment, we see Belos for who he truly is. Perhaps the scariest part is how people like him are not uncommon in the world. What’s more, since it bears repeating - this was his second attempt to wipe out all life in the Boiling Isles! People who are evil enough to attempt genocide do not stop just because they didn’t succeed. They keep trying. People like Belos are desperate to erase the group they hate. 

If that wasn’t enough, Belos is even more dangerous, conceptually, than some of his contemporaries. His faith and how he exploits the idea of faith, help him stand out against characters like Ozai from ATLA and Horde Prime from SPOP are cruel, sadistic, and mad with power, just like Belos. The difference is, those characters weren’t raised in a Puritan society. You see, despite his racism, despite his overinflated sense of self-importance…Belos does not have a God Complex. He sees himself as the hero of the story, but not as the Creator. Because of how he was raised, he would never see himself as a God. In his mind, there’s another who occupies that role. When Belos rules the Boiling Isles, notice how the mythos he creates for himself places him firmly as the second in command. He establishes himself as a Prophet for The Titan. He becomes the “Jesus Christ” of the story. Even when Belos is lying through his teeth and propping himself up, his comfort zone seems to be telling himself and the world that he is not self-interested, and is merely representing the will of a higher power.

Herein lies the danger of the lies that Belos is selling. The Coven system is terrifying because it doesn’t immediately seem so bad. Ever since Harry Potter, having magical “groups” for your characters to be sorted into has been the trend. Within the Boiling Isles, the Covens are popular and normalized. It is “cool” to graduate and join your Coven. Never mind that doing otherwise is literally illegal. It is not hard to envision an equivalent to the Coven System being established in the real world as a means to control people disguised as the newest meme, convenience, or fad. The power of a cult can be staggering. Again, I won’t point fingers, but I suspect we all have something particular in mind.

But this works extremely well with The Owl House, with its messaging, and with its protagonist.

This frightening, uncompromising bigotry from our villain, as well as the utter devotion to such values, is part of what makes Luz such an effective protagonist for this tale, and why she makes such a perfect foil to Belos. She is the type of person who Belos should realistically loathe with all his heart. She’s a bisexual neurodivergent woman of color. She is everything that Puritan society would recoil from. Yet that’s mostly saved for symbolism, (again, the religious aspects of this show are kept to subtext) as Belos initially appears to accept Luz and attempt to forge solidarity between the two of them as fellow humans. Whether or not he was being truthful, who knows. You never know with Belos. Perhaps he was simply excited to see another human again after so many years, and therefore willing to overlook her “flaws.” But he did indicate that he would show mercy toward another human as, for the purposes of the show, it’s Witches that he hates. This presents Luz with the opportunity to reject his offer and continue to be a fantastic ally to The Boiling Isles, thereby setting a great example for viewers. Yet, Luz also checks herself. She fears becoming like Belos, even though she needn’t, and she feels tremendous guilt for having inadvertently helped him even though she didn’t know any better. We could all learn from Luz’s attitude.

She and Belos are compared and contrasted quite a bit throughout this show, despite how utterly different they are. The Titan is shown to accept Luz immediately, as opposed to Philip, who suspects that The Titan was deliberately impeding his effort to learn magic. Which creates yet another example of him coping with failure by rewriting history, when he invents the story of being The Titan’s prophet. Through Luz, the duality of Belos is explored and later subverted. We meet Philip Wittebane through his diary, and he seems like a decent man at first. Then we see the truth, first that Philip is truthfully a wicked, scheming murderer…and then we see his real identity. This is, itself, a twist on typical tropes. In any other show, Luz might have clung to the image of Philip, insisting that it wasn’t all an act, that he must be in there somewhere. (This idea is even mocked during his death scene, and we’ll cover that too.) But once again, Philip is not some long-forgotten version of Belos. He changed his name for no other reason than because he was getting a reputation and needed to start over. He prefers the name Philip, for he still sees himself as a human among witches, a hero among monsters. As opposed to Luz, who embraces both realms. She is a “child of the human realm, student of the demon realm.” Even as a teenager, Luz is already wiser than a man who has lived for centuries.

Chapter 4 - The End

The death of Philip Wittebane is appropriately pathetic, and once again plays on the expectation of more common tropes. When he is ripped from The Titan, he materializes as his younger self. He thanks Luz for saving him from the curse that ailed him, causing him to act as evil as he did. Yet it is immediately obvious, to the audience and to Luz, that this is just an act. He compares himself to Eda, but Eda’s curse never affected her personality, and it didn’t take her four hundred years to master it. No, Luz and the others have been fooled too many times, they’re not getting fooled this time. Lesser shows might have had this be genuine. Might have let Philip return as a friend or even pass on, absolving him of all responsibility by having him be “under a spell” for the duration of his crimes. But The Owl House doesn’t do this.

Instead, we get one last half-measure, one final attempt from Belos to manipulate the characters and save himself. He’s always been a charlatan, so this is to be expected. What sells this idea is the expression on Luz’s face. We can see just how done she is with Belos and his lies, and in that moment, clouds gather, and boiling rain falls. Luz is unaffected, and this appears to be no accident - but Emperor Belos slowly dissolves, eventually giving up on the facade. The rain figuratively and literally strips away his disguise, revealing him for the monster that he is. While it’s not clear if this is the will of The Titan, or if it’s actually Luz’s doing, it doesn’t particularly matter. Either way, she doesn’t lift a finger to help him. Either way, the irony of this devout Christian succumbing to what seems to be a literal act of God is absolutely priceless.

In his final moments, Belos demonstrates his fundamental flaw, one last time. “You’ll be just as bad…just as conniving…just as evil…and just as unforgivable as THOSE WITCHES!” For a brief moment, the dialogue sets you up one more time, to think that he’s falling back on expected tropes. The audience expects him to say “you’ll be just as bad as I was.” Or something to that effect. That is the implied ending of that thought, to anyone with a shred of self-awareness. But Belos doesn’t have that. As The Titan said, he cares for nothing but being the hero in his own version of reality. To the very end, he blames the Witche for everything. To the very end, he is incapable of seeing the error of his ways or taking responsibility for his actions. His racism shines through his last words, one final plea for Luz, and the world, to see things his way. “We’re human. We’re better than this!” As if Belos is better than anyone. As if Luz hasn’t made it abundantly clear where she stands. As if Belos didn’t surrender what made him “human” for the sake of fighting the Witches. In his last breath, Philip Wittebane clings ferociously to a world that no longer exists. He is a fossil, a remnant of the bygone Puritan era, extinguished in the light of a brighter, more tolerant future. Belos dies with the past, as well he should. 

At the end of the day, the biggest and most consistent problem with Belos is his refusal to change. He cannot or will not learn any kind of lesson from his experiences. Nothing will challenge his worldview. He is a hypocrite who decries witchkind despite having used more magic than most characters to sustain himself. Not because he is afraid of death, there’s no evidence that he is. (Let’s be honest, the man probably expects admission into Heaven.)  No, he simply wishes to “live long enough to see this through.” In other words, he can’t die until he’s finished his plans for genocide. His bigotry inevitably cannibalizes itself to survive, as is often the case in real life. During Thanks To Them, he spent months recovering from a near death experience in the human realm - he saw for himself how drastically things had changed. He saw the twenty-first century, and this did not deter him one bit. How is that possible? Unfortunately, we don’t see much of his reaction to the modern human realm, but when we next see him, he is attempting to return to the Demon Realm. It’s quite possible that he has no desire to exist in the changed, tolerant world Luz comes from, so he has nothing left to live for but slaughtering The Isles. Because no matter how fancy one dresses up their hatred, at the end of the day hatred is singular. Hatred is alone. 

Well this was a whole freaking thesis. Still, I had fun writing it, and I hope you guys had fun reading it. But for now, that's all from me. Byeeee!

[whateverisbeautiful]

🀄️reflecting on richonne

One thing about Rick and Michonne - they did not split up if they didn’t have to. I love noticing how often they paired up and stuck together, especially pre-canon. And I also found it interesting the averse reaction they had whenever they did have to part. This “Richonne = magnets” stuff is just scientific fact. 😋 

(Side Note: before I even get into this post, I had to first quickly lose my mind over the latest glimpse into the spinoff. No spoilers for those avoiding any set pics…all I’ll say is ahhhhhh my heart is full and bursting at the same dang time and if you could have seen the scream I scrumpt when pics popped up on my tl last night. If just photos nearly knocked me out then I truly will be a mess in the best way when the show airs. We’re about to eat and I absolutely cannot wait 🤩🙌🏽

Now back to the regularly scheduled program, which is actually quite fitting since it’s all about how the king and queen are always together. Thanks in advance for reading, y’all 💛)

Once R&M decided they were done having any opposition after s3, they so clearly couldn’t hide how much they genuinely liked each other and enjoyed being around each other. And in the s4 premiere, Rick also could not hide that he was feeling a type of way when she kept going out to look for the Governor. An early indicator that Richonne ain’t meant to be split up. 

Then when everyone in the prison is scattered after Too Far Gone, of course Michonne is the one to reunite with her Grimes boys because even the universe knows they aren’t meant to be split up. 

In Season 5, Rick and Michonne are so often together. Like during the church dinner, the run with fellow couple Bob and Sasha, and when visiting Noah’s neighborhood. And they have to have a whole chat on who stays with the kids and who goes when Carol and Beth need rescuing from that hospital. Why? Cuz naturally they wouldn’t split up. 

And especially in The Distance we see how true that is. Rick is on full edge while Michonne is away looking for those cars. Then, after he’s willing to let her take the lead and make a huge decision for the group to go to ASZ, Rick of course wants Michonne to be the one that rides with him, Glenn, and Aaron. When their ride with Aaron goes awry and Michonne wants to go into the woods, Rick is against it…but then what’s the next scene? The two of them going into the woods. And later in the ep it’s just Rick and Michonne in that car with their kids while everyone else is in the RV. Why? Richonne doesn’t split up. 

In the s6 premiere, everybody is in different groups to take on the walker horde and whose paired together with Morgan? Of course Rick and Michonne are teaming up. They don’t split up. 

Michonne exhibits a rare moment of pure panic when Rick walks out of the infirmary to take on all those walkers in No Way Out. She’s so torn with an injured Carl inside and dazed Rick outside. She knows Rick needs her help. And deep down she knows if they’re going to take on anything it should be together.

When they go kill those Saviors in their sleep in 6x12, everybody pairs up and, despite being two people who could totally lead their own group, Rick and Michonne are paired up together with Daryl. (In my mind, I’ve always chalked that up to the fact that if they’re going to do something that dangerous R&M are going to need to visibly know each other are okay at all times lol. And magnets don’t split up.) 

It’s Rick’s turn to exhibit panic later in Season 6 when Michonne isn’t back yet after going out to find Daryl. In the scene where Abe offers him some comfort and later when he finds her locs on a walker, Rick seems so genuinely shaken. And a big reason why is cuz Richonne isn’t meant to be split up. 

In Season 7 they become even more consciously aware that Richonne is not meant to be split up when Michonne basically says as much in the 7x08 cell scene.

After both feeling off due to their distance in 7A, in the msf Michonne beautifully expresses how she doesn’t want it to be her way but “ours” and that the two of them can only win if they’re in it together. And then it’s the “me and you” way for them from there on out. When they go to Hilltop, The Kingdom, mow down walkers in cars (of which Rick says a passionate no when Michonne mentions splitting up lol), and meeting the Garbage group (where the arm grab that altered my brain chemistry just further illustrates they don’t like to be split up). They are side by side through it all. You already know why. 

Then, in one of TWD’s most gloriously blissful eps I got to thinking…how’d it work that only R&M went on that run for guns in 7x12? Like they needed a lot of guns and the streets were dangerous. They could’ve brought along a few more people, and yet Rick and Michonne told TF, “all y’all can stay home for this one, cuz we’re not trying to just look for guns while we’re out here.” #DirectQuote. Like I know they wanted this to be a two-person only run. Not just cuz they could handle it but cuz they wanted this honeymoon alone time together too. Here for it to infinity and beyond. And just further proof they don’t split up. 

Later when TF prepares to approach Oceanside, the gang is again all in groups and have these big tasks to set up and our lovely leader Rick said my main task is making sure my wife gets up that tree safe. Period. They don’t split up. 

Michonne has straight up sirens going off in her head while Rick is off at war in Season 8. Cuz they know they aren’t meant to be apart, especially when fighting the fight. 

In Season 9 (one of their most joyous eras cuz they’re finally able to be more settled and together🤗) they want as much time as they can get with each other. Even when work has Rick leading at the bridge and Michonne leading at ASZ, Rick is eager for them both to take a day off and have a family fun day cuz nothing is more important. And cuz they don’t like to be split up for long. 

These aren’t even all the moments I could pinpoint lol. But I think the case is proven. 

So of course these two are going to find each other even after all this time. We’re getting a whole reunion spinoff because Rick and Michonne’s connection is in every way magnetic. 

Years, distance, walkers, wars - ultimately nothing stands in the way of Richonne being together. Why? My babies don’t split up.🧲😌

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 27

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Don't you hate it when talk about Feelings has to wait because you've got an archdevil to take down. ***

In the many centuries that followed the Fall of Netheril, the Blood War raged on as it had for time immemorial. In that time as Steward of Avernus, Raphael witnessed all manners of events across the Hells and many other Planes. 

Most were mundane, some unusual, some extraordinary; very few, however, compared to witnessing a mortal coming within a hair’s breadth of godhood, the blinking out of existence of all magic, the destruction of an empire in a matter of moments - all made possible by an artifact of immense power and potential, now collecting dust in the Eighth layer of the Hells.

All in all, until a couple of decades into his seventeenth century of life, Raphael could quite safely say he had yet to witness anything that came close to that. Until he witnessed a blindfolded Solar with a glowing sword in hand, charging into Avernus atop a golden mastodon, leading a mounted charge of thousands of Hellriders against demonic hordes. 

That, he had to admit, did fit the definition of an extraordinary event… and it was as much a folly as Karsus’ bid for godhood had been. There was a reason why Celestials had long stopped waging war against the demons of the Abyss: those of them who were sent to do so had been changed beyond recognition, taking on characteristics of their enemies to better vanquish them.

In the end they became something altogether different, ever caught in-between demon and celestial: the first devils. Sworn enemies of demons and yet reviled by what had once been their own kin and by the gods - the very some who had sent them forth to be their scourge and their shield, the only bastion against the hordes of the Abyss. 

So many eons had passed that history had turned to legend, and a little known one at that. But it was the truth. Raphael would know; Lord Mephistopheles had been one of those first devils, after all. He had never willingly spoken of that distant past to him or anyone as far as he was aware, but Raphael had made it his mission - one of several - to learn all he could about his sire, so he could spot any gaps in his armor.

While he did learn much, he had not found any such gaps. None large enough to let a figurative dagger slip past, at least. But Raphael had also learned to be patient, and he had time in abundance.

“Apparently, they intend to chase the demons into the Abyss, and slaughter them all,” Lord Bel had muttered, unaware of his thoughts. He had been watching the charge through a telescope atop the Bronze Citadel. On top of the outer rings of its defensive walls, much of the garrison was watching the events unfold too. “What does my steward make of it?”

“I think it’s the epitome of idiocy,” Raphael had replied, gaining himself a chuckle. 

“And my steward is correct.”

“I have been known to be.”

“Don’t get complacent, boy,” Lord Bel had replied, as though Raphael wasn’t quite past the age to be considered one even by hellish standards. He’d lowered the telescope before speaking again. “It is idiocy. She will fail. Her mortal friends will die and she’s likely to suffer a worse fate yet. But as long as she’s fighting demons, she can be a useful idiot.”

“A strategic alliance?”

“If she’s so inclined, which I doubt. Celestials are usually too righteous to do the clever thing. More likely than not, she will refuse the alliance and make some lofty oath to take up her sword against us should we intervene - with the unspoken implication she will do so either way once all demons are dead by her holy hand, of course.”

Raphael scoffed. Demons were close enough to infinite in numbers, and anyone with half a brain knew that defeating them for good was impossible. They could be held back, never destroyed; they were as eternal as the chaos they had spawned from. 

“Does she truly believe her quaint cavalry can succeed where all of our forces could not?” 

“Don’t underestimate a celestial’s arrogance. Still, the remote possibility exists that this one may see reason.” Bel pulled away from the telescope, and turned back to look at him. “It would be foolish of me not to make an attempt. As soon as this battle is done and they make camp, you shall go as my envoy. Do try to return in one piece.”

He did go, and the meeting was short as it was unpleasant, with the solar doing most of the talking. As Bel had predicted there was the refusal of any cooperation, the promise to destroy their forces should they approach, the silent threat that they would be next once the demonic hordes were crushed. He’d returned to Bel in one piece, at least, and the Lord of the First had laughed when he heard his report. 

“She thinks she can destroy demons and then us in one fell swoop? Well then, let her try. Let us see how many demons they can slaughter for us before they’re felled.”

It was many; hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands and more. Zariel fought furiously, if recklessly, and she fought well. So did her host, which lasted longer than Raphael had thought it possibly could - but they were mortals, and they fell far more easily than a celestial would; more easily than a fiend, too. More and more fell, their numbers dwindled, and the demons kept coming - wave after wave, horde after horde, shattering spears and shields, disemboweling horses and riders alike. Battles turned to indiscriminate butchery and no legion of devils intervened one way or the other. Their offer for help had, after all, been quite rudely rebuffed and Zariel, sworn sword of the Morninglord Lathander and herald of dawn. 

She had made plain that she was their enemy, and few things are quite as convenient as two enemies making one another bleed. So the troops of Avernus retreated, took advantage of the rare lull to reorganize their numbers, repair weapons, and prepare for the fighting that was inevitably going to resume once the Ride failed. 

Because it did fail. When a group of terrified Hellriders finally broke away over the course of a particularly bloody battle, Raphael knew it would seal their fate. They fled back to the portal they’d opened up from the Material Plane, went through it… and such was their terror the demons may follow, they closed it behind them, leaving the rest trapped.

Of those who remained some broke, turned on one another, tried to seek escape where no escape existed. They died, almost every one of them, until a small gang was left, closing ranks alongside a wounded mastodon and a solar who still held her head high, still attempting a last stand. It was brave, and it was futile. Raphael was there to see Netheril fall; he bore witness to the fall of Zariel, too. 

But unlike Karsus, Zariel did not stay down for long. She was alive when a delegation of bone devils sent by Asmodeus himself came to retrieve her from beneath the pile of corpses, to take her all the way to Nessus. They came quickly, a little too quickly for Raphael not to suspect the Lord Below had been expecting precisely that outcome before making a move.

Raphael assumed she would be tortured, or made into a trophy; he was dreadfully correct, but not in the way he’d thought he would be. When Asmodeus announced Zariel - now an archdevil, corrupted by the Hells down to her bones - was to be the new ruler of Avernus, leading their forces against the demons of the Abyss, saying it was an unexpected development would have been a severe understatement. It surprised and angered many, but none dared voice that anger - especially not Bel, who publicly accepted the decision without protest even as he schemed, from the beginning, to regain his lost throne. 

Losing the position of Steward of Avernus did not bother Raphael nearly as much. All things considered, it was perhaps a blessing in disguise - too many centuries in one position can make anyone complacent, dull the edge of ambition. But he’d prepared for that chance: over the centuries he’d set aside enough souls to his name, enough warlocks and connections. 

He could not retain the title of duke, but he was allowed to remain in Avernus, in a dwelling he may create for himself, as long as he paid a quota of souls each year. Simple enough, truly.

As Zariel rose to power Raphael, servant of none at last, was ready to strive out on his own.

***

The first time Karlach had seen Zariel, there was a moment when she’d almost been relieved.

Surely, none of that was truly happening. She had not been grabbed and thrown through a portal to the Hells; she had not heard Gortash say she would make the perfect specimen for a prototype, whatever that meant. She had not been dragged inside a flying fortress of iron and basalt high above Avernus, sulfur threatening to choke her at every breath. 

None of it was truly happening, she’d reasoned, because she was having a nightmare. She had to be dreaming. The creature standing before her with a burning halo over her head, ashen skin and burning eyes, could only be a figment of her imagination. She had a few precious moments to take solace in that.

Then the pain started - her chest sliced open and ribs spread apart with an iron instrument, something torn out and then replaced by what felt like molten lead - and she knew that if this was a nightmare, it was one she would never again wake from. Until she did wake up ten years later, under the sun amidst the remains of a nautiloid, swearing to herself that she was never, ever going to set foot in Avernus. 

Things hadn’t precisely gone according to plan, because she actually set both feet back in Avernus in the end, just so that she wouldn’t… well, die. But she would have never gone back alone, of that she was certain. She would have never been able to survive half a year there, never been able to find out that there was a chance to replace her engine with one that could function outside the Hells. In choosing to come with her, Wyll had saved her life.

And he still thought I’d let him get himself grab the sword and get fucked over again for my sake. As if. As fucking if. 

She could hear the sword in question humming faintly at Halsin’s back. Actually, the hum kept growing less and less faint the higher up they went. Reacting to Zariel, Lulu had whispered when Karlach asked about it.

“We’re close, I can tell - I feel her, too!” 

“Shouldn’t she be able to feel you and the sword approaching, too?” Wyll asked, causing Lulu to frown. At least, it looked like a frown. Discerning the expressions of a hollyphant really wasn’t easy. 

“... Yes, she should feel my presence too, shouldn’t she? And she hasn’t come to meet us.”

“What were you expecting, miserable little thing? A hug?” Mizora muttered, but she looked thoughtful as they made their way further up, among turrets at the slit windows and other infernal machinery. One good thing about the earlier fight was that they met no one the rest of the way; clearly, whoever was supposed to occupy the few highest floors had responded to Flo’s call to come and fight them. 

Still holding the chain they had attached to Lulu for show, Halsin had frowned. “She has not called upon any forces to stop us, either.”

Mizora hummed. “She may very well wish to keep that pleasure for herself.”

“No, she wouldn’t hurt me. And you know that. You had to kill me because she wouldn’t, even if she kept coming to see me every day,” Lulu had replied, and it seemed Mizora had nothing to retort to that. She only scoffed, and Lulu spoke again. “She will listen to me. I know it.”

“... I am sure you still mean a great deal to her,” Wyll said, not unkindly. “But in the event she does not take up the sword--”

“You’re not picking it up. If we have to fight her, we do it without that thing. No one’s getting changed beyond recognition on my watch,” Karlach cut him off the same moment Lulu huffed, shaking her head.

“There will be no such event. I know her, I’ve known her forever. And it’s only been… less than a century and a half since the Ride. That’s not long!”

Wyll chuckled. “It sounds like a long time to me, but I am certain Halsin would say otherwise,” he said, and Halsin smiled. 

“That’s a very kind way to call me old.”

“Oh, come now. You’re barely a middle aged elf.”

Lulu fluttered closer to Karlach, who was still frowning. “I know you don’t understand - I know she hurt you - but please-- she is still there. She must be.”

It’s all the hope she has to cling to. If she’s beyond saving, what will Lulu even do with herself?

It was a sad thought, and Karlach forced herself to chase it away. No, she couldn’t think that way. She had to hope that the hollyphant was right; that enough of the old Zariel was still there within the monster. Honestly, that was one fight she’d happily do without. In the end, she sighed. 

“If the Zariel you knew is still there, we’ll do our best to bring her back out.”

“Yes! And she’ll apologize!”

Low bar to step over, that, but well. They were in the Hells, and it would still be one step up Gortash. I’m sorry you felt wronged, the bitch had said. The absolute bitch, pun fully intended.

“She had better,” Karlach said, making an effort to smile. Up and up they went, until they finally were at the very top of the Fortress, before the metal trapdoor leading to the roof. From there, Zariel would survey their surroundings while the Fortress’ engines got their soul refill from the Styx. 

She’s right there, right beyond this door. And there is no way in all the Hells that she does not know Lulu and her sword are here.

Karlach swallowed, stared at the door a moment, and turned to Wyll. “Just in case something goes wrong, I just… I wanted to… er…” she cleared her throat. “I mean--”

He smiled, and reached up to cup her cheek. “This is not the day we die,” he promised, and brushed a thumb over her cheekbone before he stood on his toes to kiss her. Karlach kissed him back - oh it was so, so nice - and almost wanted to cry when he pulled back. Almost, because he was smiling again and he had that look on his face, the one he got when he made a promise he’d do anything to keep. “This kiss wasn’t our last.”

A sigh. “Delightful, truly. I believe you just rotted half of my teeth,” Mizora muttered, and vanished the chains on Karlach and Lulu with a single gesture. “Well then. I believe I shall let you go forth.”

Halsin glanced over. “Are you not coming?”

She did not reply right away. First, she looked at the closed trapdoor with an expression Karlach couldn’t quite place, but which seemed infinitely bitter. “If you do succeed in redeeming her, I don’t relish the thought of finding myself face to face with her.”

“And if it comes to a fight?” Wyll asked. Mizora sighed, the way a parent does when faced with a particularly slow child asking a particularly dumb question.

“In that case, I’d have all the more reason to make myself scarce.”

“It won’t come to that,” Lulu declared, and bodily slammed into the door before any of them could add a single word, throwing it open and flying outside. “Zarie--”

There was a burst of flames, and she barely managed to duck beneath it. Lulu let out a yelp, wings beating furiously after dodging the attack. “Hey! That wasn’t nice! It’s me!”

That wasn’t nice, she said. Oh gods, they were so screwed. With a groan, Karlach climbed out, a hand ready to fly to her greataxe, which had been silvered for the occasion. She heard, faintly, the sword's humming growing stronger as Halsin followed her and Wyll outside… to be met with no more attacks. The roof was empty but for one being.

At the apex of her fortress, cutting a fearsome figure against the red sky of Avernus and with her only remaining hand still lifted, Zariel stood alone, looking at them all with flaming eyes.

***

Raphael’s face was still wet when the notes of the Song of Rest rang out. 

It was a small respite, far less than the long rest he clearly needed - and Haarlep, truth be told; Durge wouldn’t have said no either - but it was all they could afford now. They sighed at the relief the spell did provide, and tilted their head towards Raphael. They had to rein in a frankly ridiculous impulse to reach out and wipe his face dry, brush back his hair. 

Later, perhaps. We have precious little time. The others may yet need us.

“Thank you,” they said instead. There was much more they wished to say, but that too would have to wait. “I am sorry the circumstances don’t allow for the kind of rest you need.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Raphael’s voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “Which will be very soon, I suspect,” he added, in the same tone one may use to make observations about possible rainfall later in the evening. Durge had to admit he was doing an admirable job at pretending he had not been sobbing his heart out against their chest until minutes earlier, in a breakdown that had been… nearly a couple of millennia in the making, from what they’d gathered. 

“Oh, thank you kindly. We really needed a little bit of doom and gloom, to balance out the insufferable cheery surroundings,” Astarion huffed, gesturing to the wasteland all around and the towering fortress above them. All seemed business as usual; the others may not have gotten to Zariel yet, which meant they may very well be still on time to help. 

A couple of steps away, having taken on the glamor of a bone devil, Haarlep sighed. “It would be inconvenient,” they lamented, in the raspy voice that left the skeletal jaw. “And after we took such pains to keep you alive.”

Raphael scoffed, putting the lyre on his back. “Regardless of convenience, that is the most likely outcome if we attempt to walk through the fortress’ front door.”

“Oh, not if I walk you in as prisoners while wearing this form.” Haarlep bared the bone devil’s fangs, causing Raphael to pause and turn slowly to look at the glamor. “See, I had a plan and everything, before I spotted you fighting for your life and had to make a detour. I figured that if I took the form of one of the fortress’ guards, no one would question me going in.”

“And when did you get--”

“About an hour ago. Poor thing was so pent-up, he couldn’t resist. Gave up his body soooo readily, it was almost a shame to push him in the Styx.” A sigh. “Ah, well. Couldn’t let him show up while I was using his form, could I now? It may have been a little embarrassing, one of us would have had to change. Or he’d have killed me on sight. Anyway, I never went into the Fortress, clearly. I checked on Raphael’s sending stone, and saw it was suddenly outside, so I rushed to the spot and not a moment too soon.”

Raphael stared for several moments, looking all the world like he had a million questions he’d rather pull out teeth than ask. In the end, he only asked one. “Dare I ask what you were planning to do once inside? Fight Zariel?”

“I mean, I’d rather not. But I could have cheered from the sidelines, or snatched you if things went wrong and tried to make a run for it. Or I could have distracted her. I’m good at that.”

“I doubt she'd be particularly vulnerable to your idea of distraction.”

“I mean, with the crossbow.”

“I doubt she’d be particularly vulnerable to your crossbow, either.”

“Well, that’s why it was Plan C. But surely, right now what matters is getting in the fortress, and then we can… well, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, no?”

“Cross it. You cross a bridge when you get to it,” Astarion corrected them. “But that slip aside, I say we go for it. It’s the kind of plan I could have come up with myself, really.”

“It’s hardly even a plan,” Raphael pointed out, gaining himself a toothsome grin. 

“Precisely,” he said, and that was that.

***

“So, you have come to cut me down. It took you more time than I was expecting. You’ve longed to do it for a very long time. I can always tell when someone thirsts for blood.”

Zariel’s voice was raspy as Karlach remembered it, as though fire had scorched her throat once and the burns never healed. She sounded calm, but that could change at the drop of a hat; Karlach had seen it happen more times than she could count, a quiet façade burning away like flash paper to leave behind seething fury, bottomless hatred, a thirst for blood and war nothing ever seemed to quench.

And if that happened there would be no turning back, no getting her to calm and listen. So she ground her teeth and forced herself not to say that yes, actually, she’d dreamed of sticking a blade where the sun didn’t shine more times than she could count and part of her still really fucking wanted to go ahead and try to do just that. She might have, if she’d been alone. But she was not - Wyll was there, and Halsin too. They had risked too much already, for her sake. 

As though the bitch had just read her thoughts, Zariel���s eyes shifted from her to Wyll. Her lips curled in a humorless smile. “The warlock who’s been aiding you. I see, now. I can sense Mizora’s mark all over you. It was her to betray me, then. She’ll pay the price for this, once I’m done with you.”

“We’re not here to cut you down! We’re here to help you!” Lulu called out, immediately fluttering between them and Zariel. It was almost painful to listen, all that hope in her voice. “We have brought--”

“Silence.” The flail secured to the wrist missing a hand was raised and brought down to the floor. It cracked the stone, but she made no move to attack. Not yet, at least - she’d just given a warning. It wasn’t like her to give warnings of any kind, but Karlach found she was not overly surprised. One thing was clear: Zariel, archdevil of Avernus, was unwilling to harm Lulu.

If not for her, she’d have attacked on sight, or called for a legion or two to back her up, or both. And now she wants her out of the way so she can do just that. 

“Whatever foolish notion you have of saving me, you are wrong.” She took a step forward, the blood red feathers of her wings glistening as they shifted. Karlach reached for her weapon and so did Wyll, and they took a step back - but Zariel ignored them entirely. Her gaze was fixed on Lulu, and on her only. “I let you leave once, you stubborn creature, and you keep returning time and time again, seeking what is no more. Can’t you see there is no use?”

“No! I’ll come back again if I have to! You kept coming back, too!” Lulu dared flutter closer, that desperate hope still in her voice. “When I was locked up in the dungeons, you came to see me almost every day. And you got so mad, but you kept coming. And you never struck me even if you screamed, even if this was all my fault.”

That struck a chord. Zariel paused mid-stride, and the look on his face turned to something much closer to confusion. “Your…?”

“I am sorry I couldn’t get to you on time-- the battle was so fierce, I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you fell. Please, let me--”

A scathing laugh, the confusion burning away in the brightness of the flaming halo. Zariel lifted a hand in the air. A black warhammer, the very same one she’d ripped from the grasp of a demon lord, appeared in her grip in a faint cloud of mist. It was called Matalotok, but Karlach had heard it referred to as the Maul of Brutal Endings. Not very reassuring, that.

“I did not fall, Lulu. I rose, so that I may shoulder a burden none in Celestia was ever willing to take on. Asmodeus and his angels were right from the beginning. You cannot stave off the bottomless hunger of the demons of the Abyss with virtue .”

Karlach scoffed. “Oh, so we’re supposed to thank you now?” she spat, and Zariel’s flaming glare turned to her for only a moment before Lulu spoke again, high and desperate. 

“This isn’t about that anymore, Zariel! You know it! This isn’t you, this--”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Zariel cut her off, and bared her teeth in something that could have been a smile, or a snarl, or both. The halo of fire around her head seemed to burn hotter. “When demons die, they cry out my name in terror. This is who I am.”

“How many times have you told yourself that, so that you could believe it?” Halsin’s voice rang out before Lulu could retort, and it caused Zariel to stop in her tracks. Halsin had stepped forward, and in his hands was the Sword. Even in a scabbard, it hummed and shook as though alive. “I know what it is, to dedicate one’s life to a mission. I know what it is to lose oneself to the pursuit. But if you were indeed lost, you’d have struck already. Us, and her. ”

Zariel stared, and the corners of her mouth curled in a sneer of disdain… even as something in her gaze faltered, as the flames of her halo burned somewhat less brightly. Then the moment was over, and she bared her teeth again.

“Fools. I shall take that sword from your cold dead hands, the last remnants of my shame, and shatter it to pieces. You should have wielded it when you could. ”

There was no time to think of a response, much less to utter it. The next thing Karlach heard was a scream that seemed to shake the sky itself, Wyll’s shouted warning, Lulu’s own cry of dismay. Then Zariel charged in a wave of flames, warhammer and flail lifted.

End of diplomacy. Oh well. We tried, Karlach thought, and let out a cry of her own before she lifted her blade to meet the attack, the engine in her chest roaring with her.

***

“Hah! See, I told you it was going to--”

“Haarlep!”

“Hush!”

“Gods above, shut up !”

Now that was rather rude, Haarlep wanted to point out, but they did not, mostly because they might have a point. Dropping the ruse of marching prisoners inside the fortress as a bone devil - enforcers of Baator’s laws, and arguably the most feared devils by anybody below a pit fiend -  was probably not a good idea while still within sight of guards. So they bit their tongue, quickly regretting it because oh those teeth were sharp, and kept going.

There were a few glances their way, but the chains the dragonborn had pulled out from their bag of holding were pretty convincing, as well as a really interesting item to just carry around. That, and the general fear of bone devils kept anybody from coming to take too close a look, which was good news.

Haarlep’s glamors were good enough to fool other devils, certainly… but this was probably not the moment to test that assumption. So they shot a few glares around, waving the tail and stinger, and proceeded undisturbed deeper into the fortress. 

“Prisoners for Zariel,” they snapped once or twice, when someone dared ask, and that was it. They kept going - up and up and up, until the elevator ran its course and they were left with only a few more levels to go up on foot. They only stopped a few moments when they came across a room full of corpses; Haarlep could only assume that was where Raphael had been when the bearer of his ring had been found and he was forcibly ejected from the fortress.

“We’re close to the top,” Raphael spoke, nudging a corpse with his boot. “Surely, if Zariel is up there, the others would have reached her by now. And yet, nothing seems to have happ--”

A scream rang out suddenly, somewhere above and yet everywhere, shaking the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It caused them all to still, and exchange a glance. 

“Remind me to make a sarcastic remark about your timing after we’re done,” Astarion said, and Raphael only sighed before they rushed up the last flights of stairs, not wasting their time or breath on more words.

***

Karlach was honestly holding her own, fending off most blows and even working in a few good hits of her own, until a lash of the flail took out her right arm at the elbow. 

Not that she realized what had happened right away: at first there was only the sound of her weapon hitting the ground, along with a thud she didn’t quite place; then there was Wyll’s scream, and the realization that she was falling back. Then her back hit the ground, and there was pain. 

Laughter, too - Zariel’s laughter, above her own scream. “You should have known better,” she snarled, and lifted Matalotok above her head, ready to end her or at least come pretty damn close to it. She never got the chance, because suddenly Wyll was there in a burst of swirling mist, between her and Zariel, and pressed a hand against the archdevil’s before crying out. 

“Dolor!”

At such close range and without warning, the blasts did exactly what they had to do - throw Zariel back. She did not fall, a powerful beat of her wings saw to that, but she was pushed back enough that Wyll could turn and cry out. “Halsin! Help her!”

Ah, right. She was missing an arm and bleeding out, which was really not ideal.

“Wyll--” Karlach tried to call out, but he was off, head to head with the archdevil of Avernus. He had no hope of defeating her on his own, and he knew that. He wasn't trying to down her: he was trying to hold her back, away from her. 

No, no, no, no, no. Not him.

Karlach groaned and tried to sit up, despair overriding any and all pain. She felt for her weapon with the remaining hand, and just as she grasped the handle there was a touch on her back, helping her sit up. She heard Halsin speak, not far from her ear. 

“Don’t move. I think I can help,” he said, and Karlach groaned. 

“No, no. Wyll, he-- wait-- the sword…?”

“Lulu has it.”

Out of the corner of her mind Karlach could see her, hovering a short distance away. She was holding tightly onto the sword, trembling, and staring at the unfolding battle with wide eyes. The very picture of a broken heart; Karlach would have felt sorry, had she not been distracted by the sight of Halsin holding up her own severed arm. She had seen some nasty shit, but looking at it still made her puke a little in her own mouth. 

“The fuck…?”

“Hold still. I never tried this before,” Halsin replied, and held the arm to the bleeding stump, murmuring some incantation Karlach did not grasp. She sure as fuck saw the effects, though: under her stunned gaze the shards of bone in the stump shifted, set themselves straight again - and then there was tissue growing, stretching, knitting itself back together. Within moments her arm was hers again, with only a tingling sensation in the nerve endings that had already faded by the time she stood and picked her greataxe up. She laughed, incredulous. 

“Well, that was horrifying, but really damn useful. Could you always do it?”

“I learned recently. Traveling with you never fails to broaden my horizons,” he replied, and Karlach took a mental note of paying for his drinks at the next occasion before she turned back to the most pressing matter - Zariel. Wyll fought viciously and he fought well, but against an archdevil… well, he was going to need a little extra help. 

Good thing she was there with a big fuckoff axe, ready to provide that help. 

“Hey, handsome! Need a hand?”

“What-- how--?”

“Halsin’s got new tricks!”

Wyll had a deep cut on his forehead, turning his entire face in a bloody mask, and his right horn had broken clean in half, but he still smiled. “Oh, thank the gods.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but it would have to wait. First, they had an archdevil to deal with. 

And they did just that, the two of them and Halsin, in a blur of magic and fire and blows. Karlach wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but soon enough she was locking blades and eyes with Zariel. The engine in her chest roared, and so did she. 

“Take a good look at me while you’ve still got eyes! You’re going to pay for what you did to me!”

Her fury was met with a sneer. “I made you stronger, and instrumental in a war upon which the safety of all Planes rests. You ought to be thanking me. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You  never made a willing sacrifice.”

Were you in my place, would you risk it all to save others?

The memory of Zariel as she had been once, seeking to protect rather than destroy, caused Karlach to grind her teeth. “Didn’t have to, did I? You made that fucking choice from me! Took my heart! Made me a weapon! YOU HAD NO RIGHT!”

Zariel sneered, again. It was really starting to piss her off.

I could stem the tide of chaos and save many lives, the memory of her had said.

“I had every right to do what was needed. Would you rather have the demons of the abyss run amok across Planes?” the archdevil she was now snarled instead. “Would you rather--”

“Oh, fuck off!” Karlach pulled back, ducked under a vicious swing of the flail, and caught the falling hammer with her greataxe. The metal vibrated on impact, but it held up, courtesy of the improvements in Bel’s forge. “What of the innocents you were supposed to protect? What of them? The ones this bullshit was supposed to be all about!”

Yeenoghu slaughtered those I swore to protect.

The sneer of Zariel’s face froze, and for a moment she looked stunned, as though she had no idea how either of them had come to be there. Karlach sneered, and took advantage of the lapse to push back with all her might before ducking out of the way. 

Wyll’s blast caught Zariel in the chest, causing her to stagger back; she unfolded her wings and took flight, only to cry out in surprise and pain when Halsin’s lighting spell hit the mark, and she fell back to the ground, snarling. 

“You--!” 

The already boiling air of Avernus seemed to waver, shimmer, and it was the only warning they got before a wave of fire burst forth from Zariel with a cry of blackest fury. It burned hot, but fuck it - Karlach already had an infernal engine in her chest. She knew hot. She could withstand it. So she charged through it, not caring if it scorched her, and swung her greataxe in a wide enough arc to cut, deep, into Zariel’s shoulder.

There was a crack, and a scream; the flail attached to her wrist hung limply alongside her entire arm. Zariel was barely able to hold up the warhammer to block Karlach’s next blow and there they were again, locked in combat, their faces so close Karlach could see each flicker of flames in those eyes. They saw her, and hated.

“I was a fucking kid! I was dragged here and forced to fight! Was I not supposed to be protected from this bullshit?”

“You? A bodyguard idling her life away! I gave you a greater purpose! What is one life compared to--”

“And Elturel! The entire fucking city!” Karlach screamed, straining to push her back. The engine roared, blood rushed in her ears. “Were they not innocent? The very people the Hellriders were sworn to protect, too! The ones who followed you! The ones who died for you! Don’t give me bullshit about greater good! This isn’t about protecting anyone!”

“Enough!”

“No! You’ll listen to my every fucking word if I had to cram them down your throat!” Karlach disengaged, ducked under the blow. She heard Wyll crying out some incantation, felt the air shimmer around her - some sort of protection spell - one moment before Halsin summoned a wall of thorns right where Zariel stood.

Thorny vines reached up to grasp her and she cried out in fury. She incinerated them, of course, but they held on just long enough for Karlach to strike. The silvered blade cut through the air, and then through the wrist where the flail was attached. The bloody flail fell onto the ground, and Zariel screamed.

But not loud enough to cover Karlach’s own scream. 

“They died because they followed you, and you failed, and you tried to take Elturel! Yael died hoping you could be saved, and you tried to take her fucking city to the Hells!”

“I SAID ENOUGH!”

The warhammer fell, and this time Karlach was not fast enough to entirely avoid the blow. She was able to roll with it and avoid getting her every rib shattered, but it still hurt like a bitch and sent her tumbling across the ground. Zariel may have been on her the next instant, if not for the barrage of magic from Wyll and Halsin keeping her at bay. Karlach groaned, and forced herself to stand with a grunt. 

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Lulu was still motionless, as though paralyzed, holding onto the sword with all limbs and her trunk. But all her attention, again, was for Zariel. So she met her gaze again, and sneered right back as one of Halsin’s healing spells hit, allowing her to breathe more easily, the pain in her ribs abating. 

“You can take your bullshit about a greater purpose and shove it up your ass. You don’t give a damn about protecting the Planes anymore. You only want the excuse to keep slaughtering demons because you like it, and it’s all you’ve go--!”

There was another shriek and the hammer fell, cracking the floor, causing the entire fortress to shake and all of them to fall back. Fury and hatred was a tangible thing now, coming off Zariel in waves, the most burning hatred and deepest despair. Pain, too, cutting through the very soul, almost unbearable - but just almost. Karlach could bear pain. She’d borne plenty already. 

So she stood, downed a potion, and back into the fray she went.

***

“I take it that diplomacy did not achieve the desired results.”

Raphael’s voice was barely audible beneath Zariel’s agonized shriek, and beneath the crack of thunder as Durge immediately stepped in, striking her before she could so much as try to deliver a blow to Halsin. Astarion was right behind them, bow drawn and some sort of shimmering arrow ready to let loose.

Raphael almost followed - if he had to get himself killed, he may as well do it properly - when Haarlep lay a hand on his shoulder and spoke. “Huh. What’s wrong with her?”

“Wh--” Raphael turned, and there she was - the hollyphant, silent at last. Well, not entirely silent: she was muttering ‘no, no, no’ repeatedly to herself, hovering in mid-air and clutching the sword they had gone through such pains to obtain, a distant cast to those beady little eyes. All in all, she was a wretched sight. A shattered mind; Raphael had seen plenty of those, many shattered by his own hand. He was always rather good at that, as many of the broken souls wandering across the House of Hope would have confirmed, if they could. 

He supposed he may as well try his hand at the opposite, if he did still have a powerful enough restoration spell left in his arsenal. As Zariel landed a devastating blow on Halsin’s summoned Myrmidon, Raphael took a few steps towards the madness-stricken hollyphant. 

He lifted his hands, and she did not react when they glowed, nor to his words. “Te curo.”

The light flared up a moment, engulfing the hollyphant. It faded quickly, and before it did she was already gasping, recoiling as though awakened from a deep sleep. 

“I-- what--” She looked around, eyes wide. There was another cry of fury and she turned - they all turned - to see that Zariel was unable to move, her legs having seemingly turned to stone. Ravengard’s doing, no doubt; he was staggering back just as Zariel beat her wings to try free herself, only for Astarion to put an acid arrow through one, and for Karlach to bring down her blade on the other. 

Zariel screamed again, and lifted the handless arm, began crying out words - a summoning , for her legions to come aid her. That would certainly mean their end, and Raphael didn’t pause to think: he stepped forward, and cast another spell. 

“Silentium!”

To Zariel’s fury and Raphael’s relief, it took effect before she could complete the summoning. She let out another cry of anger, or at least so the silent twisting of her features suggested. On the other hand, Durge turned back and grinned at him, all fangs. 

Good one, they mouthed, and lifted Mourning Frost. A sorcerer’s subtle spell required some more power but oh, wasn’t it useful to cast with no need of words. Above Zariel there was the spark of lighting, so bright it almost turned the red sky white, and then--

“NO! PLEASE! DON’T!”

Everything happened too quickly for Raphael to react, let alone to try doing something. The hollyphant darted forward, still clutching the Sword, and came between Zariel and the descending bolt of lighting at the last moment. Raphael saw Durge snatch back their hands, but it was too late.

The spell was cast, and lightning struck.

***

Everything happened in the blink of an eye, and in utter, eerie silence. Lighting came down, and Lulu rose to meet it; it went precisely as one may expect, when one takes the full force of a powerful spell. It threw Lulu back, and she fell some distance away; the sword clattered by her, skidded a few more paces before coming to a stop. It still glowed.

Lulu, on the other hand, remained motionless. 

Shit, Karlach said, or tried to. She went to the hollyphant without thinking, out of the sphere of silence Raphael had cast, and crouched by the stricken celestial. Why did you do it, she almost asked, but she did not. She knew exactly why she’d done it.

“Hey! Say something!” she called out instead, reaching to shake her. Lulu let out a groan and shuddered, but didn’t lift her head. Karlach was reaching for a potion of healing when a bone devil she could only assume was Haarlep, if anything for the fact they stood next to Raphael without trying to kill him, spoke.

“Huh. You may want to look behind you.”

Karlach did just that, and for a moment she could only stare, her mind blank of all thought. Zariel had broken free of the spell that had turned her legs to stone, but the battle had not resumed. Under her companions’ stunned gazes, she was walking slowly, almost tentatively, towards Lulu. One of her wings had been almost hacked off, and she left bloody footprints in her wake, but she did walk. Her eyes were fixed on the hollyphant, the fire in them faint in a way Karlach had never seen. The flaming halo, too, seemed to be petering out. 

“Fool,” Zariel rasped, and stepped closer, her face a mask of agony. Karlach backed off quickly, ready to attack if need be, but the archdevil of Avernus did not so much glance her way. She made it to Lulu, and fell to her knees. "You utter fool. What have you done?”

“I promised Yael-- I promised, ” Lulu gasped out. She tried to move, but her head fell back again, and she could only look at Karlach, at the sword a few feet away. “Please…”

Zariel lifted her gaze to look at the sword, still glowing within the scabbard, and Karlach put her greataxe away to pick it up, in a daze. She was vaguely aware of the fact her companions were approaching, ready to fight again if need be; for a moment, all that existed in the world was herself, her tormentor, and the sword that may put an end to the archdevil Zariel with no need to risk lives, no need to risk more of her life.

Then Karlach looked up, staring Zariel in the eye - it seemed so wrong, that lost look on those features - before she stepped closer, and held up the sword. 

It’s not just any sword, it’s sentient, Lulu had told them, and she had not been joking. The Sword of Zariel glowed brighter and slid out of the scabbard, lifting itself into the air before her old wielder. Celestial runes seemed to draw themselves into thin air around it, and the vibrations almost sounded like a song. 

Beyond the glow of the sword, Zariel was shedding tears like molten lava. Her only hand reached for Lulu, hovered a few inches from her golden fur, but she hesitated to even touch her. At last, she looked up at the sword, then at Karlach. “This,” she rasped, “is your chance to cut me down.”

For a moment, Karlach’s fingers twitched; for a moment, she almost did reach for her weapon. But then she saw it again, Gortash’s corpse in his silk robes, laying on a marble floor and somehow still smirking at her, even in death. 

He's dead, and he's no fucking sorrier than he was before. What was the point?

A rhetorical question, that. If she could go back, he’d kill him another dozen times. She’d help Astarion kill Cazador another two dozen times, too. But now that Zariel knelt before her willingly, she balked. Of fucking course.

Maybe she was tired. Maybe she wanted to find out if she’d really get an apology for all the bullshit she had to go through. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, she pulled her hand away from her weapon. 

“... No. Fuck this. I didn’t claw my way out of the Hells to hand you a coward’s way out. So take that thing, and deal with what you’ve done. It’s all I’ve been doing for the past ten years.”

For a few moments, there was only silence and Karlach could almost believe someone had cast another silencing spell. Then, slowly, Zariel stood. Karlach found herself taking a step back, holding her breath, as Zariel's fingers brushed the hilt of the sword. There was a sound like sizzling flesh, and Zariel let out a pained gasp, but that pain seemed to break all hesitation at last. Her only had closed on the hilt and held on, tight, even as it seared her flesh. 

When she spoke again, her voice was a cry of pain, and sorrow, and yet something that was much like hope. “I, Zariel, supplicate myself before the holy light of justice. If it should accept me, I vow to take up this blade once more in its service.”

For a moment, nothing happened, her words echoing in the silence. 

Well, Karlach thought, that was a whole bunch of noth--

And then there was light. It cascaded from the skies, the same light they had encountered in the Citadel. Karlach stepped back, ready to call out for Astarion and Haarlep to get back, but there was no need: the light only fell on Zariel, and on Lulu - bright, so bright, Karlach had to close her eyes against it. Then the glare faded and she opened her eyes again, blinking. 

For a moment, all she saw was a wall of golden fur. “You’re back! You’re back! Oh, I knew it!”

It was odd, really, listening to Lulu’s voice coming from the immense golden mastodon standing before her. And hovering in the air on gold-feathered wings, her eyes covered by a blindfold, was the Solar she had seen in the stained glass at the Citadel. She remained in mid-aid for a few moments before slowly descending to the ground before her. 

She looked at Karlach for a moment - could she see, with the blindfold? - before she bowed her head and sank on one knee.  “Karlach,” she spoke, her voice a melody so unlike the rasping voice she knew. “You have my thanks, herald of dawn.”

Karlach opened her mouth to speak. She closed it. Opened it again. She heard voices, faintly, felt Wyll’s touch on her arm. In the end, she spoke with a voice that didn’t feel like her own, either. 

“I'm the herald of nothing. Just say you’re sorry.”

Zariel lifted her face, and again she seemed to be looking at her despite the blindfold. Her skin was flawless, unmarred by fire, the way Karlach’s own would never be again. Such a stupid detail to get fixated on, but she couldn’t help it. Those beautiful features twisted in sorrow.

“I am sorrier than words can ever express, for a wrong I know words alone cannot atone,” she spoke, and that was it. Karlach closed her eyes, leaned back against Wyll, and for a time she just cried and cried and cried. She wasn’t even sure if crying helped, to be honest. 

But the several pairs of arms around her sure as hell did.

*** One archdevil down, one more to go. ***

[Back to Chapter 26]

[On to Chapter 28]

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[decks-writing-blog]

Gordon Swap Chapter Nine: Just a Stress Thing

Chapter One

Previous Chapter

~

The Xen research base was larger than Gordon would’ve thought but not by much. It was jam packed with as much research equipment as could fit in the small space. All of which would’ve been far more interesting if not for the all the dead guys, some as zombies and others as just partially eaten corpses left on the ground to rot, amongst it all. Seemingly no one had survived whatever had happened here. Not that there’d even been many with how classified this place had to be.

Another distraction from the science stuff was the search for whatever acted as the kitchen. Thankfully it didn’t take too long to find. And blessedly no putrefying corpses or parasite-controlled zombies fouled up the room. Even better, it was well stocked. All of it was Black Mesa branded astronaut food but that hardly mattered after so long with nothing to eat. It was more filling and nutritious than vending machine food too, making it even better.

Once no longer on the brink of being willing to try and eat another sliver of dead alien meat if given the chance, the search for how to turn the power on resumed with renewed intensity. That took a bit longer to find but find it they did or what was left of it. The generator had clearly upset the horde of peeper puppies they’d killed earlier and/or the zombies for whatever reason because it was thoroughly beaten up, several of its wires cut.

“Maybe there’s a backup somewhere,” Barney suggested, the optimism in his voice barely hanging on by a thread.

“I think that might be it, right there.” Gordon pointed to the other side of the room that housed another, slightly smaller generator, not that the other was particularly big. Its body was in better shape, not beat in and dented, but its main power cable was chewed all the way through after only a foot or so. Fixable in theory if one knew what they were doing with electric generator cables. The materials to do so were probably nearby too but Gordon had never had to do such a thing before and probably Barney hadn’t either. And then on top of that, “Even if we could fix it, did you see anything that looked like the portal machine?”

“Um… no. But an up to date one probably looks different.”

“Yeah, probably.” Gordon would’ve thought it would look somewhat similar though. “So, we gonna to try to fix this and hope there is or… what?” He’d already shared his thought that such a portal might be too resource intensive for a portable generator to be capable of.

“Well, the other option is to give up and move on. Not an idea I really like.”

Gordon didn’t either. “We could look at all the computers and stuff up close first. I mean we got the fancy new flashlights now with batteries to spare,” a great find, “so we don’t have to worry about running out anytime soon. But, I guess if we’re looking at everything closely anyway, it’d be easier to determine if any of it is what we’re looking for if they’re on. So uh… guess we’re fixing the generator.”

~

Replacing the generator cable was easier said than done of course but there was indeed the parts to do so in a nearby closet. No manual though. They had to figure out all of their own how to open the thing up to remove the broken cable, put the new one in, and then finally put it all back together. It took a while but they did it, somehow, and they didn’t break it worse in the process. Upon hooking it up to the base and hitting the switch, it hummed to life and a moment later the lights flickered on. Finally a win.

Now came searching the base again with lights on this time so it was easier to see. This mostly fell to Gordon as he had more personal experience with Black Mesa’s various machines. Not much in the way of alien field research but enough that he could probably determine approximately what each piece of technology was supposed to do.

There was only one place in the entire research base with an empty space big enough for a portal. It was almost certainly where the researchers were dropped in and extracted when it came time to rotate them out. But was there was a way to turn it on from this side? Could the piddly little generator they’d spent almost two hours fixing open a portal between dimensions?

Gordon went through every machine and computer in that room, thoroughly and methodically. Turning them on one by one, looking for the portal controls. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. If the portal could be opened from this side, the means to do so wasn’t in this room. Which didn’t bode well for their chances.

The next room was the largest room and the main lab. He checked everything there too. More nothing. The rest of the base was sleeping quarters – eight bunks jammed in a room that would’ve been adequate for a single person’s bedroom – the lavatories, kitchen, a small gym area that was just a treadmill and some hand weights, and an armory. They’d missed the the latter during their first pass through the base due to the darkness. It contained a stockpile of guns and ammo, useful but not what they were looking for.

“There’s no way to open the portal from this side,” he said as he returned to Barney in the armory. He’d taken on the task of loading up a couple of the packs they’d found with food, batteries, and med-packs and then another with ammunition. Seemingly he’d just finished as he at the little table in there, the packs next to him.

“Drat. You sure?”

“Pretty sure. I even checked the treadmill screen to see if it had anything.”

“Well… fuck. What now?”

How was Gordon supposed to know? They were fucked. And it was kind of Barney’s fault. Being mad about him over it was rather hard when he was also the only reason Gordon wasn’t dead from something else. And to be fair, as soon as they saw the teleporter was malfunctioning, they both should’ve known to leave. “I guess uh… we keep going towards the tower.” Even if they couldn’t get back home, it’d be cool to see it up close.

Barney stood, grabbing the backpacks as he did so. He handed one of them to Gordon. “Maybe there’ll be another base closer to it. One with a bigger generator than can open a portal back.”

Gordon hoisted the pack onto his shoulders, careful not to brush the end of his stump against the strap. “Maybe.” It wasn’t impossible. Xen was a big place after all, why wouldn’t it have more research bases?

~

They turned the generator back off in case they decided to return and thus didn’t want to waste its limited fuel before heading out the rear exit. It was more wretched dank tunnels filled with mostly mushrooms and some bio luminescent tendrils. Thankfully it wasn’t far before they exited.

The sky overhead was a blend of beautiful blues and purples. The tower was in theory a bit closer now, though it didn’t really look it. But being able to see it again made it easier to know they were still heading towards it.

“What do you think that tower might be?” Barney asked after several minutes of walking it silence. “I mean, it’s obviously not natural, something built it. But what and why?”

“Hmm… it might be a religious thing maybe. Don’t people like to build tall structures and stuff to show off their god or whatever?” Not that Gordon knew much about religion or cared to know any more than he did. But what kind of gods might whatever aliens had made the tower worship?

“So we might be going to an alien church then. Well, I guess that’s pretty cool. As long as they don’t expect us to attend their worship services anyway.”

“Yeah, let’s hope not, huh?” Still, it’d be pretty cool to see stained glass murals celebrating the god/s of beings that lived in a whole other dimension. “Guess we won’t know until we get there.”

And so they continued to walk at a more leisurely pace now that food wasn’t a pressing issue. Making this a pleasant stroll except for the whole being stuck here thing anyway. If Gordon ignored that and his missing hand though, it was fine.

Maybe they’d find a sustainable source of food eventually and then they could just live here. Free of all the worries of modern life. No more worrying about jobs, rent, or politics. Barney for sure wasn’t likely to abandon him while they were here either. No one would want to discard their only human company in such a place.

Of course, being stuck here forever would also mean no more of the comforts of modern life either. Such as being able to go to the doctors if one got sick or injured – the healing gel they had would run out eventually. No fun passtimes like video games, internet, or TV, not that the latter was really that fun but it was okay sometimes. And a million other things. So probably it would suck more than not but at least being lonely and friendless wouldn’t be an issue. Still though, hopefully they would find…

The world shifted. One more he’d been swerving around a bulbous growth, the next it just wasn’t there anymore and he was walking completely straight. And he couldn’t be sure with how similar so much of the plant life looked but everything else seemed to have changed too. Weird. Probably it was just stress and not paying that much attention to where he was going. Blinking, he shook his head a bit to shake off the last of it before picking up his pace a bit to make up for the couple seconds he’d slowed down for.

“What do you think that tower might be?” Barney asked. “I mean, it’s obviously not natural, something built it. But what and why?”

“Didn’t you just ask that?”

“Uh… no. Did I?”

“Yeah, like five minutes ago. We settled on it might be a church.”

“Huh? Well I guess it could be. That’s kinda cool. As long as they don’t expect us to attend their worship services anyway.”

Seems Gordon wasn’t the only one experiencing weird stuff, if Barney was repeating that without remembering as well. Or maybe it was the mushrooms. They’d breathed some spores in or something and now they were high. Damn, if he was going to get high on magic shrooms he’d have liked to at least done so with a kind he knew was safe and supposed to be fun and not while traveling through a hostile alien dimension.

As they continued, he strained his senses for anything else weird. More weird shifts in place or forgetting prior conversations. Not that he’d know if he forgot any himself but he tried. … Nothing seemed weird. But then would it seem weird if he was really out of it enough? He felt sober but he’d never been high on alien shrooms before so who could say for sure what it would feel like?

Maybe it was just a stress thing. Who could blame them for that? Things had been quite stressful lately. The most stressful period in Gordon’s entire life, more so than getting his PhD had been. They were allowed a little bit of weirdness for that, right? Probably it was…

The sound of gunfire came from their right, uncomfortably close. Or perhaps comfortably close. “What are the chances that’s the military versus someone else from Black Mesa who found a way here?”

Even before Gordon was finished speaking, Barney had turned to head towards the sound. “No clue but we should definitely find out just in case they have a way back whoever they are.”

***

Despite his newfound size, Benrey didn’t seem any more inclined to help them out. Nor did he seem any more inclined to stay with them because after only maybe half an hour he was already nowhere to be seen. Thankfully he could take care of himself – even more so now – so Gordon didn’t have to worry about him.

He also didn’t have to worry about shepherding the others safely through the alien wilderness because it had already been confirmed that they were all superhuman in one way or another. It was great! Travel companions who couldn’t die so he never had to worry about resetting for them. If not for the pressing issue of fixing what he’d broke, this would’ve been a pleasant time.

They marched through the Xen wilderness at a steady pace. Judging distance to the tower was hard but as long as they could see it, they could head towards it. It was tempting to try to push hard for it but that wouldn’t be wise. They needed to be ready for battle when they got there, not worn out from the journey.

With the military having retreated from the facility and probably having never found a way to get here in the first place, they were no longer an issue. It was only the aliens now and this was their home turf. Modern weaponry continued to work well against them though even as their ambushes continued to get more intense.

That had to prove that something intelligent was behind their attacks though and that it was getting desperate. It had to be the thing they’d been sent to Xen to kill, right? But if one alien was intelligent maybe some of the others were too. If so, could they be reasoned with? If Gordon killed their leader would they surrender? Hopefully.

But of the aliens he knew of, which species might be smart? … Not the parasites, that was for sure. Probably not the ‘peeper puppies’ either, they seemed too dog-like. The most obvious suspect would be…

“Look, a city.” Tommy’s voice cut into the chatter Bubby and Coomer had been exchanging – something about the mushrooms they were passing and which ones looked edible, or at least that’s what they’d been talking about last time Gordon had paid any real attention.

Gordon looked back to see where Tommy was pointing. … Up ahead, slightly left of the direction they’d been heading. It was less a ‘city’ and more what was clearly the back of a handful of buildings. Well disguised by the terrain and surrounding foliage – if the lumpy growths that made up much of the plant life counted as foliage anyway – it had basically been invisible until they were this close to it. Even now, if Tommy hadn’t been paying more attention, Gordon might’ve gone right past it without notice.

“It’s more a village,” Bubby said.

“Or a town,” Coomer added.

Regardless of what it was exactly, it was a sign of civilization. Seems his speculation about sentient aliens held truth. Whether it was any of the alien species they’d already encountered remained to be seen.

Gordon turned to his companions and lifted a finger to lips in a request for silence. Thankfully they all respected it – for now anyway – and didn’t resume their chatter as they started for the buildings

On uneven mountainous terrain, the buildings were quite far apart in some places and closer in others. They were coming at it from to the right of what might be the entrance. Gordon angled them to enter through a thin alleyway between two of the taller buildings.

Upon nearing the end of the alley, Gordon slowed to a stop to get a better look at the place. It was indeed more a small town or village than city. Somewhat circular, everything pointing inward towards the center where a tall vertical ring stood. Cables came off it leading to something next to it. A alien machine, its use impossible to guess when so far from it.

“Vonneguts,” Tommy whispered at about the same time Gordon spotted a small group of lightning shooting aliens – presumably the ‘Vonneguts’ in question – too.

They’d exited one of the buildings, angling towards the center. Bubby stepped forward, butting in between Gordon and Tommy, lifting his gun. Gordon grabbed the barrel and pushed it back down, earning a glare in return.

“Really? We’ve been killing those ugly bastards for however fucking long its been since they started popping in. They’ve been trying to kill us, we’re justified in killing them.” He at least had the decency to whisper.

As fair a point as that was, them having stumbled into what was obviously a settlement of some sort meant the Vonneguts were the intelligent aliens Gordon had been contemplating just a little while ago. Which came with it the other question; could they be reasoned with? How did he convey he intended to try?

“This is a town, Bubby.” Coomer didn’t lower his voice, he seemed incapable of it at times.A charming trait right up until it wasn’t anymore. Such as right now. “They might be civilians and thus not to be killed unless they prove to be hostile too.”

“That’s fucking stupid but fine, whatever. Go try to talk to them then, not-Gordon. See how well it goes. Just don’t get mad when I laugh while your ass gets electrocuted.”

“If uh, it does go poorly, he’ll just come back so probably it’s worth a try,” Tommy said. “They might be friendly. It’d be pretty cool if they were.”

Gordon gave him and Coomer thumbs up of approval before turning and marching out of the alley. Bubby mumbled something that was probably an insult or perhaps another complaint but Gordon was walking away fast enough that he didn’t catch it.

Naturally the Vonneguts – where had the name come from? Perhaps a Kurt Vonnegut reference had been made about them before he’d joined the party, maybe it was even other-him who’d made it – noticed him long before any of them reached the center. They didn’t attack though, just kept going on their same trajectory even while turning to look at him every few seconds.

Upon reaching the ring, three of them started doing something with one the boxes attached via cable to the ring. The fourth however turned to face Gordon, apparently waiting for him to catch up.

Upon doing so, the two of them stood and studied each other in silence. Gordon had gone out of his way to look closely at a dead one a while ago and had found it fascinating. Alive though and moving, the eyes all focused on him and roving over his body, was something else entirely. It made his skin crawl. Likely that had to with all his prior encounters with these guys being violent. But this one showed no sign of following suit.

Instead it spoke to him, its words alien and impossible to understand but it was without a doubt spoken language. Wow! Cool!

It was the longest of long shots but Gordon lifted his hands to sign a, “Hello,” anyway. “I come in peace.” He was the alien here, right? Assuming this place with the Vonneguts’ home anyway. It might not be considering they had the ability to travel to Earth and thus could’ve come here the same way and be from somewhere else entirely. “Sort of. I need to kill the thing attacking my home.”

The Vonnegut looked at him for a moment before lifting it hands and flexing them, including the little one on its chest. Nothing that looked like an alien sign language, seemingly just an acknowledgment that Gordon spoke with his hands. It then said something short and guttural in its own language before pointing at him, the ring they stood next to, and then back towards the tower.

Gordon pointed at himself and then the tower. That is indeed where he intended to go.

The Vonnegut repeated its earlier gesture, putting more emphasis on the ring this time. It was a big enough to for a person to go through. … A portal? They definitely had teleportation technology so maybe. A portal that would take him to the tower or at least closer to it. That’d be real nice. Trusting the Vonneguts’ technology was a tall ask but if it was a trap to kill him, he’d just…

The air crackled, above and around them; a familiar sound. The Vonneguts scattered, fleeing towards the shelter of the buildings. Looking up, Gordon drew his crossbow. It was the floating guys, a whole group of them. His first bolt missed, the second didn’t, piercing through the face of them. It fell as he reloaded, turning to…

A familiar flash of pain jolted through him, making him stumble and fall, dropping the crossbow. Over him, the floating aliens fired their orbs at him, a barrage he couldn’t quite get away from. They sent more jolts through him as they hit and then… he was blinking open his eyes back in the alleyway.

“It’s mind control, Mr. … er, not-Mr.Freeman,” Tommy blurted. “The balloon guys were mind controlling the Vonneguts to attack you! Or um… that’s what it looked like from over here.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bubby asked.

“I believe not-Gordon has died again,” Coomer replied. “Apparently to mind-controlled Vonneguts. And ooh, there’s some Vonneguts right there.” He pointed. It was the same group as before.

Bubby scowled but was thankfully distracted enough not to draw his gun this time. “Why the hell do you guys remember this stuff but I don’t?”

That was a very good question, the answer to which didn’t quite matter right now. The question of mind control did though. It had definitely been an alien lightening bolt that had hit him, throwing him off his balance. Which didn’t make sense since they’d been been acting friendly until that moment. So… mind control it was then? Despite having that much power, the way they’d run as soon as the balloon guys came was perhaps evidence of that control. He’d have to pay more attention to know for sure but for now, that was the theory he was going with.

“It means the Vonneguts are friendly, right?” Tommy said. “They’re being mind controlled to be mean. That’s awful! Poor things.”

“How do we know they’re all being controlled?” Bubby asked. “Maybe only some of them are while the rest try to kill us willingly. We don’t know jack-shit. I know even less because I don’t remember when this asshole apparently rewinds time every time he fucking dies.”

That was also a good point. Even if these Vonneguts had been mind controlled to ‘be mean’ that didn’t mean all of them were. Gordon had to get to the bottom of this no matter what.

He gestured for them to stay here while he turned and exited the alley. Enough time had passed for the Vonneguts to already be at the center. He jogged to catch up.

Their interaction was much the same except he didn’t try to sign anything to them, just going straight to pointing. The balloon guys came in at the same point in the conversation. Gordon was more ready for this though.

Already backing up for a better view of the battle, he took one of the balloon guys out, same as before but with the first bolt this time. Which freed him for a moment to pay more attention to the rest of them. Two of which shot out energy orbs of a different sort, much smaller but also much faster, making hitting the fleeing Vonneguts almost trivial. Said Vonneguts skidded to a halt before snapping around to face Gordon, already charging their beams. Gordon barely got out of the way in time to avoid getting hit. Mind control indeed.

Gunshots came from the alleyway his companions had been left in. Another balloon guy fell and then Gordon sniped one more. Up in the air with no cover, it wasn’t hard.

As soon as the final balloon guy fell to one of one of Gordon’s companions, the Vonneguts shuddered and stumbled. One even redirected its mostly charged beam into a wall instead of whoever its target had been before.

“We’re not killing these guys anymore then?” Bubby asked as he strode further forward, holding his gun up as if ready to use it.

Gordon jogged over to push the barrel down. He gave Bubby a firm head shake. No, they weren’t killing them anymore unless they absolutely had to or if any proved to be hostile even while not mind controlled.

“Damn it. Fine.”

“Yay, new friends,” Tommy said as the Vonneguts slowly started making their way back towards the center, presumably to resume whatever they’d been trying to do before being interrupted. Probably and hopefully getting that maybe-portal working.

Gordon turned to head that way himself, intending to watch from up close. Before he could take a more than a step in that direction…

“Yo, Gordon!”

Gordon snapped his attention to his left. It was Barney, his hand raised in greeting, standing in the entrance of the circular town. How had he gotten here? “If it even really is you this time. I never expected to run into you here of all places.” Next to him stood someone in an HEV suit. Gordon blinked as he took a step closer. It was… him? Or someone who just happened to look an awful lot like him. He was missing a hand though and thus probably, it was his alternate. Somehow his companions’ original Gordon had found them.

Coomer had noticed him too as he was already heading towards the two of them, raising a hand in greeting. “Hello, Gordon!”

~

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