#while trying to stay true to the glimpse of personality they’ve shown us

[swiftcola]

i think if you’re already struggling to read/understand the male characters despite their prominence and accessibility, you might not yet be able to comprehend the female characters of the series

[cutegirlmayra]

Hiiiiii, I rly like your writing X3 I was wondering if you’d answer this question: What is your interpretation of what SEGA is doing with SonAmy as of right now? Seems like it’s becoming more and more canon. I know you’ve done similar question before, but could you maybe just answer this for 2021? Thanks!💖💙

No problem! And thank you, lovely Anon~<3 I love writing for the feels~ But also for the accuracy to be as close as possible if I can manage it! First of all, they’ve always been canon? Maybe not ‘in-world dating’ canon but canon in the sense that they are a official SEGA advertised couple since the get-go.

Amy was created to literally be in the slot of ‘Sonic’s Girlfriend’ where she had feelings for Sonic and always a fun mystery as to decipher Sonic’s subtle ‘returned caring’ for her.

As for 2021 we are so FREAKIN’ HAPPY to hear that SEGA is FINALLY marketing the two and VISUALLY SEEING the sales of their ‘couple shirts’ and the like make some profit. Furthermore, we have long-time fans and professionals in the careers within SEGA also vocalizing that they don’t mind the couple and even support it. With less emphasis on the ‘fandom fanatics’ of the raging past and more so on the fantastic marketability and popularity the couple brings to SEGA’s exposing their main IP, it’s become almost common ground to expect more and more people liking romantic and suggested romantic couples in all ranging medias.

We need also mention the alarming rate of the worrisome numbers in Japan recently. Conducted studies have shown that most of Japan’s population is elderly, and in the very near future (About 5 years or so) a good chuck of Japan’s population will die. This means the Japanese Government is promoting more and more companies within both entertainment, advertising, etc. to be more ‘promoting family’ in their media. Japan needs more babies! And guess what?

Mario Odyssey comes out with a completely ‘Wedding themed’ video game.

Dramatic romantic underlying's in Zelda’s new game.

Final Fantasy 7 Remake’s focus on romantic underlying’s along with Cloud willingly saying (English version) “Do I have any say in this?” As though to fight the idea that romance can’t happen and-

Kingdom Hearts 3′s romantic underlying that literally has a song (Japanese) talking about rings and getting married called “Chikai” or also ‘Oath’ that in English is rewritten to a romantic song about going deeper into love called “Don’t Think Twice” but literally has the two ‘making their fates intertwined’ in a symbol of ‘romantic intentions’ such as marriage or even just fidelity in a relationship.

So? How does all this influence the latest Sonamy supersonic boom we’ve seen in the media recently?

Although Sonic is his own character, he’s also only 15 (But as many of you have seen in Anime, Japanese ages of appropriateness are different then our own cultures and societies) we see faint glimpses. In the mostly American-made Sonic Boom t.v series, the comedic moments of Sonic and Amy are very much to a genre of American audiences and how we view ‘funny love’ should normally be marketed as. (I don’t always agree with what they say, but that’s how they’re trained and believe the ‘trends’ go... so ... can’t argue with professionals? Eh? -I personally think they’re outdated *cough cough*)

Sonic is not one to express feelings in overly dramatic ways which is common place in American television and media, but he’s also got a ‘boy’s heart’ which means we won’t see a lot of things from him BESIDES ‘romantic underlyings’ that are probably going to be initiated and themed mostly and primarily in Amy Rose’s character (If at all shown or expressed.)

For these reasons, I believe SEGA is just hopping on the bandwagon and doing what they’re told, while also following the latest trends that the other big fellow companies are making a significant profit on. I know we wish and want SEGA to be ‘special’ in how they think, but they really are just a company that is trying to survive and outlast the competition.

It’s sad to think that way, especially when SEGA used to be so creative and always influencing the next best thing but that was YEARS ago and they’ve learned to tread water since then...

(Goku being a grandfather emphasizes family in this particular scene where they take his granddaughter before a big tournament fight to a fair/festival. We see Goku with his family too, or at least, a successful son with his wife and daughter, spending time with his Father-In-Law, and the like.)

We see it in Dragon Ball emphasizing family, we see it in more romance-themed animes (and those that have only recently done romance, when they--for the longest part--never indulged in such things before or previously) and we now see more japanese games and media centralized around that.

What does that mean for Sonamy? Hopefully good things! Because if you buy the merch, they’ll produce more content. It’s a basic ‘supply and demand’ formula. If the demand (meaning how much you spend and want Sonic and Amy couple merch) goes up, then they have to supply to keep their business afloat. If they don’t they sink, but that DOES NOT MEAN TO BE AGRESSIVE. It means just support when they do something you like, and positively, kindly mention what you liked and wish to see more of if the future allows. No one reads aggressive writing unless, they too--wish to be aggressive back.

SEGA’s had issues with aggressiveness before, please let them see that couples in the sonic world won’t have a negative impact on their branding with irrational and bad-media frenzies. (Now, after saying this, I know people will start to do just that, don’t feed fire with fire, just let the fire burn till it has nothing left to consume, and carry on happily posting fanart or fanstories of what you love. Ignore to extinguish, which is what SEGA will do to Sonic shipping fans if we don’t act somewhat reasonably, okay?)

My predictions are such: 1. Amy’s crush will sadly lessen in impact and become more of a novelty, something that is treasured when moments arise to reveal her crush on Sonic, which in my opinion, is not her personality, but due to the heavy influence of women’s portrayal (Especially in America) being overemphasized and not done well, this is how they will try and combat it... (No one does this right and you shouldn’t base a characters solely on political reasonings...) 2. Sonic will have moments of caring for Amy or doing something sweet that can and probably will be interpreted as ‘a couple moment’ but he’ll remain mostly about other things, and the ‘underlying romance’ will have to come through Amy Rose’s character. 3. SEGA will loosen some rules after seeing more and more of the productivity and trend associated with marketing romance, and to keep up with demand and growing times, will finally let small moments emerge between the two, but the fandom will not be satisficed since we will now be desensitized to overly avert demure and oblivious stereotropes that will date their characters. and won’t allow them to proceed smoothly into the new area of customers and audiences.

Children are becoming extremely observant and aware. They are clever, and they always have been. It’s time to market to Children and Young Adults, not babies.

My ways to avoid this, predictions 1: New employees will surface that will start to get a name and reputation in the Sonic Fandom, along with youtube and internet stars who will influence certain marketing schemes (as is starting to appear now, and I feel will be just like ‘star marketing’ or ‘influencers’ that will be popularized in fandoms that companies will slightly make use of.) that will encourage new ideas and bring about a sudden ‘boom’ not expected. (Especially after the lull of the pandemic, I feel there will be an abundance of things happening in the upcoming years... but nothing right now, unfortunately, but at least they’re forced to focus on working on things instead of just releasing to keep up with other companies.)--In other words, they will incorporate new blood with the old, and they will lead Sonic’s IP into a ton of nostalgia and new beginnings that will actually stick and become Sonic’s new brand identity. (This will resonate with fans old and new, but still be a fresh leap into the future for the franchise and fandom.) 2. Sonic’s negative popularity will start to decrease, leading and paving the way for fame and possible adjustments such as more romantic themes to keep up with trends and Japanese Government demands (especially when the population starts to wither and it becomes an emergency situation to start encouraging family ties). Other than sonamy or romantic things, I believe new characters will pop up to ‘test the waters’ and see if we like romance intertwined adventures. 3. Villains will become more sentimental and caring, less comedically, they will be redeemable entities so that the company can market them more. This can also lead into funny romances that help other romances develop and have more meaning. (In other words, they’ll dig into their vault of familiar and new faces, go off the trend of ‘redeeming the villain’ and have more heart-to-heart moments that may inspire more canonical couples... especially if a newer villain were to have a crush that ended up helping two canon characters get together and leave the audience sympathizing more with the villain. This is an actual trend starting where Villains have more character and roles other than just being evil and staying that way till death. I suspect this will be popularized in American and possibly foreign media as time goes on.)

(I actually have a lot of the sonamy shirts lol But here’s an example of the villain actually helping the canon couple have more ‘romantic underlying’ moments together <3)

Those are my current predictions, though I admit that some don’t sound all that hopeful. But hey! All my hopeful and positive predictions have already come true XD Sonamy is being marketed, the new media (Sonic Boom at the time) had subtle but more forward comedic hinting (that I don’t feel went all that well? But eh, that’s just me!), and SEGA continues to try and reface Sonic which his brand doesn’t need. I believe they will still try and rebrand Sonic continually until something sticks for them that they like. Sonamy may go through many iterations, as they are still hesitant with it, and we see that by only marketing their ‘younger selves’ as in Classic Sonamy, and are too ‘shy and uncertain’ if backlash would happen if they advertised a more mature-looking Sonic and Amy marketing. Again, I don’t know if they’ll fully grow out of this, so I predict they won’t.

(I have this one but in black <3 <3 <3)

That’s it for now! My positive last comments would be the more we buy/purchase Sonamy merch, the more we’ll start seeing it in their media and entertainment products. Until then, do your best and write, draw, and review -kindly- to keep those articles of enchantment alive with the sweet sound of--”When will Sonic and Amy finally have a love song AMV moment for us?” lol

[alionne]

3 | Scale

Stormblood spoilers up to & including the level 69 dungeon. 1409 words.

When Alionne first spied the figure, she thought it was a daydream, brought to life by her own desires. An unidentified male insurgent had destroyed the cannon at Specula Imperatoris, Stark had said. Which beggared belief, Alphinaud had pointed out. And Alionne’s thoughts had drifted to one such person, location unknown, with the strength to do such a thing.

Well. Mayhaps not anymore, not without the Eyes of Nidhogg. But those, too, had turned up in Gyr Abania, had they not? Perhaps he’d chased them, and… found the Eorzean Alliance, being attacked by a cannon, and… destroyed it, but without notifying anyone else?

It was the most ridiculously dramatic chain of events Alionne could imagine, which honestly made it sound more and more like Estinien, now that she’d thought about it. So, mayhaps he’d been on her mind while assaulting Castrum Abania. Mayhaps she’d looked for him, even, though if he had been the one to destroy the cannon, he’d certainly have left by now.

She hadn’t been thinking of Estinien in the command room, though— she’d been achingly worried for Alisaie, and then furious at Fordola, and Zenos, baffled by his invitation. She’d hefted Alisaie in her arms, and then looked back for one last glance in the direction Fordola had disappeared, hoping to catch a glimpse of the magitek armor bearing her away.

And instead, she’d seen… well. She couldn’t be sure. But armor did glint in a very particular way, and the shape of it had been so familiar...

Another moment, and it disappeared. She forced her gaze away, back to more important matters—Alisaie might no longer be bleeding out on the floor, but she still needed transport.

But, on the ground, Alisaie safely spirited away, they’d had a lull, the recent battle won, the next one not planned yet. A chance to catch their breath. And Alionne had never been one for resting, and she was curious…

She spies Lyse with Raubahn, which means the girl probably won’t do anything too foolhardy tonight. It takes a few minutes until the new leader of the Ala Mhigan resistance can be pulled aside, but Alionne eventually finds her chance. “Do you still have that climbing gear?”

“The stuff we used for Nyunkrepf’s Hope? I… yes, I do,” says Lyse, confused. “Are you planning another trip? We did just climb it.”

“I was thinking about it,” admits Alionne, though she doesn’t say why. “I’m feeling a little restless, and I thought a short camping trip might be a nice way to tire me out.”

“Shall I come with you, then?” Lyse asks, as if it were already decided, and Alionne scrambles to think of a reason why she should go alone.

“Oh! No need! You’re the new leader of the resistance, you should make yourself available to everyone!” says Alionne, a little too eagerly, she scolds herself. “They’ve known you as a comrade, but I don’t know that they’ve all had the chance to see you as a leader, yet. Or to realize that you’re just as approachable now as you were before, you know?”

“I... suppose that’s true,” says Lyse, reluctantly. “But, you will be careful, won’t you? I’d hate to find you injured, or worse, because a golem got a lucky shot in, or you fell off a cliff.”

“I can handle myself,” Alionne tells her firmly, thinking of several cliffs she’s stepped off of willingly, without issue. Although, don’t tell her that, that’s not going to inspire confidence… instead, she winks at Lyse. “You won’t even notice I’m gone, promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that!” Lyse threatens, but she lets Alionne depart Ala Ghiri without further protest.

Retracing her steps is easy, automatic. As Lyse had pointed out, she’d just been here, and it leaves her mind free to wander.

Alisaie, Krile, and Y’shtola are all out of commission… although that feels like an understatement, in Krile’s case. The Resistance has won the Fringes and the Peaks, and no doubt there will be a plan to secure more of Ala Mhigo in the morning. Doma is freed, and Zenos’ attention is… on her, if Fordola’s unnerving eye contact had meant anything, but better her than anyone else.

Like the mysterious assailant who destroyed their cannons, she thinks, and then she’s thinking of Estinien again, as she hitches her rope to the first point Lyse had shown her.

It may not have been Estinien, she reminds herself. It could have been a trick of the light, or another wanderer. Even if it was, there’s no reason to think he’s still lingering here, now that the Resistance has taken Castrum Abania and the region is safe. Most likely, you’ll enjoy a nice climb and enjoy a nice view.

And with that, she pushes the dragoon out of her mind, focusing her attention on the climb. The dust on her palms, the edge of the rock digging into the pads of her fingers, the rough fibers of the rope as she loops it around her arm.

It’s a meditation, though not one that comes easily to her. Her thoughts turn to Fordola’s deep conviction and unnatural speed in the command room, and then she wrests them away, forcing herself to instead consider the cool desert air. Zenos’ “hunt” pops into her mind, and for a moment, she pauses, filled equally with the desire to fight and a worry about the outcome, but a burning in her arms forces her to refocus on the task at hand. Three-quarters of the way up, Alionne pauses on a small outcropping and suddenly thinks that Hien and Aymeric would like each other. If she weren’t so out of breath, she’d laugh at how unexpected, but right, the thought is.

The stars are coming out, and it reminds her of the Steppe and the Churning Mists and Thanalan all at once. The cliff, Alionne reminds herself, again. She feels a pleasant ache in her legs as she gets to her feet.

The last quarter will be slow-going, because even though Alionne’s already scaled this exact cliff in this exact way, it hadn’t been night last time. “What I wouldn’t give for a sodding chocobo right now,” she mutters to herself, and, alright, maybe she’s not trying to meditate anymore. Maybe she’s not avoiding thoughts of Estinien, either.

The thing is, if Alionne were a reclusive dragoon, this is the exact spot she’d hole up for a few days while her friends distracted the Empire. The ruins offer some measure of protection from inquisitive parties, and it’s very, maddeningly, stupidly high, she thinks, glaring at the rock face. Because gods forbid a dragoon stay on the bloody ground like anyone else, assuming there even is a godsdamned dragoon at the top of this godsdamned cliff, which there probably isn’t because Alionne has probably invented him, because she’s been looking for a familiar silhouette on top of every building she’s passed for months, ever since Aymeric had suggested that she’d be the most likely to see him of all of them, because he’s an uncommunicative, reclusive bastard.

And mayhaps frustration has propelled Alionne more quickly than expected, because she’s got a hand atop the cliff, now. The edge is an easy hold, and she lets the rest of her body weight hang, for a moment.

She’s too tired to lie about the feeling fluttering in her breast—she’s nervous. She’s been pretending all evening that it doesn’t matter if she finds him at the top, but she’d clearly come all this way for something. And even if Estinien is up here, she’s only going to find him if he wants to be found. Which he probably doesn’t, or he’d have contacted the Scions, or helped the Resistance, or even just been somewhere vaguely approachable.

You’re being ridiculous, Alionne tells herself, but something fond uncurls within her as she thinks it. It’s nice, to be nervous about something ridiculous, for once, instead of something potentially life- and nation-threatening. She’d climbed all this way, and here she was, hesitating on the very last step, for no good reason.

And just as she’s resolved to move, a hand grasps her wrist and starts to haul her the rest of the way up.

“Only a fool would climb a cliffside like this at night,” a reassuringly familiar voice growls at her.

“And only a fool would be waiting at the top,” she replies sweetly, and finds her feet at last.

[ilguna]

Redamancy - Chapter Four (f.o)

summary: it’s time to forgive and repair.

warnings; swearing, MURDER, GORE.

wc; 8.8k

NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

Even though the Hunger Games doesn’t start until ten, you’re in the betting room at nine. You’re not the first and only mentor to come down bright and early, there’s plenty of others who are already making their way around the room. Shaking hands, exchanging compliments and holding friendly conversation.

You’re not exactly the same way, as you stand off to the side, gnawing on your thumb’s nail. You’ve watched Annie and Marsh’s odds bob up and down plenty of times already, as the gamemakers try to decide where they belong last minute. So far, Annie and Marsh are back to back in numbers, with Marsh being on top.

“You’re stressed.”

Gloss is staring up at the betting board when you look over at him. He’s got his arms crossed, serious and straight-faced. In the past, he would be some type of excited because of their undeniably fantastic tributes. This year is different, as you’ve already discovered many times. His male tribute scored lower than usual, and the girl is higher by one single point.

It’s normal for the careers to score from anywhere between eight and ten, but that doesn’t mean they want an eight. They want nines and tens, because it shows proficiency and dangerousness. Plus, it’s normally District Four who’s scoring eights and whatnot. A good example of that is when Finnick scored the number when he was fourteen.

Today’s seriousness doesn’t reflect the attitude that was being presented last night. Last night was much livelier, a laughing group of mentors on the streets of the Capitol. Of course, as Finnick requested, you all stayed inside and in private rooms for most of the time, but eventually he decided that he wanted to experience the festival the way you guys normally do.

Which is practically chaos, as Gloss and Enobaria feed into each other’s bad thoughts and drag you around the city doing whatever they want. Trying on regular Capitol wear, buying replica crowns that Snow places on the brows of victors. They try different drinks and foods, all a hundred different flavors, some sweet, others sour, sometimes spicy.

The Capitol is a playground to them, and it’s fun to watch them break rules and create their own. Playing games on the sidewalk to see who will chug the next cherry vodka, who will lose a shirt or a sock or a piece of expensive jewelry down a storm drain. The night of the interviews is the only night where you all get to be your true selves.

Even Finnick felt comfortable enough to join in on your antics. It’s always a night to remember, you’re sure that he’ll be using it to tell stories in the future. The year where you cornered Finnick to helping you, and how he saw that you weren’t always who you pretended to be. It’s easy to be professional when you don’t like someone, but it’s harder to contain yourself when you’re surrounded by people who understand what you’re going through.

Of course, it’s only one night. If your tributes die, you get sent home, so you never have the chance to congratulate and celebrate with your friends after they bring home another tribute. You can always say your peace the next year, but by then they’re over it, and they’re ready for another victor.

“So are you.” you playfully punch his bicep, “Look at you, you never cross your arms.”

He gives you a smile, “Whatever, it’s not that much of a giveaway.”

“You’re right, it was definitely your face. You never scowl.” You look at the board again to see that all the numbers seem to be locked, “Careful, you’ll end up with wrinkles. After that, people will really begin to realize that you’re older than Cashmere.”

The board is a little confusing at first to get used to, but after years of looking at it, you’ve grown accustomed to it. At the top reads ‘MORNING LINE ODDS’, and below is a row readied for how many days, hours, minutes and seconds the tributes have been inside of the arena. Which is none at the moment, so instead they have a countdown going on. Fifty-four minutes. Less than an hour.

Below it are more rows and information about the tributes. The left states their district, and then it splits into two. The Capitol doesn’t care about names anymore, just the important parts. Their heights, weights, ages, betting odds and faces are displayed for everyone to see.

For Gloss and Cashmeres tributes, they’re both doing fairly good on odds. The girl has a predicted 5-1 chance of winning, and the boy has a 7-1. In the past, the roles have been reversed, the boys always show a brute strength during their private training so it’s hard not to score like that. Enobaria and Wades tributes are better, even with the repeating numbers. The girl has a 5-1 too, but the boy holds a 3-1 because of his score.

The gamemakers are used to your tributes’ scores teetering on the edge of very good and mediocre, which normally earns them a 9-1 or lower. However, since your tributes have shown promise through personality and matching high numbers, you’re staring at a 7-1 for Marsh and a 8-1 for Annie. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than the past scores.

You think that the lowest you’ve seen for District Four is a 20-1. That was a particularly horrible year, and since then you’ve learned to stop the problem before it gets too bad to be fixed. Maybe it’s attitude, maybe it’s not caring for training, you’re there with dead eyes and mean words to put them back in their place. They like to self-sabotage, not a good thing to do when you’re going into the Hunger Games.

On one hand, you’re thankful for the morning line odds, because it gets the betters a sense of direction of which tributes they should sponsor and keep an eye on. But sometimes it seems futile when the sponsors will do whatever they want, or go for the more obvious and favorable tributes--cough cough, Districts One and Two. You can never go wrong betting on the districts that practically get a winner every year.

“Haha.” Gloss says in regards to your age comment, “Where’s Finnick?”

You shrug, “Couldn’t find him at all this morning.”

It’s true, you searched the entire apartment three times before leaving. The living room, the kitchen, the balcony, your bedroom, his bedroom, even in the hallway and stairwell. There wasn’t a single trace of Finnick anywhere, it didn’t even look like he spent the night in his room, but you definitely remember him going in there last night.

Whatever, you’re not all that upset. It’s the first day, and even if there’s a lot that happens on the first day, sponsorships aren’t one of them. The first day relies on the tributes to get used to their surroundings and figure things out for themselves. The second day is when mentors and sponsors begin to collaborate.

Doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t be down here anyway. It’s nice to make friends while you can. You’ll just have to talk to Finnick later about him helping you down here. The whole reason why you’ve called on him for help this year is because of the betting room. An extra pair of eyes, ears and hands helps out, it goes a long ass way. Two people mingling is better than one. You can pull more sponsors together.

You glance at Gloss, “Where’s Cashmere and the others?”

“Wade’s here,” Gloss turns, thumb jabbing in the direction. He’s got the spot perfectly right, you’re able to see that Wade is surrounded by Capitol people, all laughing and joking around, “Cashmere and Enobaria will be down here later. They’re sleeping in, I think.”

“Well, after last night…” you trail off with a small smile, and Gloss snorts.

It’s quiet between you two as you watch the time tick down. Thirty minutes left, the tributes are close or in the catacombs at this point. Judging by the small glimpse the gamemakers gave this year, you think that the arena’s going to be sunny. They’re probably dressed in regular clothing, stuff that won’t make the tributes too hot but won’t allow them to get cold easily.

Honestly, at this point, you’re tired of the build up. 

“At least your tributes’ odds are doing well this year.”

“Tell me about it. But it came at a price, since yours fucked up during training.” you run a hand through your hair, getting annoyed when it falls back in your face.

“There’s always room for redemption.”

Redemption, what a pointless thing to bank on, “Right.”

You’d tell him it’s good to have hope, but when has hope ever helped you? It’s always a letdown. And out of all tributes that are about to enter the arena, the careers aren’t the ones that need hope. It’s everyone else.

More silence, you mindlessly watch the time tick down. Thirty minutes, twenty, fifteen, ten. Everyone starts getting antsy around five, you and Gloss stand behind the rows of chairs that begin to fill with citizens. Wade comes around and joins the two of you, talking about what he discovered during conversation.

He was going after their opinions on the tributes. And while they have sung good praise of their tributes, as usual, they also couldn’t stop bringing up Marsh in particular. There were constant comments on how they had wished that he would’ve gotten more time on stage. It was new to them, and they liked the new approach. 

You figure that other mentors will start telling their tributes to follow in Marsh’s footsteps, and after that the comedy skit will be ruined and you’ll have to find something else that’ll catch attention. At this point, everything possible has been found and exploited until it got old. 

Twenty seconds until it hits a minute, which is when they’ll raise the tributes. The games don’t officially start until that minute is over. The clock will flip, and then it’ll start from the bottom up. You clench your teeth, spinning your ring around your finger over and over. Annie and Marsh are in the tubes, submerged in darkness, you can feel it yourself, the stomach lurching and the dread and regret. It’s too late now, they have to fall through on what they’ve built so far.

They’ve got this. They’ve got this. They’ve got this.

The clock hits a minute and five seconds, you can begin to see the tops of tributes heads. You lean forward slightly, eyes searching for Annie and Marsh, and find them easily. They’re close together, maybe two tributes between them, which is good news. They can see each other and decide what they want to do. You hope they discussed some sort of plan at some point regarding how they want to start their games off.

The cornucopia this year is silver and placed in the middle of a field of flowers. The grass is tall too, but thin enough to see where the gamemakers have placed the goodies outside of the cornucopia this year. As the camera pans around the tributes, you’re able to catch glimpses of the arena.

A field of flowers, hills that seem to stretch forever and offer little to no protection. In the distance is… a village? Others must see it too, because whispers break out, predictions on which tributes will immediately run for it. It’s an obvious place to go, Annie and Marsh won’t head there first. They’ll go for a better place.

However, it’s not inevitable, it’ll probably be the first place where the careers will go to get as many people out as possible. For a quick and scary moment, you think that this will be a fast Hunger Games. Whatever happens, just let one of your tributes last until the end.

One last shot before the sixty seconds is over, and it feels like you’ve been stabbed in the heart. 

The dam that they showed--the preview--they must’ve edited it or something with how they made it look so small and not at all threatening. You thought it was holding back a small river, especially with the stream of water that was coming from it. But this--this is not for a river. This is for a fucking lake.

“Oh my fucking god.” you lace your fingers, placing your hands on the back of your head.

“Wow.” Gloss utters, “Yeah that isn’t at all what they showed us.”

From what you can tell, the tributes are supposed to be far away from the dam, a couple miles at least. But it’s still big enough to see through the trees, and tall enough to block some of the sky. Actually, it reminds you of the cliffs in your games. The cliffs were a two day walk from the cornucopia, and yet you could see them over the tops of the trees.

No one in their right mind would head towards the dam, especially with the chance that it would break. It’s just not common sense, and Annie and Marsh have shown promise when it comes to thinking logically. Which means that they would have to head the other way… towards the village.

They’re fucked. Everyone in that arena is set up for failure. You give it a couple of days, maybe a week and a half at most. No one in their right mind is going to want to stay next to the dam, but on the other hand they won’t want to get killed. And you can hide near the dam at the beginning of the games, but eventually if you want to head towards the village and clear hills, people will see you coming from a mile away.

You clench your fists, gritting your teeth more as your nails dig into the skin on your palms. 

Out of all the arena’s that you’ve seen, this is by far the worst. It’s a trap, there’s no choice but to fall victim to it.

“Well, there goes literally everything.” Wade lets out a laugh.

“The others should be down here.” Gloss says.

He’s referring to Enobaria, Cashmere and Finnick, and he’s completely right. They won’t know what’s happening or the situation until later. By then, it’ll be too late. The bloodbath always costs around seven to ten lives, and if they all scatter towards the village, you think at the end of the day, half the competition will be gone.

The countdown has reached five, you watch as Annie and Marsh prepare to run into the cornucopia. It isn’t a bad choice, they’re good fighters. As long as they don’t go too far in, maybe grab the supplies that are only a few feet away from the mouth, they’ll be golden. You hope they realize this.

The gong sounds.

It’s only been a couple of seconds, and a handful of tributes are already heading towards the village. Others dare to run towards the dam, but they’re all apprehensive and continue to steal longing looks at the cornucopia and beyond that. They’re not the focus of the cameras, though.

The bloodbath is horrible as usual. Annie and Marsh are next to each other, stealing things out of the grass, shoving them into an empty backpack. Sheets of plastic, bread, firestarters, rope, water jugs. You watch with furrowed eyebrows, trying to keep track of the careers and the deaths.

On the side of the screen is a list, one at a time names and districts appear. The girl from Six, the boy from Eight, the girl from Eleven, the boy from Twelve. Two minutes in and four are already dead. Annie and Marsh head towards the cornucopia quickly, a plan already in mind.

Marsh slips inside of the cornucopia, making your heartbeat in your ears, body filling with adrenaline. Stupid move, going inside traps you there. Not even in your games did you go inside all the way. He’s gone for ten seconds, twenty. Annie doesn’t appear to be worried at first, but it changes when a career sets their eyes on her.

The boy from One.

“Oh, here we go.” you cross one arm over your chest, the other covering your mouth.

Annie ditches the backpack, throwing it against the cornucopia to keep it clear of her path. Out of nowhere, she pulls out a knife, spinning it between her fingers to make sure that the boy knows she has it. Her body curls in forward, chin dropping downwards.

She would look threatening, as if she has a chance at winning this fight if it weren’t for the short blade that the boy has. He comes towards her, a smile hinting at the corners of his lips. He swings, she dodges easily and advances forward. Annie isn’t a runner, especially not when she has a plan. 

This is life or death, Annie. This isn’t practice anymore. This is for real.

He swings again, she moves out of the way and comes closer, a little out of range. The boy is becoming frustrated, and his swings begin to cut close. Annie side steps, you can see the blade cut through her shirt, when the boy holds his blade up, you can see a glint of blood. Annie doesn’t even look phased.

Where the hell is Marsh? You look at the corner of the screen, reading over the new list of deaths. The boy from Eleven, the girl from Twelve, the girl from Ten. Seven dead, the bloodbath is practically over, Annie and Marsh need to get out of there now.

He swings again, cutting Annie’s upper left arm. She barely acknowledges it, when the gamemakers change camera angles, you can finally see her face. All those times you’ve watched her fight the other kids at the boarding school, she’d be able to sweep most of the kids with her eyes closed. On the days you and Anchor permitted actual harm, she became more serious about fighting.

Annie shifted in those moments. Her eyes dead, locking on the target in front of her. She always has a plan, always ready to move and bait the person in. She’ll tense in sticky situations, but always find her way out of it. She became unlikable when fighting others because of this. Always said that it was an unfair fight. 

And she’s about to bring the boy from One down.

The boy swings one more time, Annie moves out of the way in time for him to miss. Not a second later, she’s launching towards him, the knife perfectly aimed for his stomach. He’s quick to try and slash at her, so she has to drop the knife in the grass and grab his wrist instead, falling on top of him.

Annie slams her knee into the boy's left wrist, and uses both of her hands to force the sword in the other hand, down towards his throat. His face turns an angry shade of red, eyebrows forced so close that there’s a deep crease between them. Annie’s face is determined, the kind and polite girl that you saw yesterday evening is nowhere to be seen.

It’s a struggle between them, Annie’s got a tight grip around his wrist, knuckles turning white. She grits her teeth, lip curling, lets up for a moment on the arm, only to go crashing back down. The boys’ locked arm breaks, and the sword slides through his throat. Red, thick blood comes out of his throat, painting his tan skin and the silver blade.

Annie lets out a sound, pulls out the sword, and slams it into his forehead. On the side of the screen, the boy from One appears. You let out a breath, watching as Annie gathers her things. It’s right on time for Marsh to come fighting out, the girl from One trying to stop him. His face is twisted like he’s in pain, but it’s just how he focuses too.

If they knock out District One, Gloss and Cashmere go home. It’s over, and all you have to worry about is the District Two tributes. For the first time in a very long time, District One won’t survive past the first day. 

It doesn’t work out like that, Marsh sends a harsh kick to her leg and she crumples. He and Annie regroup, and the two of them take off running towards the dam, the backpack bouncing on Annie’s back, Marsh tightly holding onto his favorite weapon. Annie now has the short blade to use.

“Okay.” you breathe, because it could be worse. 

The village is going to be a slaughter, so you don’t blame them for running towards the dam. They just need to find another place to stay soon, and hope that the careers don’t come towards them for revenge.

“Congrats.” Gloss has got a smile on his face, clapping a hand on your shoulder.

“Thanks, I guess. One more tribute and you get sent home.” you raise your eyebrows at him.

He rolls his eyes, “They’ll have to try really hard to get that to happen.”

“Anything is possible!” you cheer.

The bloodbath lasted about twenty minutes, even if it didn’t feel like it. The main career group has three left; two girls and one boy. Annie and Marsh are still very much alive, taking camp by the dam. The total bloodbath deaths is eight. Districts Eleven and Twelve are gone; Parry, Seeder and Haymitch are going home.

They’re nowhere to be seen, which you can’t really blame them for. Haymitch is the only victor in his district, and Parry won ten years ago so he replaced Chaff when it comes to mentoring. After a long streak of losing, you’re sure that you’d find yourself holed up in the apartment too. Why bother showing up in the betting room if you know your tributes won’t make it past the first day?

Although, District Eleven typically has their tributes last a while longer. But you guess it’s different this year since both of their tributes ran into the cornucopia on the assumption that they’d make it out alive. At this point, no tributes make it out alive unless they’re very good at fighting or they can slip between fingers.

You take a look at the betting board to see that the dead tributes are greyed out since they’re impossible to bet on. Everyone else who’s still alive have had their odds increase slightly. Now that the gamemakers have seen survival and fighting skills come alive, they can determine how the rest of the games are going to go much better.

The girl from One has increased to a 4-1, the other two careers stay the same. Annie has gone from an 8-1 to a 6-1, Marsh stays the same. Killing the career boy has done her good. Your two tributes will have sponsors around the corner in no time. You think that Finnick will be excited to hear this.

On screen, the careers gather what they need and air out of the cornucopia, heading towards the village, as predicted. For a second, there’s a disagreement, as the girl from One wants to head after Annie and Marsh to take care of them before they become a serious problem, but the other two vote against her, so she’s stuck going towards the village.

Annie and Marsh aren’t the only two who went towards the dam, there’s about three to four others who are there too. Still, the majority went straight for the village, which could very well be because it’ll give them cover from any of the elements, but you can’t imagine that there’s any sort of water source. The gamemakers like to keep the sources to a minimum and in one spot to make sure that the tributes come across each other on refills.

With the bloodbath being over, you can breathe. You, Gloss and Wade take a seat on a couch nearby, with you and Gloss being pressed against the arms, and Wade being sat in the middle. You’d say that it’s crowded, Gloss and Wade aren’t the smallest guys to exist, but there’s still enough breathing room between all of you.

You tap your fingers against the arm of the chair, watching as the cameras all split into groups. Annie and Marsh being one, still running into the woods to put as much distance between them and the cornucopia as possible. The second team of tributes being District Seven, as they’re working together this year, heading towards the left, away from the stream of water that Annie and Marsh are unintentionally going to come across.

The other two tributes by the dam are the girl from Eight and the boy from Five, scattered in their own special way, but not shown individually on screen. They’re not as important, it looks like the gamemakers are focusing on alliances at the moment. Next up are the careers, taking their time with making their way down and over the grassy hills. They’re digging through their backpacks and laughing about something.

There’s no alliance in the village at all. After a few more seconds of glimpses of the alliance tributes, it’s switched to individual. From what you’re able to see, the village is pretty big. At least six tributes are scattered inside of houses or making their way as deep inside as possible. As far as the forest goes, two people are wandering around. There’s only one tribute that you can’t decide where they are because of the way she’s cleverly placed herself.

The bloodbath canons begin to go off now, there’s a series of different reactions. Eight deaths in the bloodbath isn’t even that uncommon, the most you’ve probably seen before is twelve. Hell, in your games you think that there were nine total. Typically, the tributes have enough common sense to save themselves right off the bat.

“What do you think the dam’s about?” Gloss suddenly asks.

Your eyes slowly land on him to see that he’s waiting on you and Wade. Wade shrugs his shoulders, not knowing what to say. They don’t know? How can they not know? You thought that the dam was pretty straight forward. Maybe they weren’t standing in front of the tv close enough to see the cracks.

A part of you wants to tell them what your predictions are, but you bite your tongue and shrug too. In the past, mentors have been able to send secret messages to tributes. It happened in your games, it’s happened in others, and you’ve even sent a couple when it was direly needed. So telling them could backfire in your face.

Even if you’re friends with them, sometimes you can’t trust to give others certain information. It’s so risky, knowing that the other mentor can easily pass off the information. Especially during the initial week inside of the Capitol. The tributes are at your fingertips.

It’s why you resort to being mysterious most of the time. While your mentor friends have nothing to hide because they put their plans out in the open from the start—because you all know that it’s no secret that the careers are powerhouses. You rely on the element of surprise to get you through literally everything.

The mentors can’t tell their tributes what your opinion is if you don’t give one. They can’t tell them that you’re sure your tributes are absolutely deadly and pose one of the biggest threats in the arena this year. They have to rely on past experiences to make predictions, but even then, sometimes districts manage to pull surprises out of nowhere.

The clock hits the first hour mark, by then the careers have made it to the village. Already beginning to weave their way in and out of houses. They’re not exactly quiet, so if a tribute hears them coming, they’ll easily be able to hide before the career gets to them.

Well, that’s what you think. However, every time a tribute is shown individually, you see that there’s nothing to hide behind. There’s no doors, and if there are, they’re broken or falling apart from years with no use. It’s like a terrifying game of hide and seek, but there’s hardly hiding. It’s a game of skill and luck now. 

Luck that you won’t get found or your house won’t get chosen. That the career will come just close enough but turn their back at the last second when they decide that a place is clear. But it’s skill, testing the careers senses. Seeing if they properly know how to clear an area completely of tributes.

Just like how luck wasn’t on the side of these tributes when their names got chosen, it’s not on their side when it comes to hiding in plain sight, either. One by one, they’re all found.

The first one is the girl from Five, pressed tightly against the wall, holding her breath with tears slowly coming to her eyes. You can practically hear her chanting in her head, “Please don’t find me, please don’t fine me—“

The girl from One rounds the corner, without a single hesitation, she shoves the sword through the other girls’ stomach before the girl can defend herself. The sword pins the girl to the wall, blood spilling out of her stomach. Five has her mouth open in shock, eyes locked on the weapon, fingers fumbling to touch it.

One looks pleased, a smile creeping onto her face. For a moment, you can see Cashmere in her. The blonde hair, the green eyes, they all look the same in District One. All the same form of deadly, and they pull sponsors without even having to try because of their good looks. But everything comes at a price, and Cashmere was no exception.

Five doesn’t have a chance to plead, One pulls out her knife and finishes the job. A canon goes off, another teenager greyed out on the betting board. Nine dead. A sick feeling in your stomach tells you that this is going to be another bloodbath.

The boys work together, taking out the bigger houses since the girl wanted to go it alone. They’ll clear one, making sure to make it known, but stick inside of the house for a second to wait to see if they can hear movement. When they’re absolutely sure there’s none, they move on.

This plan doesn’t work initially, they get passed at least three houses before they hear a noise. Had the boy just waited a couple of seconds more, they wouldn’t have been able to hear his footsteps as he creeped down the loud stairs, giving away his position.

With the Ten boy dead, the District Ten mentors are going home. Which you’re sure is a bummer for them, knowing that they’ve been doing pretty good lately when it comes to victors. They’ve had two in the past ten years, which is a good improvement from the gap that they had before.

In the next house that the boys come across is a girl, the gamemakers give no indication on district. And you’re not sure that it matters because she’s dead within the first minute they search the house. The hiding spot wasn’t that bad, but when there’s two searching, more spots are bound to be discovered. 

District Three girl gets greyed out on the board. There’s three people still hiding inside of the village, the boys from Nine, Three and Six. All in different places, and the only one that seems to be the furthest is Six, and you can take a pretty big guess as to why.

His district is power. They’re the main producer for it for everyone, and it wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for the gigantic dam that they have. It’s hydroelectricity, the water passes through the dam, turns some gears and it fuels the Capitol and a portion of the other districts. It makes sense that he would be the one that would try and get away as far as possible. 

It means that he knows something that the rest of them don’t. However, you have that much figured out. The dam is the danger here, but he must know the mechanics behind it. Why it’s going to fall apart, what event can set it off, how far it’s going to reach when it does. He’s so far away from the dam at this point, miles away from the cornucopia, and he still keeps moving.

It just means that the blast radius of the dam is going to wipe out a large berth of things. Trees, potentially the cornucopia, definitely the houses in the village. And that’s to name a few. There’s no telling what can be uprooted with the force of the water. You’re just curious how anyone will survive it.

Another tribute gets found, it’s the boy from Nine. The careers have regrouped now, all in different forms of bloody. You grit your teeth and try not to gag, remembering the smell of blood, and the feeling of the thickness on your skin. It’s not a pretty feeling, and you can’t shake it, not even all these years later.

The careers agree to stop looking for tributes and start for water instead. Which is a good sign for the two tributes left in the village--potentially three. But as for everyone else in the trees, it’s not as good. You’re sure that Annie and Marsh are far away enough from the stream of water that’s coming out of the dam at the moment, but there’s no way to tell.

Actually, it probably doesn’t even matter that they’re far away from the stream of water, considering that no one knows that it actually exists, except for the mentors. Unless someone went and opened their mouth and gave it away, which you wouldn’t be surprised about. You’re all a bunch of cheats and liars, at this point. There’s no use denying it.

The careers don’t even start to head towards the dam anyway, so that eliminates most of the worry. With the interest in them gone, it’s back to the remaining tributes inside of the arena. It’s been nearly three hours and already half of the competition is gone. When you said that it wouldn’t last more than a week and a half, you weren’t thinking that it would be because of this. You thought it would be the dam.

Everyone loves a good plot twist though, right? Right?

You get up from the couch to stretch your legs, figuring that the worst of the first day is over. It’s one in the afternoon, Annie and Marsh can clearly take care of themselves when it comes to fighting off other tributes. Their main worry at the moment is probably finding water and setting up camp somewhere.

If they were to just head right, towards the stream, they should come upon that shack uphill. It’s risky, staying that close to the dam but they don’t really have much of a choice unless they want to stay the night out in the open. At least with a shack they have shelter and they’re hidden. If someone comes upon it, they’ll have the upper hand.

“Alright, I think I might go back to the Four apartment to eat lunch. Don’t know if I’ll be down here later.” you say, looking at Wade and Gloss.

“And narrowly miss your two best friends?” Gloss asks.

“I have days to see them, I’m not really that worried. Plus, last night was enough to fuel me for the next decade. You’re lucky if I don’t start pretending I don’t know your four altogether.”

“Haha.” Gloss rolls his eyes, but gets to his feet.

He gives you a one-armed hug, you pat his back slightly. Wade isn’t much for physical contact in the first place, so he holds out his hand as a supplement. You slap it, looking at Gloss, “Sorry about your tribute.”

“He was a moron anyway.”

“I’ll see you later then--” you go to turn towards the door but find that you’re face to face with a Capitol woman, dressed in bright blue with accents of black. You have to take a step back so that you’re not breathing the same air as her, giving her a polite smile, “Hello.”

“Are you Annie’s mentor?” she asks.

Three hours in, and Annie’s already going to get a sponsor. It’s probably healing cream for the cuts she endured when fighting the One boy. You have to admit, if she’s completely healed, she’ll be able to move quicker and won’t have to worry about using medical stuff. The blades on the knives and swords are so sharp, especially when they haven’t been used before. Pick your toughest material and it could move through it like cloth.

Your eyes find Annie and Marsh on screen to see that they’re taking a break, going through the stuff in their backpack. Now would be a good time to do it before they get ahead of themselves. You give the Capitol woman a bigger smile, “Yes, are you interested in sponsoring?”

The whole process only takes a few minutes. You and her discuss what exactly she’s looking for, and what the ranges of the healing cream will have. It’s so extremely dirt cheap because it’s the beginning of the games, only three hours in. The longer the games go on, the more prices will be amped up. What could buy you an entire feast on the first day will only get you a loaf of bread later on, maybe not even that.

The woman lets you know that the main reason for deciding to go through with this is because of Annie’s manners on stage. That she can’t believe that Annie is only eighteen and acts like she’s been on this earth for much longer. You have to agree, Annie has her moments where she’s wiser than the rest of you. But it’s mainly because she’s been forced to grow up quicker, thanks to the boarding school.

When it comes to the note, you type in, “Right with you.”

It’s not the best when it comes to hinting at where to go, but you send it and watch it get approved. The first sponsor gift of the Seventieth Hunger Games, and it’s going to your tributes. One last time, you thank the woman and assure her that Annie is very grateful for her compassion.

Now you can’t leave just yet, and have to wait as it slowly comes down to them. You stand by Gloss and Wade, listening to the chiming of the gift. When it comes into earshot of Annie and Marsh, they immediately perk up, searching the trees. 

“Found it!” Annie calls, pointing it out while getting to her feet. The cuts don’t even seem to phase her all that much, so it’s partially a waste of money but at least they’ll be able to use it later on if the need arises.

Annie catches the silver gift in her hands, rejoining Marsh as she pops it open. You didn’t really give them any instructions on how to apply it, they’ll have common sense not to use the whole tube, you think. They read over the words to themselves in their head first, before Annie is smiling fondly.

“That’s very sweet.” Annie says, “(Y/n)’s encouraging us as always.”

No, that’s not it. You’re not worried about the misinterpretation, especially not after the knowing look they give each other. Annie folds the paper and places it in her breast pocket, not even reading it out loud for everyone to know. It’s their own choice, and it’s probably a good one at any rate.

Annie has Marsh apply the cream while she tries not to look like she’s in too much pain. You know that it’s not easy having people dig their fingers in your wounds. Fuck, you might have initially blacked out after that bear mutt attack, but you were still half awake. Every single time they went a little too deep or were a little too harsh, you were jolted awake. You’re fairly surprised that you still remember it. It was almost like a fever dream.

Annie and Marsh take a couple more minutes relaxing, but the audio cuts on their part to give the District Seven tributes a chance at the spotlight. It doesn’t mean that you’re not able to see your tributes, though. You’re able to watch them motion and flesh out a plan. It’s good to see that they get along so well, makes for a strong alliance.

Annie motions about heading towards the wall, Marsh’s face begins to harden up. Annie changes to pointing, jabs her thumb in the direction of the cornucopia. Marsh says something, you think you make out the word ‘water’. Annie then holds her arm out to the right, taps the pocket on her chest, and then it seems like they have a plan. They pack up, and head towards the right.

And with that, you go to leave because it’s finally your window. But Cashmere and Enobaria come through the door, bearing a basket and big smiles, “Good afternoon! How’s our tributes doing?”

“Is that food?” you ask, Cashmere hands over the basket, and when you look inside, there’s cold cut sandwiches and flavored bubble water. It really looks like you won’t be leaving here anytime soon.

You all pick your regular back table, that’s perfectly out of earshot of other mentors and Capitol citizens, but you’re still able to see the line odds and the screen with the tributes. They lay out the food, you nibble on your sandwich while Cashmere and Enobaria ask questions and Gloss and Wade give up information.

“Bloodbath knocked out eight tributes.” Wade says, playing with the bubbly water cap, “Which includes Eleven and Twelve.”

“Figures, they’re not very good fighters anyway.” Enobaria says, “Didn’t Eleven have the seventeen year-old girl?”

“She only scored a six so it’s not like she was anything special.” Cashmere has her eyes on Gloss, slowly squinting at him, “What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything.” Gloss makes a face and shrugs. There goes whatever cover he was trying to grasp at.

Cashmere stares at him for a second longer before turning around and looking at the line odds. It doesn’t take long to find, the boy is the first tribute on the left row. She doesn’t even have to look for it. The name is greyed out, of course, Cashmere turns back to Gloss.

“When did Colt die?” she asks.

“The bloodbath.” Gloss says, leaning his head against his hand now, “He went after Annie--(Y/n)’s tribute. He didn’t even stand a chance.”

Cashmere raises her eyebrows, and then looks at you, “Seriously? What happened?”

Conversation launches, you, Gloss and Wade do your best to tell them all the details. Starting from the bloodbath, who’s where in the arena, to the village. They’re not all that surprised to hear that their career pack got an additional four kills, the careers go hunting after the bloodbath to try and get as many as possible. But it’s a shock to know that half the tributes are gone.

After bloodbaths, careers get one--maybe two--kills. And it normally doesn’t happen immediately after the bloodbath, either. It’s sometime during the night because it’s easiest to spot the fires. Hardly ever is there a second slaughter immediately after the first. Because of this, you don’t think that they’re going to have a feast at the cornucopia this year. There won’t be enough tributes to make it worth it.

Annie and Marsh come across water, fill the jugs and put iodine to clean the water. They wander up a little further and find the shack. Just like that, they can call it a day since they’ve already got enough food to last them two days. All they have to do now is set up a plan to keep the food coming.

The careers come across basically a small clear pond. The last time you drank from a pond, you came down with Typhoid fever, really fun times. The Capitol was a bitch for making that dirty water clear to drink from, but the normally ideal water a fucking trick. You are so lucky that the Capitol had the medicine to make sure that the effects weren’t long-term. Otherwise, who knows what you’d be living with right now?

The betting room starts to clear out in the evening because it’s supper time for all of them. You stick around with the pack for a little while longer, remarking that you’re all surprised that Finnick didn’t show up at all, even with all the time he had. Once you’re sure that your tributes can survive the night, you’re bidding goodbyes.

It feels good to walk back to the apartment and to stretch your legs after going between sitting and standing. Sitting at the table already is Elysia, she looks happy to see you, “Welcome back.”

“Feels good to be back up here.” you laugh, tying your hair up, “Have you seen Finnick at all? He didn’t come by at all.”

Elysia shakes her head, “I went to get him for dinner and the rooms empty.”

“Huh,” you let out, sitting at the table.

It's odd, being here with only Elysia again. Makes your stomach churn slightly, actually. No tributes, no Finnick, only you in the betting room… Why do you have a feeling that this isn’t a coincidence?

You said that you’d give Finnick today. The first day isn’t the busiest, it’s the days that follow, when the heat starts to get turned up and the stakes rise. Then the tributes start getting hurt, requiring more to sustain whatever lifestyle they’ve built for themselves. It’s going to be impossible to go to the cornucopia to refill on goods when the entire thing is in a field. What are you going to do? Hide in the grass?

You and Elysia eat dinner, quietly chatting about what you think’s going to happen. In the end, it’s late and you should call it a night. But when you reach your room, hand on the doorknob, something tells you that you shouldn’t go to bed just yet. It’s a gut reaction, you look over towards Finnick’s room. It’s an invasion of privacy.

But there have been plenty of times before where Finnick has come into your space without permission, right? You sigh, kick off your shoes by your door, and then go into Finnick’s room. It’s dark and quiet and smells like perfumed fabric softener. You don’t bother with turning on the lights, Elysia already said that he wasn’t in here. 

You make yourself at home, tossing a pillow onto the hammock and using it to support your head and not get your hair stuck in the rope. You stare and watch and wait for a while, playing today over in your head. You don’t think that there’s a single thing you would have done differently. Annie and Marsh were smart to run towards the dam, and Annie knocked out a whole career while she was at it.

However, they also proved that they were a couple to keep an eye on. The girl from One is smart enough to see it like that, to want to go ahead and go after them. On one hand, it’s a good thing that the boys didn’t listen to her. Your tributes are still alive, in a house for the night. But on the other hand, four other tributes died because of it.

But then again, it was only a matter of time. You saw all of their deaths coming, and so did every other mentor in that room. None of you could have known that on the other side of the dam would be a village. What use is it to warn your tributes if they’re just going to be fucked either way?

Oh hey, there’s going to be a cracked dam inside of the arena this year. If you can, I’d probably steer clear of it. The most it seems to provide is a steady stream of water, so at least you have that! Also, I wouldn’t worry much because the dam looked pretty damn small when I got to see it.

What use would that have done? It would have been a fucking culture shock, to think that you’d be ahead of the games for once. Like, “Okay, don’t head toward the dam, use it as a last resort. Worse comes to worse and you can maybe outrun the water.” until you’re face to face with a concrete wall that’s literally a mile taller than you, and the only place to go is a field out in the open and a village that provides the only shelter.

If there was any time to facepalm, it would be now. Hell, even your warning at agility training is going to do fucking nothing. You originally thought that it would come in hand to hop from rock to hill or tree root or something, but that’s going to be hard to do in the grassy field. Yes, let’s hop from grass blade to grass blade.

So fucking stupid, all of this.

You sit there fuming for a little while longer, shaking your head, rolling your eyes and gritting your teeth. You wonder if any of the other mentors have seens something like this before. Wait, that’s stupid. Of course there’s been an arena before this that has been the biggest April fool’s prank of all. Haymitch Abernathy had to live in a hell disguised as a paradise. Yes, you think that might be the worst arena you’ve ever seen. And he had forty-seven other tributes to worry about on top of the killer squirrels.

You snort, but it’s really not all that funny.

The room door opens, you squint just before the lights are flickered on. Finnick stands in the doorway, wearing a white button down shirt and nice black slacks. A part of you wonders where he’s been all night to need to dress as nicely as this. His… job… for the lack of a better word, doesn’t start until after dinner, usually.

And supposedly, he’s been gone all day!

Finnick doesn’t seem to see you at first. You grin to yourself like a child, “Boo.”

He jumps, a startled sound escaping him, it sounds like a yelp. He turns with wide eyes, staring at you. You laugh to yourself, “What the fuck? How long have you been here for?” he presses his hand against his chest, “Gonna give me fucking war flashbacks.”

“Been here since dinner, which was…” you trail off, looking at the time, “About four hours ago, apparently.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do? Like watch the arena?” Finnick slips off his shoes and socks, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“I did that all day, I actually waited here to tell you that it’s your turn.” 

His eyes land on you, “To what?”

“Watch the tributes, sit in the betting room until I relieve you.”

His face twists, “Nice choice of words.” 

You roll your eyes, “You owe me this much. I’ll give you a quick rundown about what happened--”

“I already know.”

You throw the pillow at him, “Perfect! You can put your shirt back on and go downstairs!”

He looks at you, “(Y/n), I’m tired.”

“I’ve been up since eight this morning.” you give him a smile, “It’s now nearly midnight. I think you can sit in the betting room for a couple of hours.”

“A couple is two.” Finnick says, “You’re asking me to sit in there for ten.”

“Which is almost half of what I did today! It’s only fair!”

He stares at you. He doesn’t look tired on the outside. In fact, it looks like he just woke up a couple of hours ago. If he were tired, he’d be more sluggish, and you’d know because you’ve been around him for years now. And the last week has shown you what it’s like to actually interact with him when he’s had tough days and nights.

Today is neither of them for him.

“Okay.” Finnick agrees.

“Okay?” you raise your eyebrows, “Sweet. I’ll be up at seven and down there at eight to switch places, then.”

Finnick starts buttoning his shirt back, you give him a cheeky smile, getting off the hammock and heading towards the door. You’re about to leave, but then you stop and turn towards him.

“If I get down there tomorrow morning and you’re nowhere to be seen, you’re not going to like what happens.” there’s no smile, the words are dead cold. Finnick stares at you, fingers frozen in place, “I can promise you that. Goodnight.”

--

REDAMANCY IS PART 2 OF A TRILOGY //MASTERLIST//

add yourself to the TAGLIST

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[artificialqueens]

Ever in Your Favor, Chapter Eight [FINAL] (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: Rosé and Denali deal with the aftermath of the Games, and finally go home.

A/N: Writing this fic has been a wild ride honestly. I'm so glad I stuck with it because it's become one of my favorite multichaps I've done. Thank you so much to everyone who read along and stuck with me and this fic, your comments and support really do mean a lot to me. I really hope you enjoy this ending, and please leave feedback if you'd like!

Rosé throws the berries aside, wiping her mouth clean. “Are you okay?” she asks Denali, immediately going to her side.

“Yeah.” Denali is pale and shaky, probably from stress, but she lost a lot of blood from the wolf bite, and her leg can’t hold her weight. She needs a doctor.

The hovercraft roars overhead, rustling the trees as two ladders drop down. Denali takes one step and whimpers in pain.

“I got you,” Rosé soothes. She scoops Denali up and carries her to the ladder, holding on tight as they’re pulled up. They’re out of the arena. They’re out and they should never have to go back. Rosé just hopes the bad things will stay there, that they won’t follow her into her dreams.

The inside of the hovercraft is like a miniature hospital, with doctors and nurses and medical equipment waiting. They rush over, hands reaching out to take Denali away from her, but Rosé flinches back and holds her tighter, shielding her from the doctors. She doesn’t trust them, she doesn’t trust anyone but Denali, she can’t let them take her. She fought tributes and wolves, and she’ll fight them too. But Denali’s eyes are fluttering closed, body going limp in Rosé’s arms, and she has no choice but to let them take Denali behind a metal door, hoping they can fix her.

Rosé tries to follow them, but someone helps her into a chair, a pristine white one that looks so wrong beside the blood and dirt staining her hands and shredded clothes. She didn’t sit out here last time--her shoulder bled so much they had taken her behind the same metal door as Denali. Someone hands her water in a glass so clear she can see the reflection of her own terrified eyes, and she sets it down with shaking hands, not wanting to see, not trusting who gave it to her.

“Is Denali gonna be okay?” Her voice is a scratchy whisper, and she tries again, louder, but no one answers.

It’s so cold in the hovercraft that her teeth are chattering, and the stitches in her leg itch so bad it burns. Denali told her not to scratch at them and she doesn’t want to let her down, not when she’s behind that door and might not be okay. It’s like a bargain with herself, that if she doesn’t scratch them, if she listens to Denali, Denali will be okay.

The adrenaline has faded, and all she feels the heavy ache of her body. All she can think about is how defeated she was after the announcement, so much that she almost gave up. How she’s grateful she’s still here. How Denali loves her, loves her and means it, how it might be for nothing if Denali isn’t okay. Rosé needs her to be okay. She can’t have gone through the whole arena, all her feelings, and dreamt of a future with Denali for it to be ripped away now. She’s shaking, and her eyes sting but her body doesn’t have any tears left. Her body doesn’t have much of anything left, and she’s so tired, but she can’t fall asleep and leave Denali. The Capitol hospital is below them, and she’s asking about Denali again when there’s a needle in her arm, and everything goes dark.

---

Denali blinks through the fog and sees nothing but pure white--the ceiling, the walls, the bed sheets, all so bright it burns her eyes. There are tubes in her arm and wires across her chest, and antiseptic stings in her nose. How long has she been here? Where is here?

“Denali? It’s okay, you’re okay, I promise. You’re in the hospital in the Capitol. It’s been four days since the Games.”

Denali follows the familiar voice and finds that she’s not alone. Rosé is in a chair beside the bed, clothes rumpled and bags under her eyes, and just the sight of her, of someone from home, calms Denali immediately, lets her take a breath.

She’s in the hospital. It’s been four days. Four days since she staggered to the hovercraft and collapsed on the floor, her knee a bloody mess--

“My knee,” she croaks.

“Your knee is fine. They fixed it,” Rosé says calmly.

Denali nods, trying to hide her yawn. She’s been sleeping for days, and Rosé is here, has probably been here a while from the sight of her. She’s here just for Denali, and Denali doesn’t want to let her down by sleeping.

“Denali, go to sleep,” Rosé says, because of course she noticed. “I’ll be here. It took an hour to convince them to let me in, I’m not going anywhere.”

Denali doesn’t even nod before she’s asleep again.

Denali wakes up in a white room.

But this time, she’s completely alone.

---

It’s three times before Denali can stay awake longer than a minute. The third time, when she finally breaks past the cloud of sleep and whatever drugs they’re giving her, she sees that nothing has changed. She’s still stuck in this bed in a locked white room. She has no idea how long it’s been, and there’s no one to tell her. She thinks of last time, how Rosé had told her the information quickly, instinctively. Because Rosé had lived through that fear herself, Denali understands now. Because Rosé didn’t have a mentor, and woke up scared and alone with no one to help her, and didn’t want the same thing to happen to Denali.

Where is Rosé now? Is she in another room, stuck in bed like Denali? What if the Capitol really will only allow one victor and they’ve taken her somewhere, to hurt her and then kill her?

The worst part of waking up fully means she can think fully, and her brain runs through a hundred ways the Capitol could be hurting Rosé. She forces herself to think of something else, but the only alternative is the last few minutes in the arena—her feelings for Rosé crashing into her all at once, Rosé baring her soul, her heart, to Denali, willing to give herself up so Denali could live. But they both made it out, they both have to live. Denali can’t lose her, not when she loves her so much.

The creaking door cuts through her thoughts, and Denali sees a nurse. She hasn’t been awake to see anyone yet, and maybe she can get information. The nurse looks--kind. Denali isn’t used to seeing that in the Capitol.

“Ro--” Denali’s voice cracks, and the nurse gently holds water to her lips. “Rosé. The woman who came with me. Is she…”

The nurse hesitates, then leans down, pretending to adjust a wire stuck to Denali’s chest. “She’s okay.”

It’s enough.

---

Rosé sighs, leaning back against the pillow. The bed is as soft as the one in the Training Center, but she’d rather sleep on the ground than be stuck in it. She asks about Denali to every nurse she sees, but none answer her. Is the glimpse of Denali being carried away the last image Rosé will have of her? She has to be okay, she has to be. Denali is probably the toughest person she knows, and the doctors should have been able to fix her leg. They fixed Rosé’s perfectly--no cut, no scar, just clear skin. All Denali’s work, the paste she laid on it everyday, the bandages she wrapped it with, the lines of the stitches to hold it together, all gone. All her other injuries--cuts and scratches and bruises--are gone too, erased by the Capitol's advanced medical treatments. No physical proof that the Games even happened. Rosé carries all the proof inside her instead.

The door opens, and Rosé sits up, prepared to ask about Denali again. But she doesn’t need to ask.

Because Denali is here.

She’s in a wheelchair, pushed by a nurse Rosé’s never seen before. Denali’s pale, eyes tired and dull, but her dimples flash as she’s wheeled next to Rosé, immediately reaching her hand out.

“Rosie,” Denali breathes. “You’re okay. I--I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m okay,” Rosé says, giddy with relief.

Rosé squeezes her hand tight, tracing her soft skin, the smooth lines of her fingers, so clean and polished after the doctors’s work, but Denali’s hand nonetheless. A hand that fires a bow better than anyone and had held Rosé’s when she needed it.

“Thank you,” Rosé tells the nurse.

She just nods. “I can get you ten minutes.”

Rosé takes it, takes every second to just be with Denali, holding her hand and breathing her in. After this, they’ll have their whole lives.

---

Before they can go home, there’s the interview. And of course, the small matter of what to wear.

“Symone, don’t you think this is a little...excessive?” Denali asks. She can’t even sit on the couch in the dressing room because it’s entirely draped in fabric. She and Rosé are backed into a corner, surrendering to rows of clothing racks.

“This is the first time anyone’s dressed two tributes for the post-Games interview,” Symone says, looking up from her sketchbook. “You have to look perfect, especially because everyone loves you even more now.”

Symone is right. All eyes will be on them for this interview, to watch the tributes who made history. She and Rosé didn’t hear anything from the outside when they were in the hospital, but according to Symone, people love their relationship so much, love how they both fought to come home, that even the Capitol is going along with it. They’ve spoken of their ‘ingenuity’ and ‘determination’, because admitting two tributes outsmarted them makes them look like idiots. Symone’s heard whispers that Denali and Rosé have given hope to the districts, shown that the Games can be outsmarted, maybe even defeated. The fear of retaliation still lingers in Denali’s mind, but the Capitol can’t do anything to them--not without starting a riot or admitting that they were defeated by two women from District 12, the lowest of the low. They’re safe, and it’s something Denali hasn’t felt since she was a kid.

Rosé smiles. “And here I thought all this was an excuse to have us try on ugly clothes.”

Symone raises an eyebrow. “Well, maybe that was part of it.”

True to her word, Symone sends them behind the screen loaded with feathers and glitter, with sweeping boas and oversized hats. Denali gives into it, lets the joy fill her. She teases Rosé after she stumbles out in a pair of heels she put on backward, and all three of them laugh until they cry when Denali gets stuck in a pair of thigh-high boots.

When Symone finally shows them her sketches, eyes shining with the excitement of what she’s going to create, Denali just hugs her.

---

Rosé paces her dressing room while she waits for Denali. Symone insisted on them getting dressed in separate rooms, so they can be surprised when they see each other, but Rosé just wishes she were here. The thought of all the lights and noises and people, after such quiet and emptiness in the arena, is making Rosé nervous. But at least she won’t be alone.

She fiddles with the buttons of her jacket. Symone made her a suit, coal-black with tiny gold sparkles woven into it, picking up the color of her lion pin. It’s buttery against her skin, her armor for the night, probably her favorite thing she’s ever worn.

The door opens, and Rosé’s jaw drops.

Denali is in a soft dress that hugs all her muscles and curves. It’s the same coal-black as Rosé’s, with gold sparkles, and Symone made Denali a pin--a fox affixed to a circle bordered in forget-me-nots. They never got her mom’s necklace, and Rosé is grateful Denali at least has this.

“You look amazing,” Rosé says, her heart fluttering.

“You clean up pretty nice yourself.” Denali smirks, tracing her hands up Rosé’s arms.

Rosé turns to Symone, who looks like a goddess in white and gold. “Thank you, Symone.”

“For everything,” Denali adds.

Symone wipes her tears and pulls them into a hug, waving goodbye as they walk to the stage.

“Rosé?” Denali holds out her arm, and Rosé takes it. The wolf tore through Denali’s muscles and tendons, and though everything is fixed, she’s still a little unsteady on her feet. Rosé doesn’t let her fall as they cross the stage, and she’s grateful for the touch herself. It’s grounding against the roar of the crowd and the blinding lights.

There’s a couch on stage instead of a single chair, and Nina bounces in her seat as they sit down, speeding through small talk and jokes.

“I think I speak for everyone when I say that was quite a Games you two had! Was there a moment you really felt you could win it?”

Rosé gives Denali a nod, signaling that she’ll answer. “Well, I think we knew we had a good shot from the start. Our skills balance each other out, and we worked so well together in training. When they announced a team could win, we knew we had an even better chance, because of how strong we are together.”

Nina nods. “And I’m sure your relationship helped.”

“It sure did,” Denali says. “It helped us trust each other and it was just so nice to have a partner in the arena. It really helped.”

“There’s never been a finale like that in history,” Nina says. “What was going through your mind in that moment?”

And Rosé falters, her cheerful answers coming to a grinding halt. She and Denali haven't seen reason to talk about it, to dig at a fresh wound. They were both there, they know what they felt. Rosé didn’t think she’d have to discuss it with the world watching. She doesn’t want to talk about it. About how she broke down and cried in the arena, one thing she never wanted to do. About how she wanted to go home, but wouldn’t have been able to live with killing Denali. About how helpless it made her feel, how scared, how angry.

Denali squeezes her hand. “We were both pretty shocked. We weren’t expecting a rule change like that,” Denali says, and Nina nods sympathetically. “But I also knew how much I loved Rosé. I didn’t want to lose her, and I just couldn’t kill her. Not when I cared about her so much, you know? The berries were all I could think of to get us both home. And when we do get home, we’re gonna get an earful from Rosé’s sisters, let me tell you.”

Denali’s answer is perfect, Rosé knows. She just touched on the surprise of the rule change without directly blaming the Capitol, drawing real sympathy, then turned the focus to her love, not a hint of gloating for her brilliant idea. It’s perfect, and it’s enough for Nina, who moves on. By the time they walk off stage to thunderous applause, Rosé feels like she went another round in the arena.

They follow the same pattern for their Victory Tour: taking turns answering questions, joking and smiling, pretending everything is fine, that they don’t still think about the people they killed in the arena. People look at them with hope, with belief in a brighter future, and though it’s nice, Rosé is glad when they finish, when they’re free to go home and not act okay all the time.

“I’m glad that’s over.” Denali sighs beside her.

Rosé nods. “Let’s go home.”

---

It’s a quiet train ride. But it’s a peaceful, content quiet, not the tense silence they sat in on the way here. They sit next to each other, hands brushing on the seat, eating donuts and watching the world outside the window.

Rosé senses District 12 growing closer, sees the landscape change to rocky terrain, feels the coal dust in the air. Her leg bounces with excitement, but also something else. Something like fear.

It’s hard to go home after the arena. It’s so isolated, practically another planet, and the only rule is not to die. For weeks after she got back, Rosé was afraid to close her eyes, fearing someone would kill her in her sleep. She flinched when someone got close to her, hand automatically reaching for the sword that was no longer at her hip. There were smaller things too, like feeling out of place around people, out of place in her own life, dropped back into things after months away. She was lucky her family was there, that they didn’t give up on her. Even with their support, she still struggled. What if things are worse this time, and they give up? What if they’re so disgusted by what she did in the arena that they don’t want her around? What if the arena changed her in ways she didn’t want it to and her sisters won’t recognize her?

“Are you nervous to go home?” Denali asks quietly, like she read her mind.

Normally Rosé would keep it inside, push it down and pretend it’s not there, because she doesn’t want anyone to worry about her. But she’s with the only other person who knows that fear, and Rosé trusts her.

“It’s just...you know how it is. How weird it is to be home after everything. What if it doesn’t feel like home anymore?”

What if the arena has made such a home inside her that District 12 will be a stranger?

“I get it,” Denali says, pausing in thought. “You know, last time I kept getting lost in the woods after I got back. I went in those woods every day for ten years, and suddenly I kept taking wrong turns. I got used to it again, but I found new paths too. And I always found my way back.” She takes a breath. “So maybe it'll be weird at first. Maybe you’ll get lost. But I think you’ll find your way back.”

The words wash over her, smoothing out the knot in her stomach. “Thank you,” Rosé whispers. She manages a smile. “That was quite a speech.”

Denali shrugs, but she’s grinning. “I learned from the best.”

Denali holds her hand as they get off the train, but when they step on the platform, she lets go and gives Rosé a gentle push towards the two people waiting for her. Jan and Lagoona’s arms open up, and Rosé falls into them. She can’t think, can’t speak--there are no words. She just lets them hold her.

“We would've been on time, but Little Miss Donut got so excited she started peeing all over the place.”

Rosé lifts her head off Lagoona’s chest and sees Kahmora and Kandy, who’s struggling with a dog, walk to Denali. The dog jumps out of Kandy’s arms and into Denali’s, and Rosé just laughs. She’s glad they came to see Denali, glad she has someone to hug too.

Jan pulls away, mischievous gleam in her eyes the same as when she was five and tried to hide a stray cat in her bedroom. “So…” she begins.

“So?” Rosé asks, straight-faced, making her work for it.

“Give us the story! When did you realize you liked her? What did you say to her on the train? What did she say back? When did she realize she liked you? And what was in those damn donuts that made your stubborn ass talk about your feelings with her?” Jan demands, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“And we want to hear about that kiss. It was so hot I would’ve covered my kid’s eyes if I had a kid,” Lagoona adds.

“Oooh, Lagoona wants to have a kid by the way, her boyfriend was really supportive during the Games stuff and she thinks he’d be a good dad--”

“Why are you telling my stories?” Lagoona asks. “I didn’t tell that you’re in love with that woman you talked to for five minutes--”

“I’m not in love with Jackie! It’s just a crush!”

“Rosé and Denali had crushes too, and we know how that ended.”

All Rosé can do is laugh. It makes her head spin, makes her a little sad to know she’s missed two months of her sisters’ lives, but it also makes her feel safe. Her sisters clearly don’t think any less of her, don’t plan to treat her any differently or love her any less, and she’ll answer every question they have, because she loves them.

---

Denali wakes up in her bed for the first time in two months. The bow is still at her feet, but her grip on the knife loosened in the night. The bed’s not as soft as the ones in the Capitol, but miles away from the ground in the arena. She’ll get used to it eventually.

She heads to the kitchen to get things ready for breakfast with Rosé. After the stress and intensity of the arena, they decided to take things slow at home, and breakfast this morning is their first official date. Denali bought new coffee mugs with her prize money, including a pink one just for Rosé, and she fills it with a spoon of cream and two spoons of sugar.

The doorbell rings, and Donut’s paws pound on the floor. Denali opens the door, keeping Donut behind her leg, and she can’t help but smile when she sees Rosé. She doesn’t look like she slept much, but some color is back in her cheeks, and it’s almost like seeing her for the first time.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” Rosé says cheerfully.

Donut yips inquisitively and peeks her head out from behind Denali, creeping over to Rosé, who leans down and lets Donut sniff her cautiously.

“Her name is Donut. No one’s ever here besides me, so she’s not great with—“

Rosé grunts as Donut leaps on her chest, wagging her tail and licking at Rosé’s face.

“—People,” Denali finishes, smiling as Rosé gently pets Donut’s back, unsure at first, but growing more confident. “She really likes you. I’ve never seen her do that with anyone.”

“Maybe I just smell good,” Rosé says, but Denali can tell how excited she is that Donut approves of her.

“You do smell good,” Denali mumbles. Like a gentle hint of lavender.

Rosé smirks, following Denali to the kitchen table and sighing in joy when she sips her coffee. Denali brings over pancakes--on new plates--and they dig in. It's awkward at first, the silence a little too long to feel comfortable, and Denali worries that maybe they can’t do this outside the arena. Can their relationship live when the arena partly created it? But Rosé talks about what her sisters did last night, about how she almost tripped in her shower this morning, and things fall back into place. Pretty soon, they’re laughing like they did when they were kids, and Denali knows this can work.

---

“Now, Denali, are you ready to learn from a master?”

“I think I’d take you more seriously if you weren’t wearing a polka dot apron.”

Rosé crosses her arms and glares, but Denali can’t help it. There’s something about her red hair pulled back in a ponytail, about the pink-and-white polka dot apron covering her black T-shirt, that makes Denali want to laugh and kiss her at the same time.

“That would look intimidating without the apron,” Denali says, watching Rosé’s glare melt into a smile as she laughs.

“We’ll see who’s laughing when you have flour and butter all over you and I’m nice and clean,” Rosé teases.

They’re in the back of the bakery, and Rosé is showing Denali how to make a cake. Denali was always mesmerized by the cakes in the window as a kid--hell, she still is now. Denali has steady hands, can do just about anything with her bow, but she can’t imagine making such beautiful cakes with nothing but frosting.

Rosé shows her how to beat the butter and sugar, marveling at the pale yellow. She pouts and calls Rosé a showoff after she cracks eggs one-handed, only to gasp when Rosé’s hand carefully curls around hers and shows her how to do it. They measure the dry ingredients, and Denali, true to Rosé’s word, gets flour all over her shirt. Denali loses herself in the steady motions of the mixer, watching it smooth everything into cake batter. They wash up while it bakes, wordlessly passing measuring cups and spoons back and forth, their hips and shoulders gently bumping into each other.

When it’s time to decorate, Denali just sits back and watches. Rosé’s grip around the piping bag is light, squeezing out little blobs of blue icing. Denali pictures those same hands gripping a sword so strongly, so fiercely. She pictures Rosé swinging it, the spray of blood that follows--

She takes a breath and blinks, forcing it away. She’s safe and in the bakery, not in the arena. There’s no blood. They both hate all the killing they’ve had to do, the blood they’ve shed. But those things aren’t the only things they’ve done. Their hands can pick flowers and decorate cakes as well as kill, and maybe it’s what they want to do that matters. What they choose to do.

Rosé is self-conscious at first, eyes flashing to Denali over and over. She’s probably never had anyone besides family watch her, but she quickly relaxes, loses herself in the movements. Denali’s heart melts at the focus in her eyes, the way her tongue sticks out a little, the way her nose scrunches, loving all the new parts of Rosé she gets to see. Once the top is covered in flowers--blue and purple and pink and yellow--they cut it up, laughing when they go back for seconds at the same time.

---

“I really hope this view is worth me being up this early,” Rosé mutters, trudging through the woods behind Denali.

“It is, trust me.”

Rosé just nods. She’s had a rough few days. She did so well right after she got back, distracted by days catching up with her sisters, meeting with Denali. But it’s been a few months now, and that peace wouldn’t hold forever. She’s been tired and jumpy and irritable this week, even if she didn’t want to be. Part of her was afraid that the bad days would scare Denali off, but they haven’t. Because Denali understands.

They both knew a relationship wouldn’t be an instant cure, wouldn’t magically heal them. But it helps. It helps that when Rosé can’t leave the house, Denali comes over to check on her and makes sure she eats. It helps that when Denali’s leg hurts and she's gasping in fear, convinced her leg is damaged, Rosé tells her it’s not and massages out the aches. It helps that on days when they're haunted by nightmares and memories, they have someone to talk to, someone to prove they're not alone in what they feel.

Rosé felt better today, and agreed to go walk with Denali, to see the autumn leaves in early sunlight. Denali moves with the same effortless skill she did in the arena, knowing just which way to turn, which path to take. Rosé will always be in awe of how she does it, casually pointing out the flowers and leaves they pass and teling Rosé all about them.

“--and this is the milkweed plant, butterflies like to eat it--what?” Denali asks, and Rosé realizes she’s staring at her with a huge smile on her face.

“I just--I love you,” Rosé says. She loved Denali in the arena--loved her before that, if she really admits it--but she loves the Denali she’s come to know at home. The Denali who rolls around on the floor when she plays with Donut. Who burrows into oversized sweaters and tucks her hands inside the sleeves. Who laughs more and more, her eyes crinkling when she does.

“I love you too,” Denali says. It’s the first time they’ve said it outside the arena, on their own, and it fills Rosé with warmth. Denali offers her hand. “Come on, we’re here.”

Rosé takes her hand and lets Denali lead her down into a valley of gold. The trees around them glimmer with reds and oranges and yellows, the bright morning sun making everything shine. It’s a brilliant reminder that she’s alive, that she’s still here to see things like this. The arena feels like a distant memory, and her home is right here, with Denali.

“Told you it’d be worth it.”

“It is.” Rosé watches the sun dance at the edges of Denali’s hair. “Denali, can I kiss you?”

“Of course.”

It’s the first kiss on their own, with no cameras. A first kiss without the danger of the arena, or the pressure of needing it to survive. A kiss that’s entirely theirs.

---

Snow flutters to the ground as December begins, but Rosé doesn’t mind the cold. It’s warm enough in her house. Jan, Lagoona, Kandy, and Kahmora--they’d become friendly and supported each other watching the Games--came up with the idea for a weekly dinner, as long as Rosé and Denali are feeling up to it. They both were today, and it’s extra special because Jan brought Jackie, who she’s officially dating, and Lagoona and her boyfriend have news. Rosé’s pretty sure she knows what it is, but she’ll let them tell it.

Rosé spent the day making a chocolate sweet bread for dessert. It’s been years since she lost herself in baking like that. Denali helped, but she really just watched and ate chocolate. Everyone devours it and praises her, and it it feels good, to be loved.

Lagoona looks up from her coffee and Rosé sees that look in her eyes and she knows, she knows, and she’s already out of her seat to hug her when Lagoona announces that she’s pregnant.

Rosé’s eyes are damp, but the tears really fall when Lagoona grabs her hands and says that if it’s a girl, they’re naming her Rosie.

---

Denali sticks around to help with the dishes, enjoying the easy silence with Rosé. They finish much too quickly, and Denali suddenly realizes she doesn’t want to make the thirty-second walk back to her house. After all the laughs and love at dinner, she doesn’t want to be alone tonight.

“Everything okay?” Rosé asks.

Denali hesitates. “Um, can--can I stay here tonight? I...home seems too quiet, you know?”

“Of course,” Rosé says, and Denali knows she understands. “I have a guest room, if you--”

Denali blushes, but she trusts Rosé enough for what she wants to ask. “Can I stay in your bed? If that’s okay?”

Rosé blushes too. “It’s okay.”

Rosé cackles when her pajamas are a little big on Denali, and Denali just whacks her with a too-long sleeve. Denali slips beneath the sheets, and realizes that not only is she sleeping with someone next to her, but she doesn’t have her bow. She has a knife--always has at least one--but no bow. What if she needs it? What if something bad happens, and she’s defenseless? But Rosé is warm and comforting next to her, and Denali feels...safe. She felt safe with Rosé in the arena, and she feels safe with her now. She sets the knife on the nightstand, still within reach, and falls asleep.

---

Denali wakes with the sun like she always does. Rosé is still asleep, curled up on her side just inches from Denali, and her heart warms at Rosé looking so peaceful. Neither of them had a nightmare, and Denali is grateful. Maybe they can heal eventually. Maybe the heaviness in their chests, the weights on their minds, will eventually lighten so much it won’t hurt.

By this time, Denali normally would have memorized the footage of the latest Games, and thought of strategies for the new tributes she’d have to mentor. But she hasn’t watched a second of any Games since she got home. Maybe she doesn’t have to fight the Games--fight the whole world--tooth and nail, doesn’t have to keep running to stay ahead of them. Maybe she can beat them, can be okay, without that. She takes another peek at Rosé, at the smooth lines of her face, the soft red waves framing her cheeks. At least she won’t have to do it alone.

Denali snuggles back down, wincing when her movement wakes Rosé, who gives her a sleepy smile.

"Sorry," Denali whispers. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay." Rosé motions for Denali to come closer, and Denali does, turning her back on her knife and resting her head on Rosé's chest.

"You're pretty comfy," she teases.

Rosé just grins. "I think today is gonna be a good day," she says, and Denali nods, melting into Rosé's arms. She's hopeful today, more than she's been in a while. There were the whispers Jackie shared last night, of hope through the districts. There was Lagoona’s news, the excitement of knowing the future can be brighter. Denali wants that future, wants it with Rosé. She wants to be there for good days and bad days, the happy parts of Rosé and the sad parts of her too. They're alive, still here through it, and Denali wants to live, wants to watch the sun and eat cake and play in the snow, take every good second she gets.

Maybe there will come a day when the Games are gone, when kids won’t live in fear of getting chosen. When what happened to them won’t happen to anyone else. The odds are pretty low, Denali knows.

But she’s beaten worse odds before.

[hollenka99]

Introductions

Summary: Ghostbur arrives in the Void and meets the half of Alivebur that never returned to the Overworld. It is not always plain sailing. Chapter 1 of Unequal Halves.

Warnings: Implied/referenced self harm, derealisation(?), unreality, death, smoking, alcoholism mention

There is the low hubbub of quiet conversation in the air. All around him is rubble and he can't quite recall how L'Manburg came to look like this. If he asked Phil, his father would likely explain. Something bad must have happened if he can't remember. So... maybe it was for the best that his mind goes blank whenever he thinks about it. It was probably just the result of Alivebur blowing the country up anyway, he didn't get a great vantage point before he died so the theory is feasible. Ghostbur must be misremembering how L'Manberg looked before- Huh, no it got restored at some point, he knows that. Not Alivebur's doing then. Phil would know. Phil knows a lot of things, including how to potentially bring back Alivebur. Speaking of Phil, his father was stood next to Eret, both of them lingering by the little recreation set. Ghostbur isn't paying much attention but his best guess is that the topic revolves around their third resurrection attempt today, the reason they've all gathered here once more. He wonders whether the others like Tommy, Fundy and Tubbo will join them. He wouldn't mind leaving for a few minutes to make absolutely sure he's said his goodbyes to them and others. That said, he has had nearly an entire week between the last attempt and today to do that. Not to mention the few days prior to that after he and Phil had organised the first round of re-enactments. Perhaps if this works out, he could influence Alivebur somehow and say goodbye posthumously. "Well, if we're going to do it, better sooner rather than later. Unless we're waiting for the exact time of day he died." "No, let's do it now. I've got the totem and sword, we're all here... there's no point in waiting for the stars to align." "And if it goes like the last two times?" "Then we deal with it. I'll take the blame for wanting to use our third and final chance." There is a pause and in the corner of his eye, he can sense Phil looking his way. "Ghostbur?" "Hi, Phil." He floats over. "Is it time to try again? I've been going over my lines so nothing can go wrong." "I'm sure you have, mate." Phil takes his arm so it is outstretched with an open palm. Into his awaiting hand, a small figurine is placed. It resembles a villager with tiny wings poking to the sides and eyes made of emerald. He believes the closest he's come into contact with one of these totems is that time some citizens of L'Manburg locked Techno in a cage as a prank. Was that thing he saw Techno use a totem? He can't recall correctly, he's not even sure he was fully paying attention since he was watching Friend sniff around at the time, but the light show had been very pretty. "This is a totem of undying. It's going to help us with resurrecting you. Do not drop it at any point. Hold it as tight as you can, got that mate? You holding on to that totem is more important than any lines you might have rehearsed." He playfully tosses it between his hands. "Okay." "Ghostbur." Phil snatches the item from mid-air. Ghostbur catches a glimpse of his father's scornful expression and instinctively averts his eyes. "This is serious. Do you understand how important it is for you to hold this totem or not?" "I do, Phil. Sorry." The item is returned to him. Like he's been instructed to do, he grips it tightly and refuses to let his hold on it weaken. Their little dramatisation goes well. He says the crucial line, the button gets pressed and even more impressively, Ghostbur doesn't flinch in the slightest when the sword meets his semi-corporeal being. This is the third time he's properly died as himself and the sixth since Alivebur's birth. He's sure that if there's any deity in charge of death, they'll be going 'oh it's you again' in a second. ---- It's an odd thing to see your doppelganger in front of you. Wilbur is certainly not a twin and he's never met anyone he's shared a particularly strong resemblance to either. Even during the genetic mishmash that created him, both sides of his family tree had won their battles yet neither claimed true victory over the other to represent themselves more heavily within him. So sure, there were traits you could see he'd inherited from his mother but it wasn't as if he looked like her. However, he was yet to meet someone whose similarity in appearance took him by surprise. The first time had been a shock. He'd been tolerating Schlatt's company with Mexican Dream making the experience a little easier to endure. The Wilbur duplicate had randomly appeared while the three of them had been sitting around, wasting time at a table. The guy is only there for a matter of seconds but it's enough to register his appearance. There's the matching dull grey skin and the hair that's darkened with death. Wilbur's vaguely aware he used to own a sunflower yellow jumper like that in life. It's certainly not the chequered top he's wearing. It happens again shortly after. Wilbur Two doesn't stay long but he appears at the exact spot where Schlatt was sitting. A flimsy connection seems to form, strong enough for the ex-emperor to speak through the ghost and have an extremely blurred view through his eyes. Wilbur sits there as his political rival talks bullocks about jacking off, protein powder and cigarettes. Wilbur would tell him to cut it out if he had cared enough about his counterpart being used like that. All he says when Schlatt seems present within himself once more is impatient prompting to continue their game. They'd anticipated another visit but his clone hasn't shown up since. By now it's been... months maybe? It was hard to tell with the only natural variables when it came to the passage of time being whether it was day or night, sunny or raining. He's been stuck in what he believes is the transition period between spring and summer ever since he got here. Which is absolutely ridiculous given that he has some creative control of this place. Regardless, he's honestly half forgotten about the incident when they truly reunite. The clone sticks out in his bright jumper. It's one of the days Wilbur's dragged himself away from whatever tree roots he's picked to curl up besides. Upon spotting the other Wilbur, he follows from a distance. He ascends a nearby tree. He swears he's been here before, amongst the highest branches to observe someone who didn't know he was there. It's the kind of deja vu he hates, the one with not even the slightest hint of why he might feel that way. Well, maybe one reason but he'd rather not dwell on that. Listen, he tells himself after travelling through the treetops, he's not going to be whole until the two of them interact so he'd better just get on with it. Well, here goes nothing. He pushes off and hops down with a thump. ---- It's peaceful here. Daisies are dotted around, as are oak trees. Despite not knowing where exactly he is, he appreciates how at ease the occasional sounds of wildlife or the leaves of trees rustling in the wind make him. Well, at least for a while, that is. He swears it's just birds. Honestly, what else would it be if not birds? He's being silly. Although, maybe he should escape from any potential creature's line of sight. A part of him he can't reach urges him to not seek out any dirt walls, to head in the opposite direction of them in fact. He's pretty sure he doesn't have anything to protect here other than himself but the instinct to fool potential pursuers directs his movements. A weighty object impacts the ground behind him and he abandons his efforts. Ghostbur risks peeking over his shoulder. And that is how he finds himself face to face with the man who'd been following his movements. "Well, took you long enough." The stranger was certainly not there a moment ago. The fact they are his mirror image is naturally the most striking detail to notice. Although, he will say Alivebur doesn't look too well. His beanie helps with hiding the full extent of his hair's dishevelment despite said hair potentially being able to somewhat distract onlookers from noticing how permanently exhausted his face was. It doesn't matter to Ghostbur. Regardless of the disapproving crossed arms he is met with, he politely introduces himself. "Hi, I don't think we've met before. My name is Ghostbur! What's yours?" "You know our name." He's rifling through his pockets, seemingly unconcerned by the momentous occasion. "Oh, you're Alivebur then." "Ali-" The other Wilbur's head whips up to glare at him. "Do I look alive to you?! We are both the same person, a person who is very much dead." "Deadbur then." "Wilbur is fine. It's our name so I don't see why you can't use it." "It doesn't matter anyway." Wilbur abandons his quest to locate whatever he was try to find. Instead, he sticks out his hand, offering for it to be shaken. "Since you haven't disappeared 2 seconds after showing up this time, I think it's high time we wrap this little charade up, don't you? My best guess is we need skin contact or something along those lines." "Charade?" The hand's altitude falters slightly, almost as if the disgruntled sigh it was paired with had caused it. "Us being apart. I'm sure you've had your fun but it's time we fused back." He should take Wilbur's hand. He really should. This is what Phil, Eret and the others were working towards. People wanted Alivebur back as it was. So that meant he had to go. Think of all that time and effort to prepare everything for something he suggested they do in the first place, wasted by cold feet. Was he the first one to bring up resurrection? He honestly has no clue. There isn't a guarantee that this will work anyway. Same as... something he's sure has slipped his mind. Oh wait no, the button! He hadn't been sure about whether that would be successful either. But it had been. So this would likely be too, right? Except, he doesn't want to. He's not ready to give up the feeling of sunshine as he strolls around, the aroma of ingredients as he brews potions, the ability to chat with his friends while checking in on them or any of the other things he's enjoyed while himself. It was him who helped make the lanterns that once floated above New L'Manburg, him who attempted to collect enough books to start a history-preserving library and it was him who tried to build Tommy a nice holiday home to cheer his brother up during their time away from their nation. He knows he told Phil he was willing to relinquish his existence to return Alivebur to everybody but... maybe he didn't entirely mean it in his heart. They'll never be enough time, regardless how much the universe may wish to grant him, yet this doesn't feel like it's close to enough. "...No." "No?" "I don't want to go back yet. I..." He isn't too keen on that scowl. Perhaps if he makes up an excuse, things won't be so tense. "I just got here so why would I leave before I um, explored?" Shoulders loosen and Wilbur is back to absentmindedly rummaging through his pockets. "Guess I won't force you. And well, if you're going to be here for the indefinite future, I can give you a tour of this place." "That would be really helpful. Thank you." He breaks into a grateful smile. "Okay so to the north is grass and trees, to the west is grass and trees, same to the south. Oh but the east is actually quite exciting. You'll find trees and grass there." "I... see. Sounds great." Keep smiling, no need to ruin any potential future rapport so early. "I can't wait to look around." "Ghostbur, was it?" "Uh huh!" "Guess I'll be seeing you around." Having finally found his cigarette, the one native to these lands waves him off, the soon-to-be lit stick inbetween his fingers. He begins to stroll off into the cover of forest. He's sure he's being silly but Ghostbur could have sworn the quantity of trees gains density as it conceals the other man. Still, Ghostbur has seemingly been left completely to his own devices so he comes to the decision he will spend the rest of the day exploring. It can't hurt to get a feel for his surroundings. Honestly, how monotonously repetitive could this world really be? --- This is fine. All this is a setback but not one they can't overcome. He'd meant it when he said he wouldn't force Ghostbur to do anything. This was all a waiting game, to be honest. He could win it with the mouth that had long ago rallied people to a cause. He once believed in the phrase 'words over weapons' and how nobody in L'Manburg should wear armour because they shouldn't need that level of protection on a daily basis. The reality of tyrannical violence had proved him wrong. However, it was a negotiation that ultimately won them the war, albeit not one he was part of. He still likes to think Tommy's success that day was potentially due in part to Wilbur rubbing off on his right hand man. So in the pursuit of victory, Wilbur vows to stay civil where possible. --- As Ghostbur wanders, he comes to realise how true Wilbur's summary had been. The longer he explores, the longer the green persists. This world truly seems to be comprised of forests and open fields. It's his third day of checking what each path may offer when he finds himself in the midst of trees. However, the woods here were familiar. All around him was birch bark. They're scattered about and nothing about them indicates a natural path that can be made. Yet, as Ghostbur walks, he seems to know instinctively how to navigate the area and the way in which he should weave through the trees. It surprises him to eventually discover a stream flowing by these woods. Yet, at the same time, he feels like he should have been expecting to find it. Why does this place feel familiar? Oh. This was where Alivebur met Tommy, wasn't it? He could almost picture it. He had been wandering around the area surrounding their latest base. At least this part of the world tended to have fairly warm Aprils. Even better after the two months Phil had made them spend in a tundra during winter. It was completely nonsensical and Wilbur had made sure Phil knew his thoughts on the matter beyond any doubt. But they'd evaded any of nature's potential attempts to make them hypothermic long enough to get through it. Now all Wilbur needed to focus on was enjoying the not-yet-scorching sunshine while Phil was... off collecting resources, he believes. He's sure he's slightly lost. The general direction of their temporary base, that was no problem to discern but the actual way to reach his destination? Who on earth knew. It was just birch tree after dumb birch tree. There weren't any of those markers that he'd been taught about either so it was like he was destined to get lost. But then, a break in the tree line? A stream, actually! He's sure Phil has the essentials like water down already but it wouldn't hurt to gather a bucketful more. Phil did lend him a chest for a reason, after all. It's not the cleanest nor clearest body of water he's ever seen. Who really cares when there's ways of purifying it. It does seem to go on for a great distance, further than Wilbur's eyes can tell. The stream itself isn't particularly wide. He reckons he could easily leap over from one side to the other. On the opposite side of the bank, there's a hole that seems to have been hollowed out by hand amongst all the mud. Rather bizarrely, there's also a random child lingering there. Wilbur was hardly an expert on determining someone's age, especially when it came to younger children. However, he'd soon know with hindsight that the little boy in front of him had been roughly 4 years old at that moment. Blond hair messy to the point it might be easier to shave it all off than attempt brushing it, clothes tattered and dirt visible in several spots of his skin, it was evident from this kid (regardless of their isolated surroundings) wasn't meant to be here. "Hey, are you lost?" "No. Go away." A thin branch makes an attempt at threatening him. "Are you planning to hit me with those sticks?" The little boy glances back at the pile nearby. "They're my Scary Ouchers." "Scary Ouchers. Uh-huh." He forces himself not to laugh. This kid must have undoubtedly been through a lot if he's out here on his own seemingly long term. "And am I scary?" "Maybe." "What if I tell you my name, will that help me be less scary?" "Dunno." "Well, I'm Wilbur. And I promise I'm not here to hurt you." The kid seems to shrink within himself slightly as he weighs whether this 11 year old stranger is worth trusting. "Tommy." "Tommy? Okay. Hi, Tommy. Do you want me to take you home?" "I have a home." "Then let me bring you back there. I'm sure your Mummy and Daddy are worried about you." "Got a home." He repeats, banging the stick in his hand against the earth. "Tommy," Wilbur sighs. "You get that this isn't a good home, right? Come on, I can take you to my camp. Me and my dad will help you out." Tommy's confliction persists until he tentatively raises a hand, all fingers folded inwards except for the smallest one. Wilbur giggles as understanding dawns. One pinky encompasses a much smaller one. "I promise I won't let anything happen to you, Tommy." "You sure?" "Just pinky promised, didn't I?" Tommy considers this then nods with all the solemnness that only a child his age could treat such a practise with. They gather up all of the so called 'Scary Ouchers', god Phil will probably get a kick out of hearing the story tonight, and dump them in the chest. With Tommy tasked with guarding their wares upon the shoddy wagon Wilbur had constructed himself ages ago, the older boy guides them back to camp. Phil is understandably confused when he sees another child by the tents. He quickly resigns himself to their new reality. The conclusion that there are no parents to speak of, at least not anymore, is kind of obvious. Any memory of them will be stolen by time and the inability of a developing mind to store any event for potentially lifelong recollection. It's fine though. The four year old has a new family now, one that will love him for years to come. And after they return home to the little house situated in a valley? Well, Wilbur's little brother only gains volume when he speaks and far too much energy the more comfortable he becomes with his new life. In response to this memory, he longs to have Tommy here, to be the good Alivebur who can be trusted to be on better terms with his little brother. The two of them used to be really close, despite how often they drove each other up the wall. But Ghostbur had seen how Tommy didn't seem too fond of Alivebur anymore. There was also the fact Alivebur had become bad at some point down the line, driving Tommy as well as others away. Because nobody is born bad and Ghostbur struggles to reason that an 11 year old boy who genuinely wished to help a homeless kid approximately a third of his age was bad too. Here, in this secluded area full of birch trees with flowing water as part of its soundtrack, Ghostbur imagines a teenager obnoxiously laying across his lap in the gentlest of ways. Tommy calls him a bitch through chuckles and playfully chastises him for being 'all sappy and shit'. It's reminiscent of moments that truly did come to pass once upon a time. His little brother once made him a daisy chain while in this very position but unfortunately, this was back when Fundy was still tiny and all it took was little hands being allowed to inspect the item before the stemmed links broke as a result of tears. It had still ended well, the remnants were sprinkled in Fundy's then-wispy hair while the baby's giggles joined the laughter of his father and uncle. God he misses Tommy. He hopes that one day, if- when he and Wilbur manage to reform into Alivebur, things will improve and they can have that again. --- By now, he knows not to expect Wilbur to look his way. It's okay, he's used to it. People would talk to him then struggle to continue fully politely hiding their desire for him to leave them to their own affairs. At least Wilbur is more willing to be upfront with it, he supposes. Wilbur has things he wants to do and so must Ghostbur. When the rain descended upon them yesterday, their conversation resulted in them clashing. Wilbur can come out with a spiteful anger without much provocation. It usually lies restrained on the surface but Ghostbur dreads when it is fully unleashed on him. For the most part, there is an understanding that for whatever reason, Ghostbur is not inclined to view him fondly. He wonders if his rejection of the merging request has anything to do with Wilbur's negative bias. Perhaps it is best that Wilbur keeps his distance. He doesn't want to believe that is the case though. It is for this very reason that Wilbur approaching him with an friendly offer takes him by surprise. "I'm going to visit Schlatt and Mexican Dream. Want to come? I think it would be interesting to see how you'd affect our dynamic. Plus, an even number of players means we could do teams." "Of course." A grin bursts onto his face. He follows Wilbur's lead as they traverse the path. He's getting used to the scenery but when he notices a mushroom his eyes had previously missed when passing by, he knows he's far from done yet. There is no time for admiration right now and he's fully aware Wilbur will outwardly make known his frustration otherwise. When they reach their destination, Wilbur tears a section of the bark off from a spruce tree. Instead of revealing more inner layers, a fully lit pathway stretches in front of them. "Well, go on. It's not like I can hold a rip in our reality open forever." "Oh!" He slips past obediently, watching Wilbur join him immediately afterwards. "You must be quite strong then if you do this regularly." "Sure. Became a real bodybuilder out here." The deadpan causes Ghostbur's attention to flick momentarily to the black sleeves that certainly aren't filled, least of all by muscles. The corridor practically belongs in an aquarium. The arching walls are made of glass, allowing for full view of all the dolphins, turtles and large variety of fish on display. The pathway itself is unusually wide but since they were heading to meet with Wilbur's friends, he can only assume they liked spending time here and therefore needed the space. Following each pair of glass panels were strips of wood upon which torches were hung. It created a lovely ambiance along with the shadows from the waves outside. To be fair, his only complaint is the temperature. It's freezing, nearly unbearably so. Perhaps they are in the sea by a tundra, sheets of ice floating above them on the surface. That would seem like a plausible answer. Ghostbur could spend a good long while here if he found a warmer outfit. "It's very pretty." "Yeah. Just wish I didn't keep having to see it for the first time each week." He wants to harness the inquisitiveness of a toddler in order to learn how exactly Wilbur would ever be able to forget a sight like this. But something tells him it's not the time nor place. Maybe the view out of the windows shifted with each visit. That seems like a decent explanation. So instead he comes out with "I like the lighting too." "Ghostbur," He momentarily glances back over his shoulder. "You can't expect me to create a dark single-file pathway. There's no steps to a dead end either, see." It's muttered with such quiet sincerity that Ghostbur questions what happened to the Wilbur who scorned him and carried an air of resentment towards everything. He wishes he had some blue to offer him right now. Whatever Wilbur's issue with dark and narrow corridors was, Ghostbur can tell it's awful, too awful for him to ever understand. As they make their way between areas, Wilbur debriefs him on what to expect. It nothing too elaborate, simply a few rounds of card games. Until they get too bored or fed up with each other. They mostly stuck to solitaire and poker if he's going to be honest. Sometimes they'd pull out board games for the sake of variety. The three of them had promised Monopoly was for when they wanted to watch the world burn which hadn't happened yet but there'd been threats to manifest a game the next time they all met up. First there was Schlatt. When Ghostbur completely blanks at the name, it is begrudgingly explained to him that this was the guy who succeeded Alivebur as president. No effort is made to hide the fact Wilbur does not view Schlatt's continued presence in his post-mortal existence in a positive light. He even admits to the game he played whereby he attempted to guess what the J in JSchlatt stood for. It did nobody any good but it served its purpose of annoying Schlatt quite well. The ex-president was a poker kind of guy which also caused clashes between them. Ghostbur is told to expect alcoholic drinks being available, especially the stronger varieties. The man's fatal heart attack hadn't been helped by his drinking habits so honestly, it seemed pretty much on brand. Either way, the less Ghostbur allowed himself to do with Schlatt, the better in Wilbur's opinion. The other member of the group was Mexican Dream. Ghostbur remembered Quackity, right? Well, Mexican Dream was his cousin. He'd been generous enough to allow Wilbur the opportunity to learn Spanish as a way to pass time. He shrugs when he says it's something to get up for. He wasn't the best student because he frequently missed scheduled meet-ups by accident or simply let practising what he'd learned when he did show up slip his mind. Regardless, Mexican Dream was an alright guy who tended to hang around Schlatt and Wilbur more for the sake of company half the time. You just had to watch out for when he began going on about his love life. Ghostbur's new, Wilbur warns, so as fresh ears he'd be a prime target for the laments regarding Mamacita. The other half of Alivebur wishes him luck if that becomes the case. Oh and before he forgets, don't ask about his death. Touchy subject apparently. The civilities go well. Given the warmth (or lack thereof) he receives, Ghostbur would say Wilbur's assessments of temperament weren't too far off. Ghostbur sticks by Mexican Dream's side throughout their games, chatting as they attempted to ignore the tension ever brewing between the former political leaders of L'Manburg while they played. Wilbur does not take long to lose his temper at Schlatt. "You can't put a joker directly under a king. Also they're both spades so not only are they in the wrong position of the sequence, they're the wrong colour and suit for that move to be legal." "You know, Wilbur, this is why I always say we should start with poker." "Oh you and your poker. If you love poker so much then why don't you make it your vice president so it can leave you the minute you piss it off one too many times." "You don't like poker because it's too hard for you to understand." "Says the one who can't even understand that a black king can't be immediately followed by a black joker." "Well at least I don't have a tell that even a newborn could recognise." "And at least I'm not so untrustworthy that two-faced is an understatement." Wilbur glares before adding an ever so succinct "Wanker." as his closing statement while he collapses back into the chair. "Asshole." "...I have a joker and it's red. Would you like it, Schlatt?" "Thank you, Ghostbur." Schlatt grins in a way that somehow makes Ghostbur wish he wasn't in his company. Wilbur's face gently slams into open palms. When his fingers are finished with their journey down his face, he plucks the offending card out of his counterpart's hold. "Put the card down. We can't start mixing packs like this." Wilbur abruptly rises to his feet. "Actually, you know what? Sod this. Between you and Tweedle Dum here, I feel like he's the lesser evil. Come on, Ghostbur, let's go back." Like a plus one whose only way in and out of the event was their invited friend, he has no choice but to follow Wilbur's lead. He would rather stay and get to know Mexican Dream better but it would seem it wasn't on the cards for today. He waves the pair goodbye. Mexican Dream returns it genuinely. Schlatt's smile comes across as sinister and his attention appeared to be on Wilbur as it was. "...I can see why you like Mexican Dream more." He comments in the tunnel home. "Yes, guy's less of a twat." He distracts himself from this disaster of a meeting with the marine life outside. It doesn't prove as effective as he would hope. --- He doesn't understand why or how but it seems that Wilbur has developed the ability to have a hunch as to where Ghostbur could be found. Today this hunch led him to a peaceful stream. The water flows uninterrupted and he can't recall the last time he was in the presence of such clear water. He suspects it goes on for a while before meeting a larger area of water. Ghostbur himself is seated by the bank, admiring the scenery surrounding them. He periodically remembers himself and returns his focus to a little notebook he was scribbling in. "What's this?" "Wilbur." The ghost lights up at the sight of him for whatever reason. He pats the ground beside him. "Come, sit here. It'll be fun." "I'm... I'm good thanks." "If you're sure." There's that wide smile again. There's no way he can't call major bullshit on it. "Has anyone told you how unnerving your constant good mood is?" "You're just saying that because you like being moody." "I'm saying it because it's the truth." He scrutinises his other half. "Nobody has the ability to be that positive 24/7." "I- Well, I do." There is an argument he could begin having with Ghostbur but he hasn't got the patience for it. "What are you writing about?" "Oh, this is my diary. I don't want to forget what I've been doing while here." Wilbur is struck with the desire- no, the need to discover what Ghostbur has been writing about him. As a general, intel was everything and as a fugitive, every bit of insider information had the potential to prove useful. Ghostbur correctly interprets his extended hand but still hesitates before adhering to the request. It's pointless though as there is nothing regarding himself to analyse. Day 8 (24/1/21) I am in the Void so I think the plan worked. I wish I could tell Phil because he seemed quite worried about the process failing. I have been counting the days at the back of this book because they all look the same and there doesn't seem to be any calendars anywhere. So I'm guessing it's January 24th right now. I think I'm getting used to the Void. Everything is very green but I like it. Exploring has been quite fun and Wilbur introduced me to a couple of his friends for a games night. The tunnel to get to them is beautiful but I think I'll need to craft a few campfires to help combat the cold there if I want to watch the wildlife. I also need more cornflowers to make blue with but they seem to be difficult to find which is a shame. I will have to keep looking but that's okay. Maybe I can convince Wilbur to help me if he's available. I'm at the stream where Alivebur met Tommy right now. I really like it. It reminds me of the picnics Alivebur used "A picnic?" "Yeah! Alivebur used to have lunch on a raft with his mum whenever they could find one. It was fun." "Good for us, I guess. I wouldn't know anything about that." Except maybe, it seems, he might. The feeling of feet bounding against the earth. Excited yelling. Ruffling of hair with something that wasn't an arm around his shoulder. An exasperated chuckle while something sweet was on his tongue. Playing lookout by a window. A contest that ends with a soggy lap. Surrounded by laughter and happy chatter. He realises what this is too late. As it fades, he chases it. No, come back. Don't leave. He needs it, even if it's the vaguest of scraps. Please, please, come back. "Wilbur?" "Sorry, I might have just spaced out for a minute. I was thinking about... about... I don't know, something." "Here." Ghostbur presents blue dye. "I haven't been able to find many cornflowers to make it but I think you should have some." "What's this for?" "You look like you're about to cry. Blue's very good at absorbing all your sadness away. You let it soak it all up and then throw it away. I promise it works. Honestly, try it." "Thanks but I'd rather not stain my hands with blue dye for the sake of humouring you. That shit takes forever to get off. Although... this does explain why your clothes are like that. I thought we'd be smarter than to wear something bright while frequently handling a substance that stains easily." "Well okay then. The offer's always there if you want it though." "I'm fine. Just need a breather. Don't uh... don't wait up for me or whatever." The worst thing is he has no clue why he's suddenly upset. Sitting on top of a hill, he overlooks land with the potential to be built upon, land that had seen construction in a world similar to this one. He's not sure if he's in the exact spot but it's close enough. In his mind's eye, L'Manburg springs into existence, a diagonal line cuts through the wall as it is destroyed by Fundy's pickaxe. Their country had come close to death before but that day had arguably been its last one. The reason why Tommy wasn't by his side in that moment is lost to him. A spark of resentment temporarily roars into a flame as he thinks of how his former right hand man should be present for this in a way more than simply joining in at the end of the anthem over a voice call. Oh who cares anymore? It doesn't matter now. Alone, he witnesses L'Manburg die before him for the... how many times was it now? At least if he's going to be mournful, he should mourn something he actually knows he's lost. --- The entry concludes with a final paragraph. I've also met Wilbur. He's the other part of Alivebur and he wants to fuse so we can be Alivebur again. We will have to eventually but he seems willing to wait. I hope he stays that patient because I don't know how long it will take me to say yes. In the meantime, I want us to become friends. He can be so dismissive and angry but despite how mean he seems, I think we could still get along if we really try. I think getting more blue should be on my list of priorities because he really needs it. Which reminds me, I need to draft a list of priorities. I think I should get on that as soon as I can so goodbye for now. --- Ghostbur makes the decision on the... well he needs to check his memory book to remember exactly what day it is but whatever today was, that was when he sets himself the goal of working on a house. It'll be a nice place, not too fancy (at least not at first, he can add to it later if he so desires) but it can be a lovely base for himself. Maybe Wilbur too, if he can get the other half of Alivebur to join him. The problem was he wasn't sure where to take inspiration from. He built a house for Tommy during their holiday and he really liked how that simple little place turned out. He also recalls Tubbo's house from when he and Tommy were messing around shortly following his arrival in the area. Now that house was very pretty. It would take some more effort to get right, especially when all he had for reference was the memory of it, but he feels it would be worth it if he wanted to go down a similar route in terms of design. Oh! Didn't Techno have a lovely looking cabin too? Perhaps he should keep that building in mind as well. Or he could come up with something new entirely. He wasn't sure yet. He thinks it may be best to experiment first. It's as he is figuring out the size and shape he'd prefer the ground floor to be that Wilbur comes across the soon to be construction site. Arms crossed, he doesn't look too impressed. But then again, when does he? "What is this?" "Oh hi, Wilbur. I thought I could build myself a house. It could be our house if you'd like. Or... Or maybe I could add a bedroom just for you if you already have a house." "I think I'll pass. Though this does explain all the missing oak trees around here." His gaze flicks to the pile of wood Ghostbur has gathered. "Anyway, you're just doing this by hand?" "How else would I be doing it?" "I have my ways. You probably have the same ones." The two of them venture through a taiga until they reach a hill overlooking an empty field of plains. Even before he truly lays eyes on their expanse of their destination, he can sense how far of a drop it would be to reach it without caution. "Wait!" The warning comes too late to have any effect. Wilbur leaps from the edge. Rushing forward instinctively, Ghostbur dreads the scene he is sure will be upsetting to witness. He shuts his eyes but risks a peak regardless. It's to his utter shock that Wilbur stands waiting, perfectly fine. "I know we pretty much have all the time in the world but I'd rather not spend it waiting for you to get on with it and jump already." "You're not hurt?" "What? No, of course not. Why would I-?" Realisation arrives and Wilbur's only reaction to it seems to be an eye roll. "We're dead, you idiot. When was the last time your feet actually touched the ground? In fact, when was the last time you even had feet?" "Oh." "Yeah." Wilbur continues to walk ahead, using an arm to beckon Ghostbur in the right direction. "Now come on." Once they settle on a spot for the demonstration, wooden blocks materialise without warning. They arrange themselves into an empty birch cube that is perhaps twice as tall as they are. It's not a complex structure, pretty non-descript. Ghostbur had been hoping to be a bit more ambitious with his construction work than this. However, he supposes Wilbur is simply only showing him the basics. There's no need to go overboard in an attempt to show off. "It's pretty simple, really. All you have to do is picture what you want and boom," A final block of birch comes into existence. "It shows up without much effort. It saves a lot of time and hassle. Got it? How about you summon a torch to test it out." He imagines a stick. Even a branch will do, he feels. As he does so, a weight grows in his hand with the appearance of a long brown object. The stick he summons is actually fairly substantial once it solidifies. For extra measure, he concentrates on the tip. He devotes his thoughts to warmth and autumnal bonfires and an orange glow then- Oh! Well, next time he should make sure he's careful when causing spontaneous combustion. "See? Easy. Now toss it here." With the rudimentary house completed and torch in hand, Wilbur carelessly allows the flame to linger too close to the wood. Ghostbur is unable to cry out a warning before the building is set alight. It gradually dawns on him that, somehow, this was a deliberate action to achieve this consequence. It leaves Ghostbur more lost regarding the workings of the other man's thoughts than ever. "What is the point in this? I don't... I don't understand." "It's warm." He acts as if this is the obvious answer. "Do you feel it, Ghostbur? Do you feel the cold, the way any and all sources of heat seem to be sapped while you try to make the most of them? You've been here days, you must feel it. Took me a day to recognise what it was. It's the Void, Ghostbur, it's the Void. It- It- It takes the heat from this place. We could be standing in the middle of the fucking desert right now but you'd still feel a chill, like someone left the window open and caused a draft. I... you know, I made this place to get away from it but it followed me regardless. Just... got muted, I guess. I carved out a little bit of the Void. Not even that big. It simply feels that way because it's like in those drama productions where you have the scenery on a rotator or whatever it's called. Not using it? Just poof, gone on standby or- or taped over. Mixing my metaphors here." "Stop standing there before you're on fire." "Hmm? Oh, don't worry about that. Doesn't scar or anything. I can reverse any damage, make it seem like it never happened." "Just get out of it." The ghost reaches out to his friend. Wilbur steps back to avoid him. "Ghostbur, I'm fine. I only want to be warm." "I can make a fire if you want. A normal one, in a pit." "Like I haven't made a bonfire before. You really think I haven't tried that?" "Let's get some water. You just have think about it, don't you?" "Wait, no! I tend to watch it burn. Gives me something to do." "O-Okay." So they witness the structure's demise to fire. Ghostbur mourns the loss of the materials that seem to be going to waste for the sake of entertainment. He can't help but succumb to the desire to be enraptured. The flames dance with curls and bows and sways. He breaks his gaze away to glance at Wilbur, curious to see if he is having a similar experience as him. His companion has only a hardened expression to show, one that pairs a set jaw with calculating eyes. Yet a light, separate to that reflected from the fire, can be spotted dwelling within those same eyes. What one finds aesthetically pleasing albeit wasteful, the other studies as if he can learn how to tame it in order to command it to do his immoral bidding. --- Wilbur thinks of buttons. How technically easy they are to press. How, despite this fact, he'd been getting closer and closer to a dozen attempts before bailing. How one of his last memories (from the ones he'd been oh so generously permitted to keep) was that of burning. Fire is destruction, the chaos of something that aims to consume indiscriminately, a means to an end. But at the same time this is safe, controlled, something he can force to stop if it goes too far. There are 101 reasons why he has every right to hate Ghostbur. More, he'd argue actually. Since they became two, he's been left with the shortest end of the stick. Ghostbur got to go have fun and enjoy himself, got the opportunity to act like everything had always been alright since he'd deliberately discarded the evidence that suggested otherwise. And the personified form of the discarded evidence had simply been forced to endure the nightmares, to desperately avoid triggers he's not willing to confront in any shape or form yet, to attempt to find comfort in familiarity regardless of why an object or location may seem familiar to him. He's done this before. Not every day, mind you. He's not that big of a masochist to pull that shit. Perhaps once or twice in the span of what might be considered a fortnight, if that. Other times he's simply not done anything for a while. But Wilbur has gone through this process before. He has stood in flammable structures and allowed the flames to take their course. He hacks when the smoke increases to the point of becoming overwhelming. It hurts, of course it does (it's fire for crying out loud). Yet when he leaves the scene of arson, any blisters that have begun bubbling on his skin disappear at his command. The main incentive to act so stupidly is to remember. He can recall bombs and the devastation of witnessing his safety being ripped away before his eyes. Over and over, he attempts to confront the things that keep him up at night. The door is always right there, waiting to be flung open the second he decides it is more than enough for that session. In Albert Einstein's eyes, he could qualify to be called insane. He would disagree but then again, they are using different definitions. While alive, he had developed a smoking habit. It began as something to help alleviate stress. Then not inhaling nicotine ironically became a source of stress for him. That's how addictions form, he supposes, with stupid destructive cycles such as his. The inherent need to risk slowly killing his lungs for the sake of feeling relatively decent didn't seem to carry over to Ghostbur. Lucky bastard, always getting the better end of the deal. By his design, most likely. Be civil, he reminds himself, since it will increase his chances of securing victory. Now that Ghostbur is here, he is a step closer to getting what he's wished for since they'd died. It is only a matter of time before he rediscovers the peace of being whole once more. What he hopes will be peace. Wilbur thinks of buttons and fires and explosions. Most importantly though, he thinks of how nice it must be to witness something subjectively beautiful and not question a myriad of life choices. --- Ghostbur didn't appreciate the loneliness. Back down with everyone else, his friends and family either tolerated his company or told him to leave them alone. Even the friendlier ones had a habit of getting tired of him hanging out with them for too long. Sometimes he happened to catch them when they were busy. It was fine and certainly no big deal. Everyone needs alone time. Wilbur, for instance, likes a lot of alone time. Then there were those that Alivebur hurt and struggled to not be reminded of the man they once knew whenever Ghostbur was around, like Phil and Tommy. It was nobody's fault. He did have a striking resemblance to his pre-death counterpart. All this in consideration, Ghostbur could really a friend. Or perhaps more specifically, a Friend. He's seen Wilbur do this practically effortlessly so how hard could this be? He thinks the best way to go about this is to take it slow and begin at the bottom. He brings himself to an open space so he can have as few obstacles during this important moment as possible. Two pairs of hooves appear, already upright on the grass. With them comes four legs then a torso adorned in naturally blue wool which is accompanied by a tail. When the process comes to an end, Ghostbur is met with a familiar face. He wraps his arms around the neck of his closest companion in a hug. "Hi, Friend. I've really missed you. We can hang out whenever Wilbur is being grumpy or wants to be alone. Would you like that? Maybe we can even convince him to like you too. But that might be hard since he doesn't seem to like anyone." He feels it should be common courtesy for Ghostbur to introduce Friend to Wilbur. After all, his twin had already extended that courtesy to him the other day. --- "Wilbur!" There is no need for him to acknowledge the voice calling out his name. Even if he didn't recognise the owner of said voice, there is no-one else it could be. Yet when he does, he isn't sure whether to curse his reflexes for making him see the sight in general or be grateful for the minute's forewarning it grants him. Encouraged to tag along with Ghostbur is an affront to nature. "So..." He begins when the two visitors are near enough. "The sheep." "Yeah! His name is Friend. I had a sheep just like him when I was with everyone else so I thought he could keep me company while I'm here." He's not even sure how to respond to this development. He simply stares at the animal as he attempts to process it. It's so weird because he swears the sheep has one of those rare genetic variations where their wool is quite literally blue naturally. It's obviously not been dyed at all because you can tell with that sort of thing. Somehow, Ghostbur has straight up manifested a sheep with a rare coat colouring. He wants to be more thrown off by it than he is. Yet he struggles to do so. Because, in the several days since he's met the one he shares a face with, he can't truthfully claim he's surprised. "Friend, huh? Well, you really have a knack for coming up with names, don't you?" "I guess." "You asked me the other day what you should call me. You seem to love these cute little versions of our name. Given the way I treat you, I'm surprised you haven't been tempted to call me Meanbur or Sadbur or even Why-The-Fuck-Won't-You-Take-A-Hint-And-Just-Leave-Me-Alonebur?" Ghostbur hesitates, clearly a little shocked by this outburst. He quickly corrects himself, changing his expression instead to something more akin to content thoughtfulness. "Oh, I know! What do you think of Soulbur? I like Soulbur. Because you're half of his soul." "Fine, whatever makes you happy. Though if you really need to bother someone, I'd rather you go to Schlatt or MD." "But do you like Friend?" He glances back at the sheep for the sake of humouring his twin. "I... I suppose it's alright for a sheep. Don't want too much to do with it though. It's your pet." "He is more than a pet." And it comes off as if he's offended him. "He's well, he's Friend." "Gho- It is a sheep. I get that you're attached to it- him so you're hardly planning to serve mutton anytime soon but he's still just a bloody sheep." As he distances himself from Ghostbur to escape this nonsense, his ears catch muttered assurances that 'Soulbur' was not worth listening to. Plus, what kind of name was 'Friend'? His ghostly counterpart sounded like a child who'd decided their stuffed toy deserved a name to fit the role of lifelong companion. He'd retaliate but he's far from in the mood. --- Okay, as it turns out, he does begin to get used to the new moniker. For one thing, it's easier to differentiate himself from their pre-death self (though Ghostbur seems to have that covered thanks to his insistence of using 'Alivebur'). Soulbur likewise continues to tolerate him for the sake of civility. Hence why he's sat by a small fire and performing the absolutely redundant task of eating a meal. No matter how much he attempts to explain neither of them physically need sustenance, Ghostbur remains persistent on his thoughts regarding the issue. "No cows were harmed in the making of this steak." "Oh that's good." Ghostbur beams. "And you made a joke. You don't do that often." "Listen, I might not have a reason to laugh anymore but I do still have a sense of humour." "You know, you sound like Techno when you speak. All serious and bored." "Doesn't surprise me." He mutters. "Besides, you're the one who kept the happier emotions in the split. I'd be worried if I didn't sound like I have the more exhausting ones." "What?" "What are you confused about? You said you can't remember upsetting things, right? Well where did you think they went, the back of your mind, left stranded in the void- no, actually I suppose that one is technically true. Either way, the oversimplified version of events is that you got the good stuff and I got the bad." There is silence but there is also calm. From it, Soulbur gains the courage to put forward one of the questions he's been deliberating on for a good long while. "Ghostbur…" He frowns. "How did we die?" "You don't remember?" "No. For some fucked up reason, we apparently thought so low of ourself that it was a good memory. That or you took it to spite me." "I-" Soulbur holds his hand up. "No excuses, no rambling in the hopes you can beat around the bush. I just want the truth. Because all I can remember is Phil showing up, us getting frustrated then this unbearable pain as if... as if something was cooking us from the inside. I don't know I- it just hurt. A lot. Then we were dead. So what the hell happened to us?" The ghost is focused on fiddling with the sleeves of his yellow jumper. "I don't want to say." "Bad memory then. So... an unnecessary theft. As much as I hate to admit it, that was supposed to be mine if it was traumatic." "Wasn't nice but it was a good moment." "Well, was it good or bad? Make up your mind! I told you, I didn't want any messing around. I'm not expecting an essay from you, only a sentence or two." He groans. "Okay, how about this since you can't give me a straight answer. Did we press the button, yes or no?" "We did." "Brilliant! We got somewhere. I suspected it was burning debris but couldn't be sure. That's all I wanted." Soulbur manages only a handful of steps before his twin's voice is heard once more. "It wasn't debris. The explosion didn't kill us." "Then what did?" If his patience wore any more thin, somebody would have to pull out a microscope to view it. Ghostbur appears conflicted, ever tugging on his sleeves. "Phil was the Saint George to our dragon. He stopped us from hurting anyone else." "Whoa whoa whoa, hang on that's- Phil wasn't always the best parental figure to us, I know that, but he would never... kill us. That is not the kind of guy he is." "We asked him to." "Why would we-" "Don't ask me. You're the one who's always grumpy. You should know." Ghostbur argues back. "Even if we begged him on our hands and knees, as shitty as he could sometimes be, Phil would never cause us deliberate harm." "But he did." Soulbur visibly mulls this over in his mind before a scowl settles on his face. "Can't win, can you? Unbelievable. Couldn't even trust Phil to be on our side." "But he-" "He was supposed to take care of us. I can excuse him not being father of the year because he only took us in out of pity so we wouldn't end up on the streets. But the bare minimum I would have expected from him is to not kill the kid he's raised since they were little." "I don't know what you want me to say. You said you wanted the truth? Well the truth is Phil stabbed us with a sword because we asked him to. It was a... it was a sword with fire aspect, I think. That's why you think it hurt." "I don't think it hurt. I know it hurt." "Can we stop talking about this? I don't like it." "No. No, we are talking about this. I'm not letting you slink off at the first hint of something upsetting, Mr Repression." "I'm not slinking off. I just don't want to think about this." "Well, welcome to my life, every single bloody day since you ran off. At least you have the privilege of avoiding it." "Stop it! Stop it! Why do always have to be so- so- I'm going to find Friend. At least he's nice to me." "You are literally proving my point right now." "I don't care." "Fine! Piss off then. That's what you seem to do best, cry and run away at the slightest bit of trouble. But you can't do this forever, you know. You're going to have to accept we've been through a lot of shit one day." And for the first time in what he believes has been roughly two weeks, Ghostbur frowns. It is not the slight frown from whenever he is unsure or downtrodden, Soulbur's seen that before. Those times had been more akin to a pout. No, this expression has been witnessed by him before. He saw this occasionally in his reflection while alive, especially in the lead up to the festival and war between Manberg and Pogtopia when he'd been steeling himself to play his role in it all. So perhaps frown is not the most accurate word for it. Ghostbur glares, he scowls, he glowers. And then the façade breaks as if the universe cannot permit an angry Ghostbur to exist. Dark blue pools by his eyes and begins to spill down his face. Soulbur doesn't think he's seen his other half cry either actually. It doesn't feel right, watching the one who kept going about everything with a smile cry and descend into sobs while he's at it. The universe doesn't swiftly correct itself at this though so Soulbur will have to make of that what he will. "I'm going to find Friend." Ghostbur repeats. And that is that for the calm dinner between both halves of the same person.

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG165! X_X

- I really wasn’t expecting to hear the calliope music again one day! That took me back to the end of season 3 – it felt like another (successful) Unknowing, a glimpse of what would have happened if the Circus had pulled through in MAG118/MAG119?

Also, confirmation that Tim definitely got his revenge and blew up the Circus to pieces, including Grimaldi/Nikola:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: [LOW] I’m hoping if we’re quick, we can avoid her notice. MARTIN: “Her”? [SILENCE] J–Jon, please, don’t tell me there’s an evil clown doll down there– ARCHIVIST: No– MARTIN: –because… ARCHIVIST: N–no, Nikola died with The Unknowing; it’s, uh… [INHALE] An old friend.

At least, Tim got that T__T

- The pattern of beginning the statement with “There is…” already got broken with this one:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: … Wha…? [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] … “There is a place, deep in the heart of Fear, where you trap yourself and claim that it is safety. [STATIC DECREASES] It was once a cabin, and professes still to be such, but as with all in this new world that promises respite… it is a trap.”

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: … Alright, then. [INHALE] [SIGH] [STATIC RISES] “There is a wound in the earth. [STATIC DECREASES] A bayonet gouge, scored through the soft and sodden mud for uncounted miles. A trench that marks the front line of a war that has no name. It has always been raging, deep in the hearts of the powerful and those that thirst to see bodies piled high in their name.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “There is a sickness in this village. Perhaps you would not see it from a distance and the faint sting of rot on the breeze is easy enough to dismiss; but as you get closer, that infectious feeling of wrongness is harder and harder to shake. The grass is not the green of nature, the buildings are warped by more than age, and the voices that come from behind the inhabitants’ masks… are hoarse, and wet. They move with exaggerated casualness, a parody of idyllic village life.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] … Right. [STATIC RISES] “Your face is not your face is not your face [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] around the curling carousel, it twists in place to take from you and all the tattered stolen souls whose sense of ‘me’ is swollen and distended into nothing.

Could be because The Stranger (/the Circus/identity thieves/I-Do-Not-Know-You) is Like That and can’t conform to little boxes, or could be because there isn’t really a “pattern” to begin with, we’ll see with the next nightmare pockets.

Consistency-wise: the use of “you” (as a way to include/pull the listeners in?) went through the roof, but was understandable – “you” is “something/someone who isn’t me, in front of me”, and doesn’t need to be as personified as third person. Jon once again used “End recording” at the end of the ~statement~, which is… a reminder that 1°) these aren’t really statements as we knew them (Jon has never labelled them as such; actually, the only times characters have mentioned “statement(s)” this season were dead people mentioning them in the tapes Jon was listening to in the first two episodes); 2°) there is still that recording/pouring-into-the-tapes thing going on, that Jon is aware of, even if the tapes weren’t relevant in this episode for themselves. Unclear whether Jon had any influence on the tape recorder clicking on both times in the episode, or whether it autonomously reacted to stuff (Jon&Martin approaching the Merry-Go-Round, Jon&Martin walking along the edge of it while the Not!Them was coming close… or just because Jon&Martin were chatting about personal things?).

Still *squint* at what the heck is happening thanks to/through the tape recorders at the moment – it still reminds me of Albrecht von Closen pouring out his stories to Jonathan Fanshawe, there is still the possibility that Jon is feeding the tapes themselves to create something even worse, and mmmmm… (New kinds of Leitner books?)

- I’ve already forgotten almost everything I used to know about English poetry, but lots of iambic constructions (up and down) combined with lots of ternary syntactic structures (round, circularity)? My references are mostly French, but the work on sounds really reminded me of Antonin Artaud’s – though way faster, fittingly, since it was also a relentless chase in which selves kept getting stolen and lost (and so was my attention). Beautiful piece, but ooft did it keep losing me before I was picked back up and forced to run with the words again.

Lots of themes that we had seen with the Circus in previous manifestations:

(MAG119) ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, I s… I see the sad clown, b–bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into a ci–circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a… a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name. NIKOLA: Not always, and it’s far too late for any of that. Nothing you see can help you. […] Tim… TIM: … Grimaldi. NIKOLA: Once, a long time ago, before Orsinov made me. And sometimes, even now, on special occasions. Like your brother!

(MAG128, Breekon) “When we left our destination, the mule whining at the new weight behind it, he would reach behind us and find a face, sagging, sloughing off its skull, and would pull it to him. He’d place it over the one he wore already, and he would laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Sometimes it fell off. Sometimes it stayed for weeks. I kept the face we chose, but I loved him for our levity, and the corpses piled ever higher. […] But with the Circus we were amongst our own kind at last. They all had names, true enough, but none would dare pretend that names were real. Faces changed more often than clothes, and nobody truly knew who anybody was, save for their function within the show. […] We didn’t like the puppet, when Orsinov began to carve it. It seemed wrong to us to try and bring one like us about; to create or remake it in such a solid, static shape. We were wrong, of course. When Orsinov carved into the thing that had once called itself Grimaldi, and fed the pieces they didn’t need to the shuddering organist, even we found ourselves impressed. And when the faceless puppet peeled its creator and moved itself with their tendon strings, he looked at me… and laughed… and laughed…”

Identity loss, the loss of self, permutability. But it’s interesting that it fit so well to the other Circus members we had encountered and… still was incredibly Hunt-y, with the premise of an ongoing chase where the victims become the new mob of predators (who may become victims once again if they are successful, etc.), taking place in a circular space, where things can never truly end. Really reminiscent of the concept of The Everchase, I feel? Fears bleeding into each other, etc.

(There could be something about a “(word) chain” of Fears, since MAG163 was mostly Slaughter/War and had bits of Corruption with the medical malpractices, then MAG164 was Corruption with what was identified as “strangers” being targeted more heavily, then MAG165 being Stranger with very a Hunt logic, which would lead to MAG166 going for Hunt… But I’m not really feeling it.)

- It wasn’t clear in MAG164, but this one also made explicit that people in the nightmares can’t really die-die – either they seem to respawn (or get stuck in a nightmare inside of a nightmare inside of a nightmare etc.?), either they just… can’t:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “There is a rumbling in the earth around him, as a tank speeds along its unstoppable path, and Charlie is immediately pulled under its tread. He has a moment of shocked horror, before being reduced to a smear in the mud. […] Next to his bleeding corpse, Charlie wakes from what passes for sleep in this place. A sergeant is yelling at him, screaming for him to take his gun and get into the waiting transport.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “And so they fall to frantic terror and conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. You lie there in the fugue of vivid pain and feel that gentle rain from violence overhead, as some fall dead or close as this place lets you lie, for truly thus to die would be too eager an escape; and listen to the ebb and swell of slow, melodic wail that well you know conducts the flowing rhythm laced into this endless, faceless dance.”

Does The End feel cheated, or is the fear of dying (or the fear of not being allowed to die) enough to feed it? Will we meet a pocket mostly dominated by a facet of The End…?

- I wonder if we’ll meet people not yet taken by a “place” since we got a couple mentions of an outside/inside and people still coming in…

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “And people do still come to the village, for however thick the paranoia, however terrible the disease, there are worse things beyond.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “But no, for all the dreams of bounding, leaping off into the great Unknown, you see the ring of broken mewling wretches who have shown the sting that comes with such rejection of the truth, so seldom spoken yet inside you all, that there is no – way – off the merry-go-round. […] It’s not the same as what you had when first you climbed the brightly painted stairs, but not the worst “who” you have been.”

Are the places making people feel like they could leave/that there are newcomers, when they’ve actually been stuck here forever? Or are there people who are still “free” until they’re taken by one of the places? (I mean, outside of main characters: we already know that Daisy is tearing through these places, and that Basira is following her (though that… sounds like a Hunt nightmare in itself), and Jon was unable to tell where Melanie&Georgie were – so unless they’ve been taken by a Dark nightmare, they’re probably outside of the boxes somehow.)

- I’m still trying to narrow down what is making me feel uneasy this season so far, and it’s sadly not something that will be warned for in the content warnings: it’s… about the whole ideology regarding free-will, agency, guilt and responsibility.

So far, all the “nightmares” we have encountered made it clear that it was, yes, people prisoners of a nightmare tailored to make them suffer, but also in which… most of the violence was committed by people against people:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “Something moves outside, struggling to crawl upon a hundred reaching grasping hands. It shudders, and grips the earth, pulling itself along as nails rip free and skin scrapes loose. It is afraid of what it has become, and where it might be going. […] Outside, it is raining. Heavy drops fall, ice-cold and laced with salt; tears of voyeuristic delight from The Eyes that see and drink in all – it sinks into the dry cracked ground, and from the mud faces struggle to push themselves free and breathe. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] They cannot breach the surface, as the slick soil flows down their throats.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “Ishaan had been afraid, terrified that they were going to strap him to it, pin him to the Goliath’s hull like all the other flayed flags of war, striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. But instead they fed him to it, tossed him into its burning innards and sealed the hatch behind him. Now, his body has contorted itself to fit, his fingers clutched around the firing lever; pulling it frantically is the only thing that will reduce the impossible heat even for a moment. From the tiny slit in the metal, he can see other soldiers: baby-faced friends and the monstrous, pig-faced enemy, both falling beneath his iron coffin’s advance. He tries to cry, but his tears turn to steam. […] Hasanna’s eyes fall on the entrance to the tent, and she sees the line of civilians, stretching away into the distance. They are no less maimed, their agonies no more bearable; but there is simply no room. She tries to apologise – but instead, she closes the tent. […] Far in the distance, she sees Alexei look out over the battlefield, and her stomach turns at the detestable wrongness of his face. Alexei in turn looks out from deep in the trench. He catches sight of the enemy, their shrivelled rat-like heads causing the bile to rise in his throat.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “It is, alas, those who are unblemished that suffer worst. So incomprehensible is it that any from outside could be clean, that there might be another source or vector, the inspectors devise another theory: an invisible infection. A hundred Typhoid Marys spreading mildew and decay. […] For no one would speak up if Gillian Smith were to mark you infected, or declare you foreign. No one would lift a finger as they dragged you to the green. […] What Mrs Kim is… is scared. Scared of her neighbours, scared of her friends, scared of the moment when someone will smell the spreading patch of darkness on her back and decide she is infected, or remember she has only been in the village since her grandfather’s day, and judge her to be an outsider. Should she accuse someone else? Send them to the village green? Perhaps she might petition to join the council, though that would invite their attention as much as anything might. Even through the masks, Mrs Kim knows the looks she gets in the pub; but what can she do? When she hears the shouts outside and sees the smoke pouring from the thatched roof, she knows it is too late.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “The world in which the carousel will twirl is not the hollow hell you fear; it is the world. Just the world. A world where if you’d wish to have a name, it must be stolen, carved and pulled full-bloody from the frame of others who would wish in vain to hold their selfness close. You want a face? Take it. There are so many here; and those who cannot hold them, well, whoever chose to give them such a gift must take the blame, knowing they could never keep it in a world of so much thieving strangeness. […] You feel the last of names and “who” you might have been be torn away and borne towards new bodies. New pages, blank; determined to be people. […] then comes the briefest flash that surely now it’s done, so much, perhaps… the pain will be somewhat lessened. There’s no way it could hurt as much as you remember. But it does. And so of course, you scream, and scream; and curses, foul, obscene will tumble garbled over where there once sat other people’s lips or yours now gone, and teeth that once shone yellowed ivory a crimson in the flowing sanguine flood. And as you lie in agonies and fading dreams of personhood, of knowing who you were and what that might have meant, you hear the bitter whisper of recriminating seekers, who have found the treasure of their eager dreams, but see, it seems there’s not enough… for all. And so they fall to frantic terror and conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. […] You are, of course, a faceless thing as well, and so should quickly match the pace of those who chase the self-same prey. But now, it is too late, they’ve gone. Their chase will not abate until their former friend is ripped apart in turn. And you have learned to wait. For there are many faces out upon the carousel, and many names that you might be. So bide your time a while and wait the coming of another one whose fate and face might sit upon your grinning carmine skull.

And I feel like there has been a shift compared to statements in previous seasons: it used to be monsters or eldritch things going after people, but we also got people trapped in these oppressive systems, who could have chosen their survival over others’… and still said “no”. Is that even possible in the nightmares? Are we assuming that people are constantly remade in order to keep the circles of violence going (in order to serve them) and that it’s going past a mere influence, that it’s erasing any responsibility in their actions? Or is it still an individual choice and are we heading towards the idea that anyone (or 99.99% of people) would choose to inflict direct violence against others if it means lessening their own pain? (I’m honestly super uncomfy about the latter idea, because it feels bleak and edgy to me, because it’s hard to forget that in this reasoning, marginalised people would always have it worse, and because it narratively feels like “cheating” to have Jon&Martin on the frontline, who are super fluffy and obviously wouldn’t push the other under a bus for their survival… while other people would just be eh, people. ;;) In summary: can people currently be held accountable for their actions, in the same way Daisy took responsibility for her Hunt-influenced actions, or are they deprived of any choice?

Interesting, though, is that in these nightmares, we… have never seen families or groups of friends, so far (Charlie had one, who seemed to exist just to get killed? The fungus village had neighbours who didn’t seem to know much about each other?). It feels like in rewriting reality, the Fears have also isolated people, fractured their previous social links to impose new “societies” with their own rules and mechanisms? Jon, at least, still labels them as “victims” even when aware of what is happening:

(MAG165) MARTIN: Because, uh… [LOWER] I really don’t like the look of those riders. ARCHIVIST: Would you believe me if I said they were the victims? MARTIN: … At this point, I’m not even surprised.

But I’m kind of wary and expecting an argument to be made about how Human Nature Is Fundamentally Selfish or something like this, precisely when The Web is lurking around and had such a knack for the theme of free will… ;;

- What does Jon know that he’s not sharing with Martin? He confirmed that they needed to “experience” these places to reach the Panopticon:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: Martin… It’s going to be a hard journey. MARTIN: [RELIEVED EXHALE] ARCHIVIST: One– MARTIN: Yeah, yeah, yeah– ARCHIVIST: –in which we… MARTIN: –so, I’ve actually had a couple of bags packed for a while, now! [HEAVY ITEM DROPPED] ARCHIVIST: Oh! MARTIN: And, I found some rope in the attic, and I packed that with the maps.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: And if you walk towards it, eventually you’ll get there. But you have to go through everything in-between. […] Nightmares. [BANG IN THE DISTANCE] Come on – that trench is our first. […] MARTIN: Jon… I’m scared. ARCHIVIST: … Yes… That’s the idea…!

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: We’re fine. MARTIN: A–are we? I mean, that place is– … I don’t, I don’t feel fine, okay, and you were there a long time doing your… y–you–your guidebook, which, you know, I get it, but that place is… I–it’s–it’s infectious, and, I don’t– ARCHIVIST: We’re not infected, Martin, that place, it– … It isn’t for us.

(MAG165) MARTIN: But. You said we needed to go through these places. … Is that even going to work here? ARCHIVIST: Uh… [EXHALE] We need to go through them… metaphorically. MARTIN: Mm… ! ARCHIVIST: Psychologically, we need to… “experience” them. MARTIN: Hm! [SILENCE] D’you think we could get that experience just… walking along the edge?

And his explanation of what they need to do is getting a bit more precise every time.

* It’s not only about Jon experiencing the places, it’s about them experiencing the places. Makes sense since they’re on a journey to the Panopticon, but still interesting: Jon gets overwhelmed by the places to the point of needing to do his “guidebook”; Martin doesn’t, past his discomfort/casual fears, but it’s working anyway. What is happening with Jon…?

* Fear.jpg because “experiencing” them had been mentioned by Elias/Jonah as a way to prepare Jon towards his goals:

(MAG092) ELIAS: [SIGH] What are you? ARCHIVIST: I… The Archivist. ELIAS: Precisely. It is your job to chronicle these things, to experience them, whether first-hand or through the eyes of others. To simply be told, well… ARCHIVIST: It doesn’t please your master? ELIAS: Our master, Jon.

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Because the thing about the Archivist is that… well: it’s a bit of a misnomer. It might, perhaps, be better named “the Archive”. Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon – you are a record of fear. Both in mind, as you walk the shuddering dread of each statement; and in body, as the Powers each leave their mark upon you. You are a living chronicle of terror.”

So what is happening exactly…? Is it because Jon simply needs to “experience” the various layers of the new world before reaching the centre of the storm? Are these steps actually “undoing” — or furthering — something…?

- Also confirmation that Martin&Jon seem immune to what is happening, as long as they don’t push their luck:

(MAG161) MARTIN: … Are we still safe? ARCHIVIST: Y–yes, it… it doesn’t want to harm me. MARTIN: And me? ARCHIVIST: I won’t let it.

(MAG163) MARTIN: Good. Good. [SILENCE PUNCTUATED BY PANTING] … J–J–Jon, Jon, w–we’re not alone. ARCHIVIST: I–ignore them, they’re not… Just ignore them. MARTIN: … They’re not… real? [VOICES SHOUTING IN THE DISTANCE] ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLING] No…! They’re real; they were… normal people before the– … Before me. But now they’re here, meat for the grinder. I just mean there’s no point… talking to them. MARTIN: Don’t be a prick, Jon. Hey! I’m, I’m sorry about him. He’s–he’s going through a lot – well… we all are, I suppose, but well… “Hi”, I guess. [SILENCE] Hello? ARCHIVIST: They won’t hear you, Martin, they’re all… too busy waiting to die.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. […] MARTIN: You, you sure? [CHUCKLING] I could speak to an attendant! ARCHIVIST: [CAUTIOUS] I would advise against doing that. […] MARTIN: Jon, do we– do we need to run? NOT!SASHA: Oh, yes, Martin, you very much do. I’ll even give you a head start! ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] MARTIN: … Jon? ARCHIVIST: You’re bold! [FOOTSTEPS] I’ll give you that. NOT!SASHA: [HISSING] Last chance…! ARCHIVIST: Desperate for one last morsel of terror from us? NOT!SASHA: [HISSES] ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] A final sip, and then we’re gone! Somehow we manage to keep just ahead of you and get away. NOT!SASHA: [SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: God forbid you actually catch us. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: Doesn’t bear thinking about…! MARTIN: Jon, what are you talking about? NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She can’t touch us. We’re so far beyond her now. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, ruled by The Eye. [CHUCKLING] And she hates it…!

Is it only because Jon is the Archivist, is it thanks to their connection to the Institute/the Eye (… after all, Basira apparently wasn’t taken)? What would happen to Martin if he were to be separated from Jon?

Also curious that both the Not!Them and The Distortion are what I would label “monsters” (as Martin&Simon did in MAG151), and yet the Not!Them was shown trapped… and Helen is roaming free. Did The Distortion lie about its own contentment in the new world? Did it get a better seat thanks to its connection to the Institute, since its Door had often appeared in the tunnels? (Helen had told Jon that this is how she knew a bit more about the tunnels, back in season 4.)

- Martin’s poetry is back as a theme! (Not included: Tim recording over one of Martin’s poems in MAG079.)

(MAG042) ARCHIVIST: I’m glad [Martin]’s moved out of the Archives, as it gives me a chance to work here without his constant presence. Also because he managed to leave some of his possessions behind. For the most part it’s just a few books of… relatively awful poetry… There are a few pieces I feel could almost have been affecting if his style wasn’t so obviously enamoured with Keats […].

(MAG124) MARTIN: Uh, yeah. Yeah, no, I’m… I’m alright, uh… Everything’s… fine. ARCHIVIST: … Right. Hum. … H–how’s… How–how’s the poetry? MARTIN: Oh, uh– Well, I haven’t… exactly had a lot of time recently, so… ARCHIVIST: Yes, uh… Of course… MARTIN: Hm. ARCHIVIST: You’ve been busy. MARTIN: Yeah. ARCHIVIST: …

(MAG165) MARTIN: So was it any good? ARCHIVIST: U–uh… What do you mean? MARTIN: Was it a good poem? ARCHIVIST: I don’t know! “No”? You’re the poetry expert, Martin, not me…! MARTIN: Well, did it stir any feeling in you? ARCHIVIST: Yes! “Nausea”. Because of the horrible things in it! MARTIN: That’s not quite what I meant. ARCHIVIST: Then I don’t know what you mean, Martin, I’m not a poetry person, I don’t… “get it”. I never have. MARTIN: That’s… That’s fine, I understand…! ARCHIVIST: Look. I’m better than I was; I used to think all poetry was bad. MARTIN: Sorry, what?! ARCHIVIST: I mean, I just thought of… [SIGH] I sort of thought it was pointless! Just… write some prose and stop… wasting everyone’s time! MARTIN: Hm! What changed? ARCHIVIST: I don’t know, I just… mellowed on it, I suppose. MARTIN: That’s… kind of weird. ARCHIVIST: In my defence, there is a lot of bad poetry out there.

* With this new information: it’s actually BIG from Jon that he had qualified Martin’s poetry as “almost affecting” given his personal feelings about poetry in general.

* Obviously, I want to tease Jon mercilessly about the idea that he began to mellow down on poetry since someone he was developing a crush on liked it so much… But also, just simply, people’s tastes change.

* … Okay, so if Jon managed to survive uni without getting poetry at all, either he did really well besides that, either it rules out that his degree might have been in literature. (History could fit him well?)

* … I find it interesting how Martin somehow managed to… not say anything about himself in this episode? We learned a few things about Jon – that he had fond memories of the London Zoo carousel, that he was in a bad mental space at a point before the Institute (break-up with Georgie? Being thrown in a new city for his academic studies, leaving Bournemouth? “Regular” student stress?), that he doesn’t get poetry but that his opinion has changed on it a bit.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway. ARCHIVIST: No? You… gone on any recently? MARTIN: What? Uh– No, I don’t think so, not since I was a kid. ARCHIVIST: Hm! I actually, uh… There’s one at London Zoo – uh, was one at London Zoo. Big old thing. Went quite fast, actually, su–… [CHUCKLE] Surprisingly thrilling. MARTIN: [BURSTS OUT LAUGHING] ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Seriously? ARCHIVIST: It was years back, before the Institute, I… I was in a weird place. Had a good time, though! MARTIN: [CHUCKLES] Well! ARCHIVIST: I mean, obviously I wouldn’t want to ride this one, we’ve got… quite enough thrills already. MARTIN: You, you sure? [CHUCKLING] I could speak to an attendant! ARCHIVIST: [CAUTIOUS] I would advise against doing that. [SILENCE]

But Martin? Asked questions for Jon to answer, but managed to avoid having to tell anything about his own past. It’s not really surprising, it’s kinda fitting – Martin has probably got into the habit of not telling much about himself because of his fake credentials and his fake age? But still, I wonder if he will talk about himself at some point… (I still feel like we’re missing his own perspective on his mother or Tim, for example, since these subjects were mostly mentioned by other people and Martin only even mentioned his mother’s death when he poured his heart out at Peter&Elias in MAG158).

- I randomly really really love Martin’s nasal “Fine by me”:

(MAG102) ARCHIVIST: What about Daisy? MARTIN: Don’t see her much. Which is fine by me. [UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE]

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway.

Martin…

- … So, hearing Not!Sasha like this confirms that she didn’t “take” Julia or Trevor! (I guess that one of them could have died from her attack or Daisy’s, but… at the very least, the Not!Them didn’t take on a new identity through them.)

- There are various ways of interpreting what the Not!Them said about Martin:

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: And what if I let you choose this time, which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy; oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist~?

… and my favourites are either that Martin indeed big, either she was making a tease about them (aND THEY’VE BEEN ROOMMATES).

- Jon Has Upgraded – the Not!Them used to call him “Jon” as a taunt, and now…

(MAG078) NOT!SASHA (HEAVILY DISTORTED, DISTANT): Jooooonnnn… ARCHIVIST: Er… I… [SOUND OF A CREAKY DOOR OPENING] MICHAEL: You – need – a door.

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): Jooooonnnn… ARCHIVIST: Oh Christ. […] NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): Jooooon… Jooooon… Come out, come out, wherever you are. ARCHIVIST: [SCARED BREATHING] NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): It’s okay Jon; it’s Sasha. Reliable old Sasha. Nothing to be afraid of. … You seem stressed, Jon. You’ve been under a lot of pressure. You should talk about it. Have a real good chat. You like talking, don’t you, Jon? … I’m going to wear you, Jon. […] I’m glad we got a chance to run, Jon. It makes it so much more satisfying.

(MAG158) NOT!SASHA: [MUFFLED, HEAVILY DISTORTED] Jooo–ooon~! [SOUND OF STONE AND BRICK SHIFTING, LOUDER, THEN GRADUALLY STOPPING] NOT!SASHA: [HEAVILY DISTORTED] [PANTS] So you finally decided to let me out, Jon! Joooo–oooon~! … Who’s there? MARTIN: [PANICKED BREATHING] NOT!SASHA: Who let me out? [SILENCE] Don’t be shy. I just want to say thank you. [SILENCE] All right, have it your way. Now, if you’ll excuse me: I have some unfinished business. [MENACING SATISFIED LAUGHTER] […] [CRASHING SOUND] NOT!SASHA: Hello, Jon. DAISY: Oh, shit! ARCHIVIST: You gotta be fucking kidding m–

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Eh! My dearest colleagues…! MARTIN: Just get back! [THUMP] NOT!SASHA: I can’t believe you’d decide to pass through my neighbourhood and not say hello, to – dear – old – Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Just ignore it, Martin. NOT!SASHA: Oh, you wound me, Archivist. And we used to be so close! […] And what if I let you choose this time, which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy; oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist~?

… it’s “Archivist”. He’s really had a special status/power-up, uh?

- So, The Distortion is having a blast in the new world (MAG164), or so it says… but it’s not fundamentally the case for all monsters/avatars out there. It makes sense for The Stranger since it had been presented as opposed to The Eye:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA: So the monster got its friends to carry the table all around, and it still got to take faces and scare people. Then one day it was sent to the house of its enemy, which had the biggest eyes you ever did see. The monster was sent there to steal all its secrets, but it was sad because it couldn't scare anyone any more.

(MAG092) ELIAS: The Stranger is antithetical to us. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH HEAVILY] ELIAS: We thrive on ceaseless watching, on knowing too much. What we face is the hidden, the uncanny, and the unknown. If you are to stop them, you need to get better at seeing. And my explaining things is simply not enough.

(MAG119) SARAH: You… idiot! Do you really think the world will fare any better under the Watcher? You think you’re saving anyone?

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, ruled by The Eye. [CHUCKLING] And she hates it…! NOT!SASHA: Well, of course you want to wallow in my shame like your voyeur master! Do you know how it feels? To be… anonymous, and yet known? To have all the sweetest dread I can create tainted by the relentless gaze of that damned Eye! I’ve suffered enough!

So people from the (survivors of the) cult of the Divine Host probably won’t be extremely happy about it either – we know that some were still roaming around, Jon had mentioned seeing people with the pendant at the beginning of season 4. Martin mentioned their lack of allies in MAG164, are we heading towards them getting some “help” from unsatisfied avatars…?

- ;; I said I would put the Not!Them amongst the “monsters”, but technically… the victims in the carousel felt like proto-Not!Them themselves? And Not!Sasha had enough reasoning to try to go into denial – pretending that it could still catch and hurt Jon&Martin, while it knew that it couldn’t anyway, but ready to create the illusion that it could. That’s some very human mental structure…

- Sob, but also:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Pathetic. [SHRILL SCREAMS] Martin, let’s go. NOT!SASHA: Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life…!

… I really like the description of what she did as “eating Sasha’s life”: it was not only that it killed her; it’s that it erased and reshaped her whole life as a memory and a possible influence on others…

- ;; I’m even happier that we got Sasha’s tapes at the beginning of season 5, because it brought her back as a presence, as an existence, and not only as the concept of “the friend we lost but can’t really remember”. The Not!Them getting killed closes a very long chapter: Sasha’s murder at the end of season 1, which was a wound that kept being reopened (Jon realising that she had died long ago, then Martin&Tim having to learn about it; Nikola teasing Jon about her during The Unknowing; the Not!Them getting freed during the season 4 climax), the fact that the Not!Them had been spotted and described as soon as in MAG003, and also… the first time we heard of Adelard Dekker was when he imprisoned it within the Web table?

I’m especially ;; that The Stranger regularly used Sasha’s murder against Jon, and that it has always been a sore spot… until he snapped:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): … I’m going to wear you, Jon. I’m going to wear everything you are. Like you never existed. Noone will even know. And it will hurt. Oh, yes, it will hurt. It hurt Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NOT!SASHA (CLOSE AND DISTORTED): There you are. […] ARCHIVIST: [WHISPERING] I’m sorry. Martin, Tim… Sasha. I’m so sorry. I should have… I didn’t… I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.

(MAG096) ARCHIVIST: He was a–a tax inspector. He came here, and Daniel Rawlings, or his replacement, showed him something he claimed to be the oldest piece of taxidermy in the world. Gorilla skin from Carthage. SARAH: Heh, was this when you sent your “Sasha” to interrogate us? ARCHIVIST: Don’t you dare talk about– DAISY: Sims. Sims. Shut up and focus.

(MAG119) ARCHIVIST: Who are you?! NIKOLA: Who am I? Tim, of course! Who else would I be! ARCHIVIST: You’re not– you’re not… Tim. NIKOLA: Oh, you caught me~ I’m… Sasha! ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NIKOLA: No~! Really, it’s me! Sasha– whatever her name was! Back from the dead, just like you wanted~! ARCHIVIST: Get away from me, or, or I swear I’ll… I’ll…

I mean. Yes, if Jon had to lose his temper and go terrifying due to feelings, it would be about Sasha’s murder ;;

- It’s also jarring how Jon used to be terrorised and victimised by monsters, and took the upper hand this time: the dynamic between him and the Not!Them in this episode was an extreme reversal of what had happened at the end of season 2. I’m also curious about how “Jon using his powers against other monsters” has felt more and more threatening over time:

(MAG091) ARCHIVIST: What, I? I–I didn’t– [RUSTLING NOISES] Plea– Please don’t shoot me… [SOUNDS OF PANIC] [STATIC] W–why are you doing this? Tell me! [GURGLES MORE AS DAISY GRABS HIM ROUND THE THROAT] DAISY: Stop – asking – questions.

(MAG101) MICHAEL: I had hoped that you would stop the Unknowing first, destroy the workings of I-Do-Not-Know-You. But instead you are here, and may bring it about faster. So better your death happens now…! ARCHIVIST: I… [STATIC] Is there anything I can do to stop you from killing me? MICHAEL: [LAUGHS] If you scream loud enough the Circus may take notice of me, but… I promise you will die far more pleasantly with me than with them. [MORE LAUGHTER]

(MAG119) NIKOLA&GERTRUDE: A terrible new world and it’s all your fault. GERTRUDE&LEITNER: Though I suppose you never really had a chance ARCHIVIST: … I see you. NIKOLA: Do you, now? ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, I s… I see the sad clown, b–bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into a ci–circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a… a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name. NIKOLA: Not always, and it’s far too late for any of that. Nothing you see can help you.

(MAG128) BASIRA: Get. Out. [STATIC RISES] BREEKON: Make. Me. [RATTLING SOUND] ARCHIVIST: Stop. [HIGH-PITCHED BUZZING SOUND OVER STATIC] BREEKON: What’re you doing? BASIRA: … Jon…? What are you doing? BREEKON: What’re you– Stop it… Stop it! ARCHIVIST: [ECHOING] No. BREEKON: [STRUGGLING, BUZZING INCREASES] Enough! Stop… looking at me! [SCREAMS] [DOOR SLAMMED OPEN, FLEEING FOOTSTEPS WHILE BREEKON IS STILL SCREAMING, DOOR SLAMMING SHUT] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS] [HIGH-PITCHED BUZZING SOUND FADES] BASIRA: Jon…? ARCHIVIST: It’s fine…!

(MAG159) ARCHIVIST: … I, I don’t understand. PETER: And you won’t. Not from me. I’m done. ARCHIVIST: Tell me. [STATIC RISES] PETER: I’m. Not saying. Another. Word. [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Tell me, or I will rip it out of you! [STATIC INCREASES] PETER: [STRUGGLING] No…! ARCHIVIST: Answer. My question! PETER: NO! Leave – me – ALONE! [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: TELL ME! PETER: [GROANING SCREAM] [RIPPING, EXPLODING SOUND] [STATIC FADES] ARCHIVIST: … Stubborn fool…

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “This place wishes to be our tomb. But The Eye does not wish that. No. [STATIC INCREASES] The Eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It is time that I emerge…” [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] […] I, I–I was listening, and I–I was filled with this… hatred. This anger; I–I wanted to leave, and hunt down Elias, a–and…! MARTIN: W–wow, okay… ARCHIVIST: But, when I thought it… the–there was… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] There was something else. Th–this place, it… it didn’t want me, it… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] didn’t want us to go.

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life…! [RUMBLING SOUND] [THE CALLIOPE MUSIC DERAILS, TAKES A HIGHER PITCH] ARCHIVIST: … What did you say? [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] NOT!SASHA: [SHAKY BREATHES] I’m–I’m sorry… MARTIN: Jon? ARCHIVIST: You were wrong, you know. NOT!SASHA: [GASPS] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: There is more suffering than you can ever experience, so much more. The horror of your victims… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] ARCHIVIST: Their constant, senseless agony… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Feel it now. Understand it. You have drawn out so much despair, and now finally, it’s your turn. [STATIC INCREASES] [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing! [STATIC INCREASES, WITH MORE PRESSURE] NOT!SASHA: No! No, please, no…! [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] NOT!SASHA: [FADING] No…! [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS]

Jon used to rely on compulsion to try to struggle his way out (when it was his only weapon), in a panic. But since MAG119, it has begun to feel as if something was coming out from it, as if he were possessed? It really feels like something is trying to come out (and we precisely began the season with The Eye wanting the cabin to be his “chrysalis” and Jon announcing that “he” would emerge…). There also had been a clear escalation in his use of his powers: from giving Tim the tools to prevent Nikola from achieving The Unknowing, to stopping Breekon when he was ready to fight Basira, to compelling Peter to death while Peter was resisting, to… an execution, triggered by his anger. Jon had made a point to tell Martin that the Not!Them couldn’t harm them; it was a murder purely motivated by anger. The Not!Them had it coming, and it’s really interesting that Jon weaponised the suffering of the Not!Them’s victims to force it to feel pain (so, a case of… forcing empathy on it?), but… still a murder, still scary, still concerning that Jon did that when Martin and him weren’t threatened, and that it happened when Jon’s feelings got out of hand.

(Jon, you’re just a shounen anime protagonist gdi.)

- And Jon did nooooooot feel fine with it:

(MAG165) MARTIN: … Whoa–oh–oh! ARCHIVIST: I, uh… MARTIN: What was that?! ARCHIVIST: … I–I destroyed it. [ECHOING CREAKING SOUNDS] Ki–killed her. MARTIN: Are you kidding me, you–you obliterated her! You… you smote her! [ECHOING CREAKING SOUNDS] ARCHIVIST: We, we should go. MARTIN: What about the merry-go-round? With her gone, is it, is it still th– ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Yes you do! ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t… want to know, plea– We need to go. [SHUFFLING] Please. MARTIN: Oh, oh, okay. A–alright. Alright. Lead on. [CREAKING SOUNDS]

* Martin sounded… kinda very very into it (mARTIN), not surprised – Martin was already ready to use whatever he can even if it means compromising himself. Jon sounded more upset, so I’m half-expecting them to discuss this at some point?

* It had already felt a bit like it with Peter (when Jon mentioned the powers of The Eye in relation to The Lonely), but it was way worse here: … Jon really felt like an actual priest of Beholding when he obliterated the Not!Them. As if he was accepting it as a god, and himself as its agent, able to channel its powers.

* It was also SO CLOSE to what Elias did to Melanie and Martin, with the whole implanting memories/truths in someone’s head to make them suffer… oofffft ;;

* ;; I’m. Also very concerned about the fact that the end of the episode seems to imply that Jon made it worse for the victims in the carousel, since we can hear it creaking. Has he just condemned these people to an actual death, or to worse doom? If it turns out that Jon has powers allowing him to have an effect on these nightmares, the fact he chooses to remain an observer and only “uses” the place to experience them will feel iffier and iffier… ;;

- Welp, it does clear up right away why The Web hasn’t tried to contact Jon directly. On a scale from calling his partner while Jon himself is further away to directly taunting him, how much self-preservation instinct do you have?

  MAG166’s title is… interesting, because?? Corruption?? But it also feels too easy?? (And would be the biggest Middle Finger at something Smirke mentioned in MAG138.) I see a way in which it could potentially be Hunt, or Flesh, or Vast, or Buried, or End, or Web (well… it’s more like there’s an existing connection for that one + RQ’s teasing about Web stuff this week), but, wow. Bold move.

[ariannjs]

KARIN | A SasuSaku FanFic (10/10)

(Karin - Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9)

——–

Hey guys! It's been a whiiiiile! I'm so sorry that I'm just uploading this now. To be honest, this epilogue has been finished since last August but idk I felt quite afraid to post it that I totally forgot all about it@.@ Nonetheless, here it isss! Accck I'm shy! HAHA. But here's a late New Year and Valentine's Gift to you all, SS fam!

Thank you for journeying with me as I wrote my very first multi-chaptered SasuSaku fic! I am extremely grateful for all of your encouraging comments on this and all my other works. 2019 has been really difficult but I praise God because this writing journey became highly therapeutic for me that it led me to meeting more SS fans as well! So yeah, Arigatou Gozaimashita!

Alright, I won't hold you back for long, here's the Epilogue of "Karin"! Enjoy!xx

——– 

The only time that Sasuke Uchiha had felt incredibly nervous was back when his father was mentoring him on how to use Katon. Though many years had passed, he could still vividly remember that heart-pounding, stomach-twisting sensation of not knowing if he’d be able to produce an impressive result as his father’s eyes were fixated on him. 

And now, he could feel the same thing with what he was planning to do.

Although they didn’t really have the best father-son relationship, he knew that if Fugaku Uchiha was still alive, he’s the best person who could give him the most logical advice that he needed at the moment, considering that they were, in many ways, similar in terms of their personality. 

That’s why absurdly, he wished his father was here to tell him how to execute his plan in a step-by-step manner like how he passed on to him the Great Fireball Technique.

Sasuke wasn't the kind of person who finds asking questions necessary, a manifestation of the superiority that tended to be his facade even in his most vulnerable state. But if only he could, there were lots of questions that he would like to ask his Otou-san.

How exactly did father ask mother to marry him?

Did he feel as insanely apprehensive as I am right now?

Did mother actually say yes on father’s first attempt to ask?

How many chances does a man have anyway, just in case...just in case the woman says no?

These, and probably a lot more.

With thoughts all over the place, Sasuke fidgeted on the couch as he watched Sakura make funny faces at the giggling Suika on the floor of the Hozuki’s living room. 

She’s still so annoying, he couldn’t help but think. Doesn’t she have the slightest idea about how much he was falling in love with her all the more each day?

Observing Sakura with Suika has been one of his favorite past times ever since the redhead baby was born. It just showed him much of the pureness of her heart towards people, children in particular. And it only solidified his resolve that he has made the right decision – probably the best in his life so far – about spending the rest of his life with his female teammate in his genin squad.

He planned to ask her that special question today, when the opportunity arises. His brain has been trying its best to figure out how to do so ever since he came out of the hospital weeks ago. But being Sasuke Uchiha, there was no grand preparation and sappy romantic gestures despite the ridiculous suggestions of his best friend and the disgusting persuasion of his sensei for him to read his favorite book. All he knew was it was completely fixed in his mind that this woman was the one he wanted to marry.

And today was the day that he’s gonna make Sakura Haruno say yes to being an Uchiha.

So while they were waiting for the Hozuki couple to finish packing their belongings, he was on the alert for any open chance to bring up his question in the same way he has his guard up whenever a possible enemy is lingering around.

“Is something bothering you, Sasuke-kun?”

Tch. Why does she have to know him so well?

He tersely shook his head, eyes on Suika who was curiously staring at him with her tiny hand in her mouth.

“You know I’m always here to listen when you’re ready.” Sakura showed that breathtaking smile of hers that seemed to be reserved just for him. TCH! 

“Oh, you want to go to Uncle Sasuke? Okay! Okay! Stop bouncing!” She then giggled to the kid, leaned to carry her, and then placed her on Sasuke’s lap.

Suika stretched an arm out to reach for his face, and for a moment, it was effective in drawing his gaze away from Sakura. But the head medic moved closer to wipe the side of Suika's mouth with a bib as the baby babbled incoherent words.

For a second, Sasuke's mind went blank, bringing him to a different timeline wherein quite the same scene was happening as if he was in a genjutsu. It was breathtaking. His heart constricted with longing for the surreal image to become a reality, despite it being far-fetched. 

Years ago, he never imagined that he would have the chance of having a family of his own. And yes, even up to now, the idea was still something that his mind wrestled to accept as something that he deserved.

But then, his eyes met Sakura’s once more. And just like all the other times that he has met her gaze, something inside him changed and made him feel like it's just so easy to drop all his hesitations because of her – for her.

“Sakura...I–”

“Wow! I can’t believe it’s our last day.”

Their heads suddenly whipped towards the bedroom door as their redhead friend exited, followed by her husband who had just finished sealing their baggage in a scroll.

Half irked yet half relieved with the interruption, Sasuke sighed as he handed the baby to her frowning mother. It was a good thing that Sakura didn't realize he was about to tell her something important. 

Maybe later, then.

Suigetsu shrugged. "Some things really come to an end, Karin."

“That’s sadly true,” Sakura joined in the conversation, approaching the Hozuki matriarch to pass on the baby's bib. “But the good thing is that every time a season ends, a new one is about to begin.” She smiled at the woman who has become one of her closest friends. 

It was saddening to see their family leave, but she’s just so excited for them to finally reside in a place they could truly call their home. Besides, they deserved it after everything they've been through individually and as a family.

“It’s time to go.” Everyone turned to the Uchiha who was already standing by the door.

So with a toothy grin, Suigetsu placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders before saying, “Let’s go, Karin. I’m excited for you and Suika to see Hidden Mist.”

The walk towards the gates of Konoha seemed like a trip down memory lane. So when they finally reached that familiar arc that welcomes and sends off Konoha's villagers and visitors, Karin wasn't able to stop herself from handing over Suika to her husband and then throwing her arms as tight as she could around Sasuke.

"Karin. How many times should I tell you to get off me, especially because you're a married woman?"

The redhead chuckled at that, amused with how detached he still was – well, except for a certain pink-haired maiden. "My husband wouldn't mind though!"

Sasuke rolled his eyes but found himself glancing at the other woman with them, wondering if she would mind about the situation. However, he only caught her laughing cutely at the ordeal. He couldn't bring himself to scoff.

Pulling away for the Uchiha to be comfortable, Karin sheepishly said, "Thank you so much for everything, Sasuke. I'm so glad that you've found redemption for yourself. No doubt, you'll be able to help more people inside and outside this village. Like us. I will never forget this."

Karin realized that staying in Konoha was the happiest moment of her life so far. And she knew that despite her initial doubts about the idea, everything wouldn’t happen if her husband didn’t force her to join Sasuke in going to this place for her and their baby's safety. Yet she never expected that the decision would be life-changing for all of them.

Suigetsu agreed with a nod. “Sasuke, you've done so much for us. I owe my family’s life to you. I honestly can't thank you enough."

The former leader of Team Taka was stunned at the way his teammates expressed their gratitude to him. He never even thought that there's anything anyone should thank him for. If anything, it was them that he should've thanked for they've shown him a glimpse of what a transformed life and an assured future look like. But as usual, he was not exactly good with words. 

Remembering how they've witnessed the majority of his worst years yet they're still here to stand by him, Sasuke's eyes softened as he gave the couple a simple yet meaningful nod in response.

The pink-haired maiden beside him was smiling the entire time. Sakura didn't know all the details of Sasuke's journey with Taka, but to see him developing such strong bonds even outside of Team 7 was something that she considered a breakthrough. It gave her joy knowing that this scenario was an assurance to Sasuke that he won't ever be alone anymore.

"Before I forget, please bring these pills that would help in keeping you from the cold during your travels," Sakura then handed a small pouch to Karin. "This is helpful especially for Suika since this would be her first exposure to such cold weather."

If Karin was able to stop her tears from falling while talking to Sasuke, she wasn't able to contain it anymore while staring at the pouch given by Sakura. This woman has done so much in bringing out the best in her without her knowing. And so, she also enveloped her in an embrace that's so rare for Karin to give, well, except when it's for her husband and Sasuke.

“Sakura, you’ve saved my life not just once. And then you've shown me the kind of life I never imagined I could still have. Thank you for trusting me and for believing in my potential.” Karin sniffed while Sakura gave her a pat on the back, unable to stop a tear from falling as well. And then the redhead pulled away, instantly wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand with a big smile at her senpai. "I'm not usually like this but—ugh! It's because of the two of you!"

At her loud remark, Sasuke raised an eyebrow while Sakura ended up cackling with a hand on her stomach.

"Whew. At least it's not me this time." Suigetsu snickered too, rocking the baby in his arms that was awakened by the voice of her mother.

Karin almost landed a punch to her husband's liquefiable head, but thanks to Suika's sleepy murmur, she opted to avoid violence to carry the baby again. "Ssh. I'm sorry, kid. Mama's a little different today because of your godmother and godfather." She stuck a tongue out at the two and Sasuke could only snort as Sakura continued to laugh.

"Ha. Sorry, Karin could be crazy at times, or…" The Hozuki patriarch paused and pretended to contemplate. "...actually, most of the time."

"Hey! You're lucky I'm holding your daughter!"

"Kidding, guys. I love that woman nonetheless." 

Sakura and Sasuke didn't fail to see the tinge of maroon on the redhead's cheeks before she turned around to hide it. Uncomfortable with such things, the Uchiha scoffed at the sight of his old teammates. But then, he slightly jerked as something hit his side almost close to his ribs. 

When he shot a sharp glance at the woman beside him, Sakura was just smiling innocently at the Hozuki's. Yet this doctor might need to heal something later, courtesy of her pointed elbow.

Suigetsu noticed the interchange and smirked a little, having high hopes that one day, these two would finally end up like him and his wife. He then grinned. "But really, the two of you have made a difference in our lives. We'll surely remember this and even tell Suika one day. Sasuke, you better visit us in one of Orochimaru's hideouts. And then bring Sakura-san with you."

"As if I'd want to go back there."

Scrunching her nose, Sakura shivered at the prospect of being in the aforementioned place. 

Karin wasn't able to stifle her guffaw as she faced her friends again. "But we don't know, Sasuke, what if you'd eventually need to visit? And that would be nice! I want Suika to meet you both one day!"

"Tch. You'd really want your daughter to grow up in that dumpsite?"

"Oi! You kind of grew up there too!" Suigetsu teased.

Staring blankly, Sasuke fought the urge to burn the couple with his powerful eyes for the sake of their daughter. And then he said, "You better leave now. It's almost dusk."

"Fine then, yes, sir!"

"Take care of your family, Suigetsu."

"Always. And you, take care of Sakura-san!" There was a smirk on Suigetsu's lips as Sasuke remained silent at that. But he knew full well, Sasuke would cross time and dimensions and even give his life just to protect Sakura. This time, his strength would be used not for his own selfish agenda, but for the sake of the people he cared for. Just like what he did for Suigetsu and his family.

"Oh. This is real now, isn't it?"

Sakura reached out and gave Karin's hand a squeeze, looking down on Suika who was now awake after all the commotion with her parents and godparents. A giggle escaped her tiny lips upon seeing Sakura, making Sakura frown a bit as her green eyes met the baby's purple ones. "Yes, it's real now, Karin. But this ain't goodbye. See you soon." She smiled one last time before moving aside, waving a small goodbye as the Hozuki's finally exited the village hidden in the leaves.

Sasuke and Sakura silently remained on their posts as the two figures became smaller from afar.

Until Sakura murmured, "They're such a beautiful family, aren’t they?" Slowly, Sasuke tilted his head to gaze at her. And at that very moment, everything felt right. He took in her beauty as the setting sun made her face glow and the breathing wind made her cherry blossom hair sway in slow motion. It reminded him of those times in his redemption journey that he marvelled at the sight of Cherry Blossom trees because it made him feel like she was beside him, albeit far away.

Now that it became real, he thought of how wonderful it would be to have more peaceful moments like this with her. So as they stood in the place where he first broke her heart, he finally chose to drop all hesitations so he could do what he wanted to accomplish before the day ends, with high hopes that he could also give Sakura a new memory with him in this place. 

"Sakura. Do you...want to have something like that?" The Hozuki's were already out of sight but his first female teammate continued to stare at a distance. "A future family?" She smiled, clutching her hands to her chest as she thought of the only man she'd want to spend the rest of her life with. And then she said in a soft voice, “I've...I've always wanted to." "I want to have that too...with you."

With wide eyes, Sakura turned to Sasuke who was now looking at the path his friends walked on. There was no trace of humor on his face, only an expression that showed solace and expectancy. “S-sas—”

"But Sakura...it is clear as day that you deserve the best. And that’s...that’s not me." Sasuke’s gaze fell to the ground. "I'm not even exactly a good man, so I'm far from being the best for you. There were so many things that I've done that destroyed and hurt so many people, including you and the ones that you care for. So even though I'd...I'd really want a future with you, I don't think you deserve someone whose past is as wicked as mine."

"Sasuke-kun, all those is exactly what you've said – a part of the past. My love for you is not based on what you've done or what you would do. It's simply based on you, Sasuke-kun. Just you. Anything else doesn't matter, as long as...as long as I know that you deeply love me." She paused. "Do you love me?" There was a momentary pause as he looked up at her dazzling eyes. But it wasn’t because he was doubting his answer, for Sasuke has always been sure. 

For a second, he wanted to chuckle at the irony that Sakura Haruno could read words and situations, analyze lab tests and battle strategies, but she couldn’t read and analyze the feelings that Sasuke Uchiha has for her.

It was not her fault that he hadn’t made himself crystal clear yet though. 

So he thought of the best way to vividly convey his answer to her question and firmly address her uncertainties about her standing in his life all this time. 

He then settled in responding through the best and significant way he knows. Smiling a little, he gently tapped her forehead right below the diamond-shaped mark of her strength before saying, "You should know that by now.”

Just like the first time Sasuke did this, Sakura's eyes widened and her lips parted a little as her cheeks became painted with pink. The only difference now was that she stared back at him with recognition, eyes brimming with tears of none other than joy. To know that her love was reciprocated for such a long time already made her feel elated more than ever.

For so many times, she has almost given up in waiting. But it was true all along, being loved back by the man she has always loved was worth the long wait. She regrets nothing for even after everything, it all came down to this. Sasuke looked away as he remembered something. "That time you've been avoiding me because of Karin...it made me realize that I couldn’t stand a life without you." He muttered something like "Never again" and then faced her with his mismatched eyes focusing intently – lovingly – on her green ones. "If you’re willing to make things work together with me...Sakura, marry me." Sakura's tears finally fell upon hearing those last words that she thought she would never hear from this man. She didn't even have to contemplate on what she would answer for she immediately said, "I could never imagine loving and marrying anyone else, Sasuke-kun." 

And then she tapped his forehead in the same way he did with her, making Sasuke's eyes widen and his heart flutter in a way that he never felt before. His lips curved into a smile as he pulled her into a long embrace that surprised even him. But as Sakura melted in his arms as if she had always belonged there, he felt completely relieved that he got the answer he had prayed to receive from her. Maybe this was what Suigetsu had felt when Karin agreed to spend the rest of her life with him as well, he thought.

The satisfied smile on Sakura’s lips after they pulled away made Sasuke’s heart skip a beat. It still felt like he was dreaming, the fact that he was staring at his wife-to-be. “Let’s go home.”

“Yours or mine?”

Sasuke slowly grabbed her hand, after all, he has every right to do so now. “Ours. From now on, you have to be comfortable around the Uchiha compound. I’ll just walk you back to your place tonight.”

As the two of them walked hand in hand back to the village, two pairs of eyes continued to watch them from the nearby trees.

“Heh, Kakashi-sensei, this is a lot better than the last time the three of us were here with Karin, ‘ttebayo!” 

——–

August 2019 | AriannJS

——–

8 chapters. 8 characters. 8 months. It's a wrap! *cries in G#m* This fic is now saying sayonara! But hmm...who knows, I might actually get to finish a one-shot sequel for this. Well, we'll see. ;) Arigatou Gozaimashita, mina-san! I appreciate you all!

- A

[divinefelt]

                                                ❝     i  have  cried  all  my  tears .                                                              all  that’s  left  is  anger .     ❞ 

 ―  pin board.

STATISTICS.

name :   zahra azhdeha kabiri.

age :   2,581 years , appears mid 30′s.

gender :   cisfemale ( she & her ).

orientation :   homosexual , demiromantic.

species :   dragyn , ethereal dynasty.

occupation :   performer ( fire dancer ) at the haus of millennium.

residence :   sherman lofts in sioux falls - 1 bed , 1 bath.  lives alone.

//  more statistical info found here.  

BIOGRAPHY.

zahra was once a meek girl born the bastard daughter to the king of the persian empire.  she’d be sold to an egyptian general older than even her father as soon as she was able as a token of good faith.  with the birth of her three children and their safety on the line , she took a dagger to her husband.  she’d then travel home and slit the throats of the king and every male heir.  she’d be crowned empresss and would rule with a good heart.  but another being would turn his eyes towards her and turn her into a horrendous dragyn.  zahra would have fire and blood for her enemies , but while she attempted to be good towards her people , some still only saw her as a beast. 

so , appearing as a divine saviour , a macedonian king would gather an army and look towards the persian empire.  at the peak of which , she’d be chained and thrown beneath a mountain.  zahra would spend nearly two millennia trapped underground before she’d awaken to find the chains unfettered.  it’d take years for her to gain a semblance of her previous strength back while at the same time looking upon a vastly different world.  her children , previously transformed into gargoyles , surely hadn’t survived.  yet she searches for them anyway.  one journey had her run into the performers of the haus of millennium , and with a heart needing family , she joined them.  

the troupe has just moved to south dakota , though zahra is restless in this place.  there is a familiar sense pulling at her that she’s only felt twice before.  it’s naive , but she’s hopeful that this may be the place where she’ll reunite with her children , and follow that sense towards the one who put their lips to her hand all those years ago and started her on this bloody journey.

//  more biographical info found here.

CONNECTIONS.

GENERAL SPECIES VIEWS

the gargoyles / the dominion :   zahra considers gargoyles friends , unless personally shown otherwise.  her first glimpse into the world of the supernatural started with the knowledge of such creatures.  her bias for them only grew as she became friends with astarte and as her children were turned into gargoyles so they could stay together for eternity.  as for the dominion as a whole , zahra knows little about the organization save that they are very influential and that several of astartes’ children are in it ( as well as her own son , but that’s not known to her yet ).  i’m sure that members , or at least high - ranking members of the dominion have heard rumors of zahra floating around.  so whether or not they see her as a threat , or an asset is up to the organization and the individual.  i’d love any connection from friends to enemies , to using her as a weapon or all banding together to kill her idk but i want it all

the weyrs :   way back when , when she was still learning about the supernatural world , zahra first thought that perhaps she was related to the weyrcreatures.  they both had other animalistic forms hidden beneath a human visage and perhaps by learning about them , she could learn about herself.  little came of it though besides a shared camaraderie in hiding who one truely was behind a passable visage.  (  though zahra doesn’t know this yet , her eldest daugher , nazli , was killed by a weyr pack like 1500 years ago.  the pack is probably extinct by now , but if there’s some connection there ya can think of , hmu.  also , when she learns of that she isn’t going to be too friendly to them 0.0 )

the wytches :   when her possible relation to the weyrs didn’t pan out , she sought out wytches next.  though hesitant , she had several ancient rituals performed on her to figure out her origin , but all pointed towards the heavens.  this was interpreted different ways by different casters , but zahra eventually came to the conclusion that whatever cursed her was something divine.  

the meyrfolk :   zahra hates large bodies of open water with a passion.  she hasn’t met many meyrs due to this reason though she still finds them fascinating.  basically someone needs to convince zahra to go for a swim or take her to the aquarium or smthng

the dieties :   she had turned her mind away from the heavens after she’d become the beast she is today and a frutiless search for the one who’d done the deed.  but they have not turned away from her.  her master , father , creator ; whatever you want to call them , is still watching.  they were the one who gave the usurpers the chains that were able to bind her , and the one to release her a mere century ago.  though she doesn’t know , his eyes watch on from afar , though coming closer and closer , and surely other dieties have noticed the beast walking their earth and the way their sibling is always watching.

the hunters :   in the eyes of hunters , dagyns are actual mythical creatures.  or at least , they’re so rare there hasn’t been a proven sighting in several hundred , perhaps thousands , years.  apart from otherworldly beings , dragyns are the creatures to kill if you want your name to live on forever amongst other hunters forever.  so , i’d love if a crazy , foolhardy , valiant hunter came after zahra.  either to actually hunt and try to kill her , or maybe to just do research on her species to write down in some hunter field guide !

INTERPERSONAL CONNECTIONS 

the haus of millennium :    true to her nature , zahra is a fire dancer. when she performs , she feels some semblance of her old life again. the worry and memories that plague her stop for the few mintues that all eyes are on her.  the only time she can breathe is when being bathed in her own inferno.  so if there are any characters that are in the haus , or patrons coming to watch and notice her on the street , ect , ect

the secret  :    she may be millenna old , but anger is still alight in her veins. a persistant fan follows her home after the show.  she yells at them to leave , but steps continue in her direction. a shout comes from the small woman , a hand is lifted and then the fan is alight in an inferno. it burns for only a few mintues before nothing is left behind but ashes on the wind and scorched asphalt. the woman shakes her head and continues on her way , not knowing another was watching from afar with a camera in hand and an impossible event captured on photograph.

a diety :   they’ve noticed how the olympian watches their creation from afar.  they know they are prone to death and destruction , so what better way to deliver such than a creature of fire and blood ?  whether this diety wants to urge on the olympian’s plan , or as taken a liking to zahra , ect , ect

a friend with benefits :   needs are needs , especially after a hugely disorienting rest under the earth’s surface for two millennia.  they were acquaintances first and fell head first into something more physical.  whether or not her partner feels the same , zahra is struggling with maybe feeling something more ?

a budding romance :   it’s not truly a feeling she’s ever felt before.  sure , she holds love for her children and the wind beneath her wings , but a romantic love isn’t something she’s too familiar with.  already , it’s all-encompassing and she can’t get your muse off her mind.  it’s annoying , but she finds she loves it.  and now awkward flirting and dated courting will ensue.

++ everything else y’all throw at me cause i actually suck at plotting and connections so pls come yell at me 

[poorquentyn]

Men’s Lives Have Meaning, Part 7: Conclusion

Full series here

A Dance with Dragons begins, appropriately enough, from the point of view of a dragon. 

Before Mance, Varamyr Sixskins had been a lord of sorts. He lived alone in a hall of moss and mud and hewn logs that had once been Haggon’s, attended by his beasts. A dozen villages did him homage in bread and salt and cider, offering him fruit from their orchards and vegetables from their gardens. His meat he got himself. Whenever he desired a woman he sent his shadowcat to stalk her, and whatever girl he’d cast his eye upon would follow meekly to his bed. Some came weeping, aye, but still they came. Varamyr gave them his seed, took a hank of their hair to remember them by, and sent them back. From time to time, some village hero would come with spear in hand to slay the beastling and save a sister or a lover or a daughter. Those he killed, but he never harmed the women. 

That’s what Varamyr was: an archetypal monster-in-a-cave, the classic village dragon that every RPG needs. The Sixskins preyed on all life within a prowl’s reach, his entire life a tribute to domination of others on every possible plane, breaking every border that another being might think to set around themselves. He began feeding on those unlucky “dozen villages” after killing his mentor and eating his fuckin’ heart, and they’ve been living with the monster in the woods ever since. It’s not something anyone ever has to talk about. It’s something that everyone simply knows, out here in this particular stretch of the wild. A fact of life, a splinter in your mind, a fire behind a shadowcat’s eyes, and the fire whispers walk with me...

Varamyr thus combines the ruthless exploitation of your average feudal lord with supervillain powers and a serial killer’s personal life; even the Boltons would have to doff their caps at the pain-racket the skinchanger had going north of the Wall. Mance shoulda killed him and threw his head at the villagers’ feet, but the temptation to use him as a weapon proved too strong. After all, who needs the real Horn of Winter when you have an apocalypse that walks like a man, the closest approximation we get to the nuclear-fired cthuloid maw of a Euron Crowseye POV? Varamyr was It, Pennywise the goddamn dancing clown, for a generation of wildlings across a dozen villages. He was the darkness at the edge of town, feeding off of them and among them at will. He’s there to...what’s the phrase...ah yes: “to give the heroes something to fight.”

It was only natural, then, that they started showing up at his doorstep. Never quite as tall as they thought they were, these heroes, the dragon would sigh every time as he uncoiled and moved towards the door. Never so strong, nor so quick. They must have thought it would feel differently than this, he mused as he approached them. They thought they would be able to hear the songs to be written of their triumph in their ears, rather than their own heart drumming a nervous beat and the shrieks of their companions (those that had made it this far). They thought the gods would guide their hand to strike the beast true, or some such rot, never realizing until it was too late that the gods weren’t home and it was just them and the nightmares. They are (the dragon would always pause to think in the heartbeat before he began bathing in their blood) doing what they think they’re supposed to do, the best thing they know how to do, as far as their cattle brains are concerned. Scared, maybe--certainly--but they were there. They were going to save their lovers, avenge their families, slay the feared and hated Sixskins, or die trying. They were ready, in the name of Story, to dance with dragons. 

The dragon was only too happy to oblige. He killed them as they came, one by one, ultimately putting about as much effort into it as you or I might put into scrubbing dead skin away in the shower. Like the Wild Hares, their songs and screams waft together, blurred, intertwined, one amidst the brittle branches, before slipping up, out, and away, caught on the stiff morning breeze. In a tossed-off paragraph, Varamyr offers us a glimpse of dozens of Hero’s Journeys that he personally short-circuited.

So begins A Dance with Dragons, the book named in tearfully ironic honor of Quentyn Martell’s quest--from the perspective of the abyss into which a hundred such quests stared and wilted. The monster from the cave is dying now, lost and hungry and far from the people he fed upon, fearful that his long red reaper’s bill has finally come due. He whispers his story to us, his bloodshot eyes holding ours but seeing past them; he makes one final attempt to dominate (poor Thistle, who risked her life for him!) and having failed that, is forced to cross the astral threshold to another kind of life entirely.

What makes this chapter not just a nightmare (though it is that, and a peerlessly skin-crawling eldritch nightmare if ever I was jerked awake screaming from one) is the many-layered resonances it has with the book that follows. I’m not talking here about the setup Varamyr’s Prologue does for Jon’s character arc, nor for Bran’s, as both are well-trod territory by now. I’m talking about Quentyn, because I see him and his dead friends in the trail of skeletons outside Varamyr’s lair. A book later, we have been shown (not just told, but shown) that every one of those nameless Not The Heroes whom the skinchanger dispatched with such swift and terrible ease had a story. They had friends, every bit as much as those heroes who succeeded. They ate and slept, yelled and sang, wept and laughed and farted. They lived, they died. They were only just born, they were just here I’m telling you, my boy Quent and those older boys he runs around with! I saw him waving when they went off to fight the monster to get justice for his auntie, he was so scared but trying to be brave, just wave, just wave and you’ll be fine, he’ll be home by nightfall, you’ll see...

But they never come home. We know all this about these Not The Heroes because we spent the book with one of them. GRRM zoomed us all the way in on the bones Bran saw in his dreams, the bones of a “thousand other dreamers” who failed to fly. We got in close enough to realize one wasn’t dead, not yet; he craned his face desperately to us in his dying throes, struggling to form a few words, to tell us (or rather, Missandei) what had happened to him and why. We have danced the dance, and so did Quent. He died dancing.

After the girl was gone, the old knight peeled back the coverlet for one last look at Quentyn Martell’s face, or what remained of it. So much of the prince’s flesh had sloughed away that he could see the skull beneath. His eyes were pools of pus. He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons.

And so, the book that began by drawing us inside the unholy fire burning in a nightmare-shaman’s eyes writes its thesis statement in the pus and blood leaking out of where Quent’s eyes once were. Not everyone had their third eye opened. Some of us...most of us are just humans, and for all our follies and failures and warm little fires, “just humans” can’t contain the deadlights. They eat you up inside. 

It is quite fitting that Barristan Selmy has the last word on Quent’s quest--fitting, moving, and sad at a level I don’t think I’m going to fully appreciate until I’m as old as Barry himself. The white knight, for all his many sins and mistakes, is a decent-hearted old man desperately trying to do some good before he dies. As we see with his squires, he wants to leave a piece of himself behind. Barry did his best to warn Quent, telling him that his adventure was a sham, the Stranger was coming for him, and he should go home while he can. Note the terms on which Quentyn refused this wise advice:

Before he had gone three steps, Quentyn Martell called out to him. “Barristan the Bold, they call you.”

“Some do.” Selmy had won that name when he was ten years old, a new-made squire, yet so vain and proud and foolish that he got it in his head that he could joust with tried and proven knights. So he’d borrowed a warhorse and some plate from Lord Dondarrion’s armory and entered the lists at Blackhaven as a mystery knight. Even the herald laughed. My arms were so thin that when I lowered my lance it was all I could do to keep the point from furrowing the ground. Lord Dondarrion would have been within his rights to pull him off the horse and spank him, but the Prince of Dragonflies had taken pity on the addlepated boy in the ill-fitting armor and accorded him the respect of taking up his challenge. One course was all that it required. Afterward Prince Duncan helped him to his feet and removed his helm. “A boy,” he had proclaimed to the crowd. “A bold boy.” Fifty-three years ago. How many men are still alive who were there at Blackhaven?

“What name do you think they will give me, should I return to Dorne without Daenerys?” Prince Quentyn asked. “Quentyn the Cautious? Quentyn the Craven? Quentyn the Quail?”

Now Barristan is staring down the results: a stinking horrorshow of a corpse, gazing back with condemnation. Your life is a mirage, the dead man whispers past what were once lips. What worth the songs and stories of Barristan the Bold when following them led me here? Quentyn made it to Dany’s bed after all...only to die in it, soaking it in fire and blood. The Windblown promised to save him from such a fate, only to deliver him to it: “Do you want to die abed?” Barry can’t know all of this, of course, but as he gives the book its name, he senses it, all of it. He knows the stories too well not to. As such, the scene is a quietly heartrending portrait of existentialist melancholy, painted in gray as the rain lashes down. The old bury the young, and everyone who was at Blackhaven is gone.

Later on in “The Queen’s Hand,” the mournful tone shifts into bitter irony. The white knight pays a visit to Quent’s companions, imprisoned for killing four Brazen Beasts and letting Dany’s children loose. Drink and the big man have mostly stayed in the background of Quent’s story. One gets the sense that Cletus and Maester Kedry were the core of the group, whereas Drink and the big man are basically sidekicks who never expected to be in charge. To borrow from @racefortheironthrone, it’s as if Gandalf and Aragorn were (permanently) killed off in a literal random encounter two days outta Rivendell, and Pippin and Sam had to take over. Indeed, Archibald Yronwood displays Gamgee-esque devotion in one of the most heartbreaking images of the series, one with the primal pull of a pieta: 

Archibald Yronwood had been cradling his prince’s scorched and smoking body when the Brazen Beasts had found him, as his burned hands could testify. He had used them to beat out the flames that had engulfed Quentyn Martell.

It’s only now, with Quent gone, that these two come to the fore and we get a sense of who they really are. Drink protests too much; it’s pretty clear from his dialogue that what he’s most concerned about is being blamed for this whole ordeal, and is desperately trying to frame Quent’s death as being Dany’s fault. The big man finally has enough of his sanctimonious bullshit, telling him to “shut your bloody mouth before I put my fist in it.” He shrewdly notes that Barry could’ve already let the Shavepate execute them both for killing his men, and so he must want something from them. Barry internally compliments him, and the two of them are able to cut a very significant deal:

“What did Prince Quentyn promise the Tattered Prince in return for all this help?”

He got no answer. Ser Gerris looked at Ser Archibald. Ser Archibald looked at his hands, the floor, the door.

“Pentos,” said Ser Barristan. “He promised him Pentos. Say it. No words of yours can help or harm Prince Quentyn now.”

“Aye,” said Ser Archibald unhappily. “It was Pentos. They made marks on a paper, the two of them.”

There is a chance here. “We still have Windblown in the dungeons. Those feigned deserters.”

“I remember,” said Yronwood. “Hungerford, Straw, that lot. Some of them weren’t so bad for sellswords. Others, well, might be they could stand a bit of dying. What of them?”

“I mean to send them back to the Tattered Prince. And you with them. You will be two amongst thousands. Your presence in the Yunkish camps should pass unnoticed. I want you to deliver a message to the Tattered Prince. Tell him that I sent you, that I speak with the queen’s voice. Tell him that we’ll pay his price if he delivers us our hostages, unharmed and whole.”

Ser Archibald grimaced. “Rags and Tatters is more like to give the two of us to Pretty Meris. He won’t do it.”

“Why not? The task is simple enough.” Compared to stealing dragons. “I once brought the queen’s father out of Duskendale.”

“That was Westeros,” said Gerris Drinkwater.

“This is Meereen.”

“Arch cannot even hold a sword with those hands.”

“He ought not need to. You will have the sellswords with you, unless I mistake my man.”

Gerris Drinkwater pushed back his mop of sun-streaked hair. “Might we have some time to discuss this amongst ourselves?”

“No,” said Selmy.

“I’ll do it,” offered Ser Archibald, “just so long as there’s no bloody boats involved. Drink will do it too.” He grinned. “He don’t know it yet, but he will.”

So...let’s be very clear about what’s being agreed to, here. Barry’s offering to genuinely make good on Quent’s promise of Pentos--something which, let’s be honest, Doran Martell would be very unlikely to do. There is no lack of crystallizing moments in Quentyn’s story which neatly summarize the whole, perfect little twists of the searing deconstructive knife, but this is the filet of the Quentyn tenderloin. The devil won. Quentyn’s story: qui bono? The Tattered Prince. Doran’s out a son, Drink and the big man are out another friend, but the painter-in-red Prince who taught Quent what hell looked like, what he gets is Pentos back. All the trappings of a perfect fantasy quest, my poor boy, but you see, you weren’t the one being empowered by your storyline. Fucking Mephistopheles was! You’re the Dorian Grey portrait in his attic now, and-- *fingers fly to earbud* and I’m being told we have live footage of Tatters’ coronation as Prince-for-life of Pentos...

But what will fully and finally embed Quentyn’s story-within-a-story into the overall pattern of ASOIAF is the fate awaiting his family back home. Tragedy is built in large part on asymmetric information: someone doesn’t know something until it’s far too late, with Romeo and Juliet providing only the most obvious example. In this case, Quentyn’s big sister Arianne thinks he’s still alive, that he succeeded, that he’s coming home with Dany and her dragons. And she is not remotely happy about that. 

“I would sooner it were Quentyn who’d returned.”

“Or so you say,” said Daemon Sand. “Good night, princess."

He bowed to her, and left her standing there. What did he mean by that? Arianne watched him walk away. What sort of sister would I be, if I did not want my brother back? It was true, she had resented Quentyn for all those years that she had thought their father meant to name him as his heir in place of her, but that had turned out to be just a misunderstanding. She was the heir to Dorne, she had her father’s word on that. Quentyn would have his dragon queen, Daenerys.

In Sunspear hung a portrait of the Princess Daenerys who had come to Dorne to marry one of Arianne’s forebears. In her younger days Arianne had spent hours gazing at it, back when she was just a pudgy flat-chested girl on the cusp of maidenhood who prayed every night for the gods to make her pretty. A hundred years ago, Daenerys Targaryen came to Dorne to make a peace. Now another comes to make a war, and my brother will be her king and consort. King Quentyn. Why did that sound so silly?

Almost as silly as Quentyn riding on a dragon. Her brother was an earnest boy, well-behaved and dutiful, but dull. And plain, so plain. The gods had given Arianne the beauty she had prayed for, but Quentyn must have prayed for something else. His head was overlarge and sort of square, his hair the color of dried mud. His shoulders slumped as well, and he was too thick about the middle. He looks too much like Father.

"I love my brother,” said Arianne, though only the moon could hear her. Though if truth be told, she scarcely knew him. Quentyn had been fostered by Lord Anders of House Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, the son of Lord Ormond Yronwood and grandson of Lord Edgar. In his youth her uncle Oberyn had fought a duel with Edgar, had given him a wound that mortified and killed him. Afterward men called him ‘the Red Viper,’ and spoke of poison on his blade. The Yronwoods were an ancient house, proud and powerful. Before the coming of the Rhoynar they had been kings over half of Dorne, with domains that dwarfed those of House Martell. Blood feud and rebellion would surely have followed Lord Edgar’s death, had not her father acted at once. The Red Viper went to Oldtown, thence across to the narrow sea to Lys, though none dared call it exile. And in due time, Quentyn was given to Lord Anders to foster as a sign of trust. That helped to heal the breach between Sunspear and the Yronwoods, but it had opened new ones between Quentyn and the Sand Snakes… and Arianne had always been closer to her cousins than to her distant brother.

“We are still the same blood, though,” she whispered. “Of course I want my brother home. I do.” The wind off the sea was raising gooseprickles all up and down her arms. Arianne pulled her cloak about herself, and went off to seek her bed.

King Quentyn. It still sounded silly.

King Quentyn. Will I need to kneel to him?

I think this resentment towards the brother she barely knows will drive Arianne to bind her family and people’s fortunes to Aegon in hopes of pre-empting “King Quentyn.” The horrible irony is not only that Quent’s already dead, but that he had no interest in being Dany’s consort, nor in one-upping Arianne. That, however, won’t save Doran and Arianne when Dany, having embraced “fire and blood” on the Dothraki Sea, comes for the “mummer’s dragon” and his backers. 

“They were dancing. In my dream. And everywhere the dragons danced the people died.”

“You could have died,” said Arianne again. Her words echoed off the cavern walls. “…died… died … died…”

Enough speculation. Ultimately, the overall point of this and all previous and still-to-come series on ADWD is that this story never stopped being good. The bones are still there. There is still a structure to this song, a rhythm, a dance. The characterization is strong, the worldbuilding is superb, the prose is GRRM’s best yet, and there really is a payoff: it’s Barristan looking into what’s left of Quent’s eyes, knowing mortality, and giving the book its name. 

Dragonfire burns hot and bright, but Yronwood at night is smooth sky and still water. The air snaps clear and perfect into your lungs. There are no dead friends, no adventure to go on nor princess to wed nor dragons to tame, no stories. Just the air, the trees, the water, and you. That’s where I picture Quent. I hope he was thinking of something like that before George finally let him rest. In the end, my boy was glad to go; like I’ve said, he knowingly walked into the fire. Take me home, Stranger! Send me back to Dorne, O winged chariot, burn me clean of accumulated sin and then fly me back to the forest of my youth...

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. “Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles.”

...and just like that, he’s gone. The drip is removed, the bereaved notified, the body covered and wheeled out. All that’s left to show he was ever alive is the dull blare of the TV in the hospital room. Ah shit, I left it on! It’s some cheesy fantasy movie from the ‘80s, a dragon and a sword, shit like that. I’ll get it later, after I drop off this poor stiff downstairs. Let it drone on into the empty air where the dead man was. Let the fading echoes of its song slide down his dead ears as I ferry him across the Styx; let ghosts bloom behind his dead eyes as I wheel him into that steel coffin. What’s the harm? What’s one more ghost in a series full of them? Father Mackenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave (no one was saved), muttering to himself, who takes that sort of story seriously, anyway...

All that’s left in the end is the gravestone, and this is what the stone says:

QUENTYN NYMEROS MARTELL

283-300

HE TRIED

Centuries later, the local children solemnly/excitedly tell each other about the Frog Prince, the ghost haunting that big old gravestone set off way back by itself. The stories, as with Varamyr, all go the same way. One moment, you’re leaning against the stone trying to catch your breath from one of the make-believe games (Dragons and Walkers was always popular, Rose Thorns and the Crowseye fiercely beloved by a few), and the next there’s a boy hiding behind it who wasn’t there before. I am the Frog Prince, he whispers like a decaying orchestra, a cry of grief heard at a great distance through seas of saltwater and grass. I have a quest for you. A bright shining adventure, forever just over the horizon, worth every corpse you step over, or make. It can be yours, everything can be yours, if only you guess my true name. 

If the children choose not to guess, they can walk away, knowing no loss but the certainty (even without turning back to confirm) of his pale pus-colored eyes watching them reproachfully as they go. After all, if no one ever guesses right, he’ll be tied to his quest forever, unable to pass on, trapped in in a cage made of pure uncut diamond-hard Story. The only way he can sleep (perchance not to dream) is to find another vessel for the fire, keep the story going, keep the singers singing, on, on, the show must go on...

But if the children guess wrong, the Frog Prince sucks out their innocence through their brain stems like marrow. What the stories don’t tell, can’t tell, but I can, is what the ghost says to his victims right before he severs their heads. You all guess Quentyn, he sighs as they gaze into the nothingness behind his eyes, but the fire got him. I’m what was left. I keep telling you: my name is Frog. 

[sugarwordss]

run away with me

one-shot based off of carly rae jepsen’s ‘run away with me’ 

You’re stuck in my head, stuck in my heart, stuck on my body

Two girl’s bodies slide, slot, card together, perfectly in sync yet chaotic too. Lights of every color beat down on them and so do envying, disgusted, curious eyes. Two girls’ bodies move and do not stop in a moment that they have stolen. They cannot feel the lights or the eyes, only each other.

The first girl is all wide eyes and short, thick hair curling with sweat. She is softness and timid, but stronger than iron. A snap from her fingers could injure a hundred men. There are stars in her eyes and on her skin, skin that reminds of globes and marble, skin the other girl can’t keep her slim hands off of.

The other girl is the only girl to the person of stars and marble in front of her. She is more loud, dark lips, big heart, big voice, hard gaze, she will freeze you with a touch, a look, she is power and determination in a glance, but when she lets you in, you will realize that she is warmth and dreams and her eyes, which are true windows, can melt better than they can ice.

I wanna go, get out of here, sick of the party

“Leave with me, Nad,” says the smaller of the two. Nadine: hope, hope, hope, courage. These feelings may not be the strongest things she has within herself, but a slide of her eyes, a clench of her arm sends waves of them through those she loves. She didn’t believe that another person’s voice could change the way one feels about their name until she met Skye. She didn’t believe anyone could make her feel the way she felt when she saw the curve of the world until she met the girl who’s name was her favorite place.

I’d run away, I’d run away with you

“Okay,” is a sighed whisper when one hand slides into another, easy, familiar.

Have you ever met someone who made you feel like everything was blurring, but in the best way possible? Someone who was all you could be aware of when you were with them, sometimes not even then? Someone who made you look outside of them, and when they did, made everything outside sparkling? And when it wasn’t sparkling, when it was jagged, when it was ugly, you could accept it? You didn’t become consumed by it?

Have you ever meet someone who made you feel, feel, feel, and instead of being afraid, it was beautiful?

Packing a bag, we’re leaving tonight while everyone’s sleeping

In the limits of the suburbs, the quiet environment matches the calm in the girls’ heads. Somehow, as they gather only what their bodies and hearts need (besides each other), everything remains silent within them.

This is customary in each others’ presence, but when you’re leaving the wire you hung onto your whole life, perhaps some fear, some sweat, some racing hearts are necessary, but breaths stay steady. Somehow, they are sure.

Nadine supposes it is the glimpses she gets of the scars littering Skye’s body. They are in secret places, but they’re revealed by the clothes she wore to the party they were at. Or was it a bar? A club? She only remembers how it felt breathing with her friend.

Her friend, who manifested her pain on her shoulders, her stomach, her thighs, the soft places Nadine has only had the pleasure to brush. What calms her more than anything is the chance that Skye’s agony will ease when they leave the place that it flourished. It calms her that she will fill up the sky, her namesake, because it was like her parents knew it would be the only place that could hold her.

These things do not cross Skye’s mind.

Let’s run away

Neither notice, but her small hands skim over and forget things she wants and they slip her mind because her eyes keep going to her Nad. This is common, but it’s happening more under these stars because, god, Nad is her stars and her moon and her sun and they’re going away together.

It is rash? Is it stupid? Is it ridiculous and callous and will they regret it? More than almost anything else the girl of stone and scars has before but no dread comes from those acknowledgments, because that is all they are.

Because her Nad’s eyes will no longer be glazed and she will not spend her life asleep, she waste not spend her time trying to escape the world, she will embrace it more than she ever has, more than they ever have together, because Skye has shown Nadine space, but what about the ground? She wants her to love it as much she as does.

And the spark of that is ever growing in her friend, there is light illuminating the windows Skye is so used to seeing draped. When they run into her coughing car, laughing quietly, calm and happy, there is light. Skye wants everyone else to see how blinding the girl who ignites courage and hope can truly be.

‘Cause you make me feel like I could be driving you all night

They take back roads because there is more privacy there. Their voices are quiet, but the way it feels, they fill up the whole city as they leave it.

“Where are we going?”

“I just wanna drive for a bit, if thats okay.”

“Is this that road trip you always wanted?”

A shuddering giggle. Not shuddering in itself, but that is what the noise elicits in those who hear it.

“Not ‘zactly.”

After a moment of silence and looking, looking, always looking, a small, sturdy hand finds a slim, shaking one that is made still. The relationship is much the same, mutually, and they’ve told each other so before. That is why when Skye rests her hand on Nadine’s and she turns it over to grasp gently, the smaller girl, who is simultaneously bigger in so many ways, is struck with an urge familiar, but not welcome.

Yet, in that moment, it is. Because they are away from the place that said it wasn’t, that forced a wall between them, together they were free in every way but one. Every time they broke the chains that pushed them back, they came back stronger. Now the people that restrained them are left behind.

And I’ll find your lips in the streetlight

The glow changes from red to green just as Skye leans away, lidded eyes scanning the girl she loves’ face for an answer.

“I thought we couldn’t.”

“Can we now?”

The pole the streetlight hangs off of is rusted old. The road they idle on is ever rarely used, so no one rushes them as they search each other’s eyes while making everything as clear as they can.

“Is this the best time?”

“I know I’ve never wanned this more than I do right now.”

Skye’s eyes, which are harder to fathom than expanses of ocean, but more resting, are beckoning her with love.

And Nadine’s face, which is so often betraying of nothing besides the gray dimness of how she took in the world, turns tender and grabs Skye’s heart and squeezes it in a way that feels like bursting and beating at the same time. They inhale each other close until they’re kissing again, and Nadine has to hold Skye’s face to keep herself on Earth, or else she’ll fly away.

Up in the clouds, high as a kite over the city

When the sun starts to caress the clouds, Nadine pulls into a motel parking lot. As soon as the car is turned off, Skye pulls her back into her lips, and they can’t help but laugh against each other, the giddiness and excitement of what they’ve done finally spreading from their jumpy feet into their throats. But they still are not afraid.

The world blurs from everything but each other again as they sign in, grins splitting their faces as they pay with cash from dead end jobs. The happiness of what they are doing, what they did, what is happening is bursting in them and they skip and run to their room, only aware of the smell of the other and how much more intoxicating it is than usual.

I’ll be your sinner in secret

They tumble onto the bed, a jumble of perfectly orchestrated limbs that fall together as if that is where they are every moment, though the two have only experienced this a handful of times. Before, they were always yanked apart by doubts and fears and memories and chains, chains thick and strong enough to hold down a million men, were used on two girls who only desired the warmth and security of each other.

When the lights go out

And, for once in the time that their hearts have been reaching for each other, they can meet, and the things that happen are not tinged by bitterness. There is not unpleasant toiling in Skye’s stomach, there are not painful shocks when Nadine’s fingers reach Skye’s skin in the places they usually don’t go. Everything is soft and right in the moonlight. Finally, there is stillness.

I’ll be your hero and win it

“How cliche would it be to say you saved me?”

“Not too much. You saved me as well.”

By the time Skye met Nadine, her scars has long since healed, but only physically. And when Nadine met Skye, she’d been awake, but awake does not mean alive.

Hold onto me

I never want to let you go

“Well, would it be cliche would it be ta say you hold me together?”

“Yes. But I feel like that too.”

Nadine’s voice finally feels close. Skye can remember when she felt far away, when her eyes said nothing, when she said almost nothing, and now there are monologues in every breath. The thought makes Skye try to widen her smile, but it simply isn’t possible.

“How long are we doing this?”

“I’m thinkin’ forever. Or at least until we can’t.”

“Either is good.”

They aren’t really worried. They are still as at rest as they were when they left. Being together, alone, puts them at peace. Both are perfectly in sync with what they want. Whether what they are and are doing last seven days or seven years, they are happy that it is just them and their fondness, that can fill a motel and then some. There is order and calm in their arms, and they relish it. It feels good to be free.

[quatschmachen]

August Long Weekend Pt 1

An arc within the 2020 arc because that is how I roll. Originally was going to have this as one long fic, but hey, it’s going to be long as fuck so enjoy it cut up into parts.

Masterpost

XXXX

Edward had unceremoniously kicked them out, most likely because Étienne, who had been trying to help in the frantic cleaning, had managed to drop the soap down the stairs causing them to turn into some sort of soapy waterslide, and Edward’s eyes wide, had said, “RIGHT! You and Calvin are going shopping for the things we will need, now.” Étienne could hardly look at Edward feeling like a fuck up once again, especially when he caught a glimpse of him towels in hand cleaning up the mess that Edward refused to even let him help with.

He had been trying to make up for the night before, where after an evening of TV where Étienne had felt the words between them widening into a chasm, stretching out across their only link, Calvin, who kept commenting upon the television shows, comfortably sitting between them, his words an endless patter filling the words that Étienne found himself swallowing, words which usually kept hidden so well wanting to spill out like too much rainwater from the barrel, where the small slips of before were opening up a dam of words that wanted to continue to spill until he was empty of them. As he lay in the guest bedroom alone, the words swirling around him a dark tidal force trying to pull him down back under the wall of silence, he found himself getting up, slipping on his sneakers (freshly bought from the shopping trip on Whyte), and creeping out into the night, entering the peaceful backyard, the stars dimly shining above him, the ground fresh and damp, the lingering smell of rain bringing the scent of leaves to the fore, surrounding him in a cocoon of nature. It was dark, but in the city never dark enough that one could not see where things were. He wandered over to the closed chicken coop, and opened it, entered and then closed the gate behind him, feeling ridiculous for this. No doubt the chickens were safely sleeping, dreaming of bugs and cheese.  Sitting on a conveniently placed log, he sat there, staring up at the stars, listening to the breeze in the cool night air, trying to let the words fly away, let him lay down and rest.

His contemplation had been ruined by the swarms of mosquitos descending upon him, and later as he lay in bed scratching and hating his life, he wondered why he had stayed so long. He should leave, book his flight and get out of there.

Which had been his full intention, but after a rather hasty breakfast followed by Edward informing them that they had to help clean the house up before the others arrived (not even explaining who was arriving), they had been roped into the roles, until Étienne managed to fuck up even cleaning. There hadn’t been time for him to even look up flights.

“Where are we going?”

“Shopping,” Calvin said unhelpfully as he backed the truck out.

“Why is your garage so large – there is literally room for two more trucks,” Étienne asked, his mind wandering.

“One.”

“One?”

“Yeah.” Calvin grunted as he finished backing out into the alley, and began to get them onto the proper path.

“Calvin, that fits two at least.”

“If you’re counting in the size of Ed’s tiny ass truck, honestly not sure why he keeps that ancient thing, pretty sure it’s 99 percent replacement parts by now,” Calvin laughed.

“You’re talking as if you know what truck goes there,” Étienne stated, looking at the other man curiously.

“Mmm yeah I do, it would be weird if I didn’t? Seeing as I helped design and build this place? Of course I would know what goes where,” came the amused response.

“Whose truck goes there then?”

“Mac’s of course,” Calvin said.

“Mac- oh right. Why does he have his own garage spot in your house?” Étienne asked, “Can’t he park out front?”

“Leave his baby out front where vandals could appear? You kidding me? That truck probably cost more than our house with how many upgrades and shit he did to it, sure it can probably climb a mountain no problem while fighting a bear simultaneously, but it’s still his baby and when he is in town he prefers to park it in the garage.”

“How could a truck fight a bear?”

“You clearly have not seen his truck, when you do you’ll understand.”

“Why would I be seeing his truck? I’m not going north to see him, I barely know him.”

“He’s coming to us,” came the casual comment.

“Coming to us?”

“Étienne, it’s August Long, he’s coming down with Caroline and we’re gonna have a BBQ and do some fun things-”

“Wait, doesn’t that mean I’m taking up space, I mean I’m in the guest room, you should have told me so I could leave, where will he and Caroline stay?”

“In his room, duh,” Calvin said as if it was super obvious, “His room is in the basement.”

“His room? Basement—ooooh is it that one with the really obnoxious bed?”

“Been snooping eh?” Calvin shot Étienne a sly smirk, “but yes, that’s his room.”

“What about Caroline?”

“What about her?”

“Where is she going to sleep?”

“Étienne, you do realize you do not own the house you have been sleeping in, and you are unnecessarily worrying about things Ed and I have covered, right? Anyways, she’s obviously sleeping with Mac.”

“Why?”

“Because they are together?”

“Wait what?”

“They’ve been together for a while, but I suppose, you just never knew and that’s fine, probably wasn’t a relevant topic of conversation at the time.”

“…but why does Mac have a permanent room in your house?”

“Eh, it’s his E-town crash pad, he lives up north obviously, and it was silly for him to have his own house down here, so me and Ed don’t mind him living with us every now and then, plus, he usually is so grateful he ends up buying groceries for the month or something, it works out. It’s nice having family close by too, y’know, catch up in between the gaps,” Calvin explained, “Sometimes get too busy working to enjoy the others’ company.”

“True…” Étienne thought of his family back home, his mind shifting to the rather strained relationship between him and Samuel, the awkward Christmas dinners, which he had only been showing up to recently because Élyse kept dragging him there. Dinners which when he had better company he liked to skip, but sometimes, when things were as they were, he did go to them with Edward, who oddly got along with Samuel. He could never figure it out, but after the first awkward meeting in the kitchen, when Samuel figured out that Edward actually could cook there had been some silent acceptance on his part. Those meetings had always occurred at Jacques’ place, who was the better older brother, who every now and then wanted the family near him, invited them over for Christmas, allowing them to bring a plus one. Samuel sometimes took someone, more often not. Étienne, hell, he could remember the reason for bringing Edward in the first place, it was because he had fucked up, he had forgotten about the gathering, had promised Edward that they could spend Christmas together and then panicking when Élyse reminded him that months before he had promised to actually show up at Jacques’ place.

However, when he had explained this to Edward, who had already shown up, hence Élyse reminding him, Edward simply shrugged and invited himself over. As if it was no big thing for him to go to some family gathering out east, saying he had meant to practice his French more anyway. It had been the late 80’s and after that… hell, how many had Edward ended up to? Jacques had even seemed to like him enough to encourage Étienne to invite him (he was not sure if Jacques wanted Edward or the Christmas Trifle that came with him), but it was later, after Edward had left him for Calvin, when Étienne had dragged himself to the event, that he realized how much of his life had included the other man. It was during one of those banal conversations dominated by Samuel, who glowed next to his new boyfriend, Frederic, a man who he had regretfully been successful in getting together with his brother (not that Samuel would ever view it in that way), where he had been giving jibes to how Étienne was alone that Christmas. It had started as small jibes, but over the course of Christmas Eve, and over after the Christmas dinner when they had met in the hallway alone, it had gotten more apparent that Samuel thought it rather pitiful that Étienne could not even rustle up a prostitute to keep him company on Christmas.

“Why do I need to bring someone?” he had finally snapped over wine, “Why do you even care? You don’t harass Élyse in this manner.”

Samuel had smirked in an irritating manner, “Élyse doesn’t care for that, we both know it, but you?”

“Me what?”

“Oh, well, I suppose you couldn’t even find someone who could tolerate you to come this year?”

“Fuck you,” he had hissed, stalking away, wondering why the hell his brother seemed to take delight in finding his failures and poking at them with a burning metal brand. He had regretted actually spending some time and thought on getting him a gift, vowing that next time he wouldn’t even bother.

How Calvin talked about family, he sensed that there weren’t the usual tensions, it was people who genuinely liked each other getting together, and somehow that made him feel uneasy. He could just imagine himself when the others arrived awkwardly sitting on the sideline forgotten, the person who did not fit in. He fit in easily in situations, while at the same time sliding through social situations untouched. Was this going to be one of those? He contemplated this as Calvin loaded him up with the reusable bags, and he followed him around the store, blindly gazing at the food. He was scrutinizing the bad French upon a bag of crisps when a voice called out Calvin’s name, a nice feminine voice. An overly friendly voice, and as he looked towards Calvin a very beautiful woman approached him, her smile wide, her red hair flowing around her. Other men in the vicinity had noticed her, and Étienne appreciated her curvaceous form and excellent style.

“Hey Veronica,” Calvin greeted her with a warm smile, “How are you?”

“Darling I’m fine, you haven’t called me back,” she pouted, her body language close and intimate, and if Étienne did not know any better, it was almost as if she was acting like she was his girlfriend. It was the nervous glance Calvin shot in his direction that did it. A soft fleeting glance that put Étienne on his guard, put him to look at the body language more critically.  Calvin was receptive to her touches, and as she straightened his collar as she talked to him, he watched as the man leant in slightly. It didn’t feel right, and when she left, after eliciting a promise from Calvin that yes he would phone her, Étienne was not sure what to ask. You fucking around on Edward there, Calvin? He knew this would be ironic coming from him, and hell, there wasn’t anything that said they were anything more than touchy feely friends.

“How do you know her?” he casually asked as he sneakily put potato chips into the cart.

“Veronica?”

“Who else would I be asking about, Calvin? That random woman being abused by her toddler over there?”

“No need to be sassy; well, I met her at the bar and stuff,” Calvin evasively answered as he picked up the potato chips, “Really? BBQ?”

“What’s wrong with BBQ chips?”

“They’re gross.” Calvin put them back in the cart anyway, and then grabbed the poutine flavoured chips, looking Étienne directly in the eye the entire time.

Étienne broke the challenging stare, wanting to ask more about the woman, but as Calvin changed the topic of conversation entirely, he knew that it would be weird for him to enquire as to exactly Calvin’s relationship with her was.

XXXX

As they arrived back at the house, Étienne’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he noticed the once vacant spot in the garage had been literally consumed by the largest, ugliest (in his opinion) truck he had ever seen in his life. It was the size of a small cathedral, sprawling, lifted high, with four shiny chrome pipes framing the back window like an unholy pipe organ. The back window was tinted, and in the middle, where one would presume the icon of Mother Mary would have gone, had this truck actually been a cathedral, was a sticker that seemed at first to mostly be in hieroglyphics. After a moment of staring at them, he realized that it simply said, “I love Alberta oil”. The imagery was arresting, simplistic, easy to understand if one knew what the pumpjack in the oil drop meant. The truck was shiny and black, the body well maintained, and as his gaze travelled across it, he was interested by the stickers plastered across the bumper, as if it was displaying the scriptures of this person’s religion.

Their favourite involved various designs on the “Alberta Strong” theme, interspersed with: an Oilers sticker, “Warning: is there life after death? Touch my truck and find out!”, “Do you follow Jesus this closely?”, “Does this truck make my neck look red?”, and the final “I love my truck.”

“Why are there so many bumper stickers?” Étienne asked, looking to Calvin.

“…Look, a truck is part of a man’s identity, and this one likes to have it all out in the open,” Calvin attempted to explain as he opened the door to his truck, “I prefer mine with less stickers and more shiny.”

“Why are there literally four more wheels than necessary on this truck?”

“Because it carries heavy loads, it gets put to work a lot, it’s not just for show…”

“Why does Edward allow such a gas guzzler?”

“Actually, it’s been semi converted.”

“Semi – converted?”                                      

“Well, it got converted to one more eco friendly, doesn’t need so much diesel, has an option to run on electricity, but switches over because with all the driving it does electricity isn’t always an option.”

“Why is the exhaust pointing upwards?”

“Stacks, those are stacks, it’s truck fashion.”

“Truck… fashion?”

Calvin seemed more and more amused by Étienne’s questions, “Look, we can continue this while getting the groceries inside, alright?”

“I am not sure if I even want to… I feel like every answer you give me confuses me more.”

Helping Calvin carry groceries in, Étienne heard the voice before he saw the man.  It drifted out across the backyard in loud laughter, the words following, and as he looked up Étienne saw the man reclining in a chair on the patio, beer in hand, regaling Edward with his terrible joke. At his feet lay a very large dog, a husky-something mix, fast asleep.

“Why do chicken coops only have two doors?”

“Why?” Edward’s voice sounded amused, he was relaxing across from the man, obviously enjoying his company.

“Because if it had four it would be a sedan!”

The groans of Edward and Caroline drifted towards them, and Calvin let out a loud laugh, alerting the others that they had returned.

“Calvin!” Edward called out, “Took you long enough!”

“Sorry sorry, Étienne is a slow walker.”

“Excuse me?” Étienne scoffed, “I wasn’t the one staring at potato chip flavours as if it was a life and death matter here.”

“Look, gotta get flavours people actually like, no Mozzarella Marinara incidents, right?”

“I have no idea what you are even saying.”

“Lordee,” Mac laughed, “I remember, thinking it would be good to try those newfangled flavours only to get some disappointing slightly cheese taste…”

“Good lord,” Caroline added, “I tried to block that incident from my memory. Good job Calvin, once more bringing up topics one has no desire to remember.”

“Sorry sorry, let us actually deposit these bags in the kitchen, hm?”

“I’ll help,” Edward stood up, setting his drink on the table, and opened the door, allowing the men to pass into the house easily. As they entered into the cool house, Edward said quietly to Calvin, “They came earlier than I thought they would, I don’t have anything finished… I haven’t even dusted their bedroom.”

Setting the bags down on the table, Calvin said in amusement, “You dusted his room last week, I don’t think some dust monster is about to appear.”

“I know…”

Edward had opened one of the bags and took out some dish soap. Étienne with some relief had set his bags down, not sure if he should help take things out and place them. He had a vague idea of where things went.

“C’mere,” Calvin was saying, as he leant over to Ed and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead, “Mac is gonna be fine, hell Caroline loves helping you in the kitchen, you need to unwind here, this is family, not some major life changing event where everything has to be perfect. Hell if the meat I am going to grill gets burnt to hell, Mac is going to think it’s the best thing ever.”

Making a wry face at Calvin, while shooting a slightly self-conscious look towards Étienne briefly, Edward said, “I know I know, you’re right,” he bustled about putting the items away, Calvin moving slowly, while Étienne awkwardly decided that he could put the milk in the fridge, he felt like some awkward third wheel on this conversation.

“Thank god Étienne was here for all this crap you sent us out for,” Calvin was saying, “I think my arms woulda broke.”

“You could always take two trips for the stuff,” Edward sensibly pointed out.

“But that would involve more walking,” Calvin pouted.

“So you are fine going to the gym to be in shape but an extra walk is about to kill you?” Edward teased as he folded up one of the reusable bags.

“Exactly!”

Rolling his eyes, Edward couldn’t help but smile, shaking his head at how ridiculous Calvin was being.

Feeling a little claustrophobic at this atmosphere, Étienne accidentally banged a cupboard where he had placed some new condiments, making the other two men jump.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not really being sorry, as he quickly walked out of the kitchen towards the patio. At the moment, hanging out with someone he barely knew seemed like a hell of a lot better deal than hanging out with love’s young dream. He was feeling conflicted, he was glad that whatever the past two days were about when he was alone with Edward had not affected his loving relationship with Mr. Perfect Boyfriend, but on the other hand, he had almost fooled himself into believing that maybe there was still something there, that perhaps with Edward inviting him to share a bed that perhaps he had for one moment missed him, but no, the entire time he had been yearning after his blond-haired buffoon.  Some part of him realized that he was being irrational about this, but somehow knowing he was being irrational made him even more pissed.

Caroline was laying on a lounger (where had that come from?), idly talking to Mac while she read a magazine; there was a comfortable atmosphere between them, and Étienne could tell that Calvin had not been shitting him about them being together. Even without touching, he could tell from the body language that they were an item, from the slight way Mac was turned towards her, to the brief glances she kept shooting him from over her mirrored sunglasses, her face shaded by the large brimmed straw hat upon her head. Her legs were crossed, her summer dress slightly caught up probably revealing more of her calves than intentional, her toes painted in a perfect pink.  It seemed almost laughable, the image of perfect femininity talking to a man more forearm than body, especially pronounced because his black t-shirt had the sleeves torn to show off his muscles. On his left bicep was an intricate watercolour style wild rose tattoo, framed by prairie grasses, the style of which changed into something more technical as the roots of the grass turned into pipes plunging into a dark black substance, which Étienne assumed meant to symbolize oil. His hair seemed to be a dirty blond, mostly hidden by a beaten up ballcap with a faded Newfoundland flag on it. Freckles lightly dusted his sunburnt face, one that he could tell easily smiled, but from the lines around his mouth and eyes also had seen a lot of worry. He had some stubble across his square chin, probably a day of no shaving.

“Say, come and joins us,” Mac had turned to give a welcoming gesture to Étienne, indicating the seat next to him.

Wondering why the hell this Northern Albertan man had a slight Newfie twang to his speech, Étienne sat beside him, glad that the patio sun umbrella had been set up to give blessed shade.

“I know we’ve been seein’ each other at the odd meetup, but I don’t think we have actually sat down to have a nadder, ye can call me Mac, and… I call you?”

“Étienne.”

“Geezus, there is no way I’m going to be pronouncing that correctly, I may know French, but those damn aspirated t’s always did me a harm.”

“It’s not aspirated.” Étienne said, feeling defensive.

“Hope you don’t mind if I call you Stevie?”

“Please don’t.”

“Hell, just Englishing your name a bit there, no need to be such a prickle, alright, even though you don’t seem the knitted unicorn tea cozy type, how about we compromise, eh Etsy?”

Étienne opened his mouth to protest this butchering of his name, only to be interrupted by Calvin appearing with a large metal tray with a cover on it.

“You really pulled through with the Taber corn and elk there, buddy!”

“’Course! Can’t show up empty handed, plus I’ve been day dreaming about you grillin’ it up all week, isn’t that right Sweet Pea?”

“He sure did,” she agreed setting her magazine down. “Is Ed still in the kitchen?”

“He’s getting the snacks together,” Calvin confirmed as he began to get the grill ready.

Sitting up, she slipped on her sandals, “I should go help him out then.”

“Me and Stevie here are gonna take Patches for a walk while you’re making the food,” Mac announced standing up, Patches sadly shifting off his feet. Signalling to Étienne to stand up, Étienne did so, somehow hypnotized, shifting as the other man slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him down off the patio. Behind them, he could hear Patches give a soft wuff and lumber down behind them, “Can’t be interfering in the kitchen with the lil darlin’s in there, hell last time I tried to help, Caroline nearly hit me with a wooden spoon.”

“Nearly?”

“I ducked, of course,” Mac cracked a smile at Étienne while propelling him out the front gate, waiting a moment to let Patches pass through and shutting it, “Plus with Brisy setting up the grill, figured might as well get to know ya better.”

“Oh?” Étienne responded faintly, not even sure who Brisy was, but guessing he meant Calvin. He was not sure how he was getting pulled into this situation, or why Mac was calling him Stevie.

“Cigarette?” Mac offered.

“Yes please,” Étienne responded, glad that at least one vice was being allowed to get through this long weekend.

Taking two cigarettes out, Mac lit them, and then handed one to Étienne, then took a long drag on his.

“Can’t smoke there,” he explained, “Chuck tries hard to quit, I catch him cheatin’ sometimes, but I don’t rat him out. Brisebois is too squirrely about it, and ever since Caroline quit back in the early aughts, well mainly since we been seein’s each other, she keeps badgering me to quit, but eh,” he took another drag, “man’s gotta be allowed some vices, eh?”

Étienne nodded, not sure how to respond to this verbal assault, just grateful to have someone who actually enjoyed smoking, “So… why are you calling them…?”

“Oh, right, nicknames,” Mac smiled, “Brisebois is just Calvin’s middle name, he was an annoying lil fucker back in the day, and to spite him I called him that, and years later it sort of stuck as his nickname… and Chuck for Edward? Just one of those older nicknames y’know?”

Étienne gave a vague nod, sort of understanding, and took another puff of his cigarette.

Mac apparently had figured he had explained enough, as he abruptly switched topic, “So tell me… Are you one of those queers?”

Étienne was not sure how to respond to this sudden question, so he said, “Yes? Well, I like everyone?”

“This includes women?”

“And men, and… whoever else is a human?” Étienne added slightly defensively, not liking this line of interrogation.

“Finally,” he broke out into a smile, “Hell, I know Calvin likes the ladies, but he’s so moony over Eddy over there he’s not even half a bisexual, if you know what I mean. I’m fine with the queers, well obviously just sometimes I just want to admire a woman and not be considered a minority.”

“Does Caroline not admire women?” Étienne asked amused.

“Pretty certain she does, not sure if she wants to be doin’ the lil ol’ in ‘n’ out if you knows what I mean, but we aren’t sittin’ around admiring a fine piece of ass together, usually if I notice she slaps me on the arm, and I smiles at her knowing she’s right about it.”

“About what?” Étienne asked feeling himself drawn to this man despite the rough edges, there was something about him, at first impressions or rumours off-putting like sand paper on one’s skin, but once you got past the bluster and bluff, you could see the hardworking man, the one who spent his days doing the hard labour to bring the results.

“She’s the best damn thing that happened to me in the past three years and I better not be taking her for granted, that’s what,” he bluntly said, “She’s a hell of a lot better company than the paid ladies I used to consort with, and the men who I hung out with but y’know not in that way, just the men who talked about sex all the time but never did anything.”

“Are you saying she’s your first real relationship?”

“If you mean romantic long term, yes,” Mac shrugged, “I’m not that good with ladies, my skills are lacking, but I think they are improving.”

“Tell me, how the hell did you land a catch like Caroline?”

Mac gave Étienne a sheepish smile, “Hell, this is embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? I’m even more intrigued,” they had paused in their walk to watch Patches gambol over to a tree and lift a leg.

“Well, y’see three years back, she had come up to help me set up house again, my house got smoked out, there was some fire damage, figured hell, rebuild the damn thing, and once it was built up real nice, I gotta move back in there, so she volunteered to help out, being a nice gal and all… and she discovered that I really am the worst of bachelors.”

“The worst? How so? Are you burning water as well?” Étienne asked with amusement.

“Almost, she nearly had a heart attack when she learnt even though I has the washer and dryer I don’t know how to function them, I just gots m’self a maid, and she informed me that I could be saving myself 2k a month if I could figure out how to do this shit m’self.”

“You are actually paying someone 2k a month to clean ‘your house? When can I start?” Étienne joked, “I at least know how to do laundry, food service not included.”

Mac scoffed, “Hells, I don’t need ya now, b’y, I gots me a Caroline. So she decided to train me up, so I knows how to do the laundry now, but with setting up my house, and teaching me the basics of living – y’see I spend most of my time in Camp, where things are a lot nicer and catered now than before where it was a tent and a pit in the ground, anyways, diverting, after about a month in my house, hell I thought she was just there for the weekend, she was helping me get my files all sorted, and she stared at my spendin’ lookin’ at me like I was a lunatic—and she informed me that I needed a woman in my life, and I says, I have many women in my life – to which she responded the prostitutes and strippers didn’t count, a bit harsh y’know these ladies work hard for their monies no need to be disrespectin’, so I seys to her, where the hells am I gonna find a woman that ain’t a stripper or who ain’t married, other than goin’ down to the city, and she seys, hell what about me.”

“That… sounds… romantic?” Étienne hazarded as he focused upon the dog once wandering up ahead of them trying to hide his smile; for some reason the beginning of the relationship seemed almost too pure for words.  

“Well, romantic enough for me,” Mac shrugged, “Count m’self luck everyday I wake up next to her.”

“So… aren’t you afraid of her leaving you?” Étienne asked.

“She’d be sensible to,” Mac sagely replied, “But she seems to be genuinely sweet on me, so I’ll take what I can get while I can.”

“While you can?” Étienne felt like there was more not being said and he was right.

“Y’see I takes it that I may not be the same man now as I will be in 2050, my best bet is I end up like Dawson City, a mere memory but remainin’ y’know? With the oil running out no one will have a reason to stays with me. Ed says I should diversify, but it’s easy for him to say, he’s one of the remainers, I’m just one of those one industry places, flourish and then bam, dead as a duck, so I figures, live it up while I can, while I’m flush. Parts of the reason why I have a place here, no reason to have my own house in this city, my home is up north and always will be, but it’s always good to have a place to escapes to now and then. Hell, part of the reason I gave up being a city-”

“You’re not a city?” Étienne interrupted, genuinely surprised.

“Gave that up back in 1995, I am officially a population centre in Wood Buffalo.”

“Still confused.”

Flicking some ashes onto the sidewalk, Mac shrugged, “Means even when they leave I’ll still be alive, I’m the one with the hospital. Those around in my area, even if separate by distances, will still have a reason to come to me when the oil runs out… well, I hope.”

“This does not help me, what do you mean, what is a Wood Buffalo.”

“Alright, so, view it as a club, I got together with some other hamlets in the area, and instead of each of us having our own mayor, we just have the one, makes it easier for developments if we’re all on the same page. Sort of like a club, still our own identity, but working together with the same governance.”

“Sort of getting it…” Étienne puffed on his cigarette, brow crinkled in thought as he slowly sorted through the explanation, “So you find more benefit not being a city?”

“Hell not all of us can be a cultural capital like you with fancy historic buildings,” Mac laughed, “Your fate is set in stone, mine is in that black sand, here today, possibly gone tomorrow. Hence working with Brisy in developing green technology, even when the oil is gone, gives me a better chance of survival… otherwise… there is nothing for people to stay for up north. At least with you, you have a diverse enough economy that when, say, the bullshit industry goes south you can relax on some cheese, eh?”

“Bullshit industry?”

Mac shrugged, “Pick one.”

“Say, let’s get rid of the mafia,” Étienne joked.

“Ahh right, doesn’t Montreal’s cogs turn on old country corruption and tradition? That would be stripping away half your identity there, bud, might need to reconsider that.”

“To hell with that part of my identity,” Étienne spat on the ground to emphasize his dislike of corruption, “It’s done nothing but make life harder for my populace.”

“I know,” Mac shrugged, “The minute I got money the gangs showed up too, making a killing on my people by killing them with drugs, but you can’t control their decisions, just live at their whims. Hence, work hard play hard. Speaking of which, you have quite the reputation.”

“Oh?” Étienne responded a little guardedly, not sure which aspect of his reputation was about to be brought up.

“Mmhm, heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, well, Chucks mouth…”

“Which was?”

“You are even worse at cooking than I am!” Mac laughed, “He was telling me some of the disasters, trying to make me feel better when I wasn’t feelin’ so hot a few years back, I was glumly laying on his couch feeling like some sorta cripple, and I had managed to burn the toast beyond recognition, so he just sat there regaling me with all the fuckups you did, really cheered me up.”

“You’re… welcome?” Étienne was torn between bemused and embarrassed. Perhaps a little surprised, that instead of his loose morals being brought up it was some innocent topic about something everyone should know, but only those who actually paid him any damn attention knew.

“Eh well, with how he speaks about you, figured you can’t be that bad, even if we do disagree on how to fuel an economy,” he paused to stub the cigarette out under his shoe, and looked directly at Étienne, “so even if we may disagree as to the runnings of things, think we could make a try and be friends?”

“You make it sound like this will be a long-term commitment,” Étienne joked, charmed at how forthright Mac was being.

“Well, if we do it right, it will be,” Mac winked, “Hell, we should be getting back, my stomach is rumbling, the meat must be cooked.”

“How do you know if it’s cooked?” Étienne asked curiously.

Slowly, as if by magic, Mac lifted his wrist, revealing an expensive, but slightly battered, watch, “I kept my eye on the time, well, honestly, easy enough to track it by the sun, but watches are nice too.”

Turning down the block, Étienne realized that they were not retracing their previous route. “Isn’t this the wrong way?”

“No, it turns down there, and we gets back a different way, retracing steps not quite my thing, do that too much at work,” Mac made a face, “when I can, I try to avoid repetition.”

“I can understand that,” Étienne said, as he enjoyed the shade of the trees along the boulevard. The older neighbourhoods were some of his favourite, they had enough time to feel more settled, to have trees larger than a sapling to provide a canopy in the heat of the summer. Patches ahead of them rambled on, stopping now and then to sniff at something, before bounding back for a pet, and then forward again. “How long have you had Patches?”

“He’s about seven, a rescue,” Mac shrugged, “Best to give a chance to the life already livin’ than buying one not yet made eh?”

It took a moment for Étienne to process what he meant, and he nodded, “That works.”

“Plus he’s a great dog, even if sometimes he gets into a spot of trouble, can’t have a better best friend honestly, do you have a pet?”

“I have a stray cat I feed sometimes,” Étienne shrugged, “I don’t think that counts.”

“Careful there, if you give a stray too much attention they adopt you,” Mac teased as he turned down the back alley.

“I would like to see it try,” Étienne responded with some amusement, the scent of the food being cooked on the BBQ floating up to them. Without a word their pace quickened, as if in some sort of silent agreement they had decided that the faster they returned to the house the better.

“So, do you like the house?”

“Yes, it’s quite energy efficient,” Étienne absently responded.

“Yeah, it was sort of what inspired Caroline to get me and Brisebois to start up the business, sort of our kickoff project, and boy, Chuck was a terrible client, really bossed us about what he wanted concerning his little nest there,” Mac lifted the latch on the back gate, and opened it, allowing Patches to enter first, and then Étienne before he followed.

Patches bounded up towards the hens, which had been briefly napping in the shade, giving a booming bark. Étienne panicked, the dog was ten times larger than the hens, what if he ate them? Mary-Anne let out a squawk and ran away, which only inspired Patches to chase after her, snapping playfully. Not comprehending that no one was running to her defence, Étienne jumped into action, quickly rushing forward and scooping Mary-Anne out of harm’s way, only to have her frantically flap her wings in his face, and then out of his grip, drifting to the ground next to Henrietta. Patches thinking that Étienne was joining in the game barked joyfully, tail wagging like mad, before turning back to the chickens, barking at them.

Out from the far corner, like a freight train, Esther arrived to defend her distressed mates, giving a loud threatening growl. Patches’ ears flattened down, and he lowered his head, and sunk down onto his front paws, allowing Esther to give him a smart peck on the nose, and scold him into silence.

Confused, Étienne looked at the scene, with Henrietta and Mary-Anne acting as if nothing had happened as they primly pecked on the ground, then back to Esther, satisfied with her scolding, who turned her evil eye upon him.

“Wha-?” he turned towards Mac, who was failing to suppress his laughter, and then to the people on the patio, Calvin, spatula in hand, a wide grin on his face, and Edward, who had been setting out the condiments, face screwed up in silent laughter, and then, he finally looked at the source of the loudest source of laughter- Caroline, hands holding a lidded dish, laughing fit to burst.

Managing to get some speech out, between some guffaws, Mac finally said, “Patches ain’t got shit on Esther, she’s the boss and everyone knows it.” This was all he managed to get out, as he gave Étienne a hearty backslap, before proceeding towards the patio.

Feeling extremely embarrassed, Étienne took a step forward, only to be met with a loud squawk. Looking down, he realized Esther had moved in front of him, and was flapping her wings, giving him a look. Confused, he looked up towards Edward, probably the only one who could interpret what she wanted.

“Pick her up,” Edward advised, “she wants to be snuggled.”

“Hell no,” Étienne responded, “Don’t you remember when-”

Impatient, Esther pecked at his foot and let out another squawk. With a sigh, he bent down and awkwardly picked her up.

“Hold her closer to your chest,” came the instructions, which Étienne followed.

Preening for a moment, Esther settled against his chest and closed her eyes, Étienne awkwardly stood there, until Ed informed him that he was allowed to walk and hold a chicken at the same time. Slowly he shuffled forward, and slowly up the stairs, every now and then shooting Edward a “help me” look. Wiping his hands on his apron, Edward smiled, and shook his head, “She’s yours now, Étienne, you’re going to have to hold her till she is satisfied.”

“But I want to eat food!” Étienne exclaimed, as he slowly sat in one of the chairs.

“Hmmm that is an issue,” Edward said in a playful tone, looking towards Calvin, “Do you think our guest deserves some food?”

Crinkling is brow as if in thought, Calvin said, “Well….”

“Hell, just feed him, Eddy,” Caroline suggested as she opened up the butter dish, “It’s your chicken.”

“I- what-” Edward begun in confusion, looking at her.

“What she means is,” Mac patiently mansplained, “If Étienne has to pet Esther there, you gotta feed him.”

“Yeah,” Caroline nodded.

“Corn is ready,” Calvin announced, placing them onto a plate.

Mac and Caroline helped themselves, and after a moment, Edward put the corn holders onto the corn, and added the butter, before sitting next to Étienne.

“This is really good corn from Taber, it’s known to be sweet and this is the best time to eat it, fresh from the farm,” Edward was explaining, as he held it out in front of Étienne’s face, apparently deciding that he did in fact need to feed him.

Leaning forward, Étienne took a bite of the corn, butter dripping down his chin as the sweet grain opened up in a flavourful burst in his mouth, he wanted another bite. Unfortunately, Esther had perked up to the corn nearby, and as he went to take another bite, her head appeared in view, scaring Edward, who accidentally dropped the corn onto the ground, which was leapt upon by Esther in a triumphant gesture, who quickly began to gobble it up.

A moment was taken, as they processed the scene, and then, giving a snort, Ed gave Étienne a rueful look, and carefully joked, “Taber-nac, eh?”

“Oh my god,” Étienne snorted, and began to laugh, “That’s terrible.”

“I know I know, but it means I can eat now,” Edward stood up, “You should wash your hands, petting chickens is not always the cleanest.”

“Yes sir,” Étienne said as he stood up, “So long as you guys save me some of that delicious corn.”

“And elk,” Mac added between a mouthful of corn.

“And elk,” Étienne said as he went into the house to wash up.

When he came outside again, he was met with the unpleasant visage of the neighbour that tried to kill him before chatting to Calvin over the fence.

As he settled down with a full plate, he caught drifts of the conversation, deciding that it was better not to engage.

“You serious? You said this started at three!” Edith’s voice penetrated the yard, and Étienne looked to see her rounding onto the patio, pie in hand, looking irritated.

“Sorry, they showed up early,” Edward apologized.

“You better have saved me some corn, otherwise none of y’all are going to get my Flapper pie.”

“Corn has been saved,” Calvin reassured, turning away from his conversation with the neighbour, which seemed to have ended anyway.

Setting the pie onto the table, Edith grabbed herself a plate and stood pointedly next to Calvin, who filled it up, and sat down across from Étienne.

“You could have texted me,” she was still complaining to Edward, “You always do this, just assume I just know the change in plans.”

“Sorry,” Edward apologized again, “I figured you were coming here soon anyway-“

“Warm elk isn’t as good as freshly cooked elk,” she scolded.

Étienne looked over to Calvin, who was powering down the grill, as he came to join them and poured all the toppings possible onto his elk, scooping the cheesey mashed potatoes onto his plate, and digging in.

“Edith, is that a new tattoo on your sleeve?” Caroline’s voice interrupted the scolding, and Edith was having a favourable response to this, allowing the tension to easily dissipate. Instead of being on the sidelines, Étienne found himself drawn into the conversation, discussing favourite tattoo artists with the two women, and getting into a heated argument with Edith over which artist had the best lacing technique.

It was a surprise when his fork hit empty plate, when suddenly the Flapper pie was being served out, the conversations once more changing and turning in the comfortable atmosphere, Edward deep in talk with Mac, about something Étienne had no clue about, but it seemed business related.

As he looked towards Calvin, who was trying to defend the cowboy boot sandal to Edith, Étienne found himself being engaged by Caroline on a different topic, unable to be neglected in this small group. A small part of him was jealous, jealous that at home, it was not as easy as this to get along with his family.

[pinkrae]

Teen Titans: The Judas Contract [review]

So, me and my boyfriend watched the latest DC animated movie Teen Titans: The Judas Contract and I’d like to give my opinion on it. For those, who want to avoid spoilers, I’ll give a quick general opinion of the movie itself and will go in further detail under a read more.

VVV SPOILER FREE [aka, short version] VVV

In general, I liked the movie. It was fun to watch and had good fight scenes that left you at the edge of the seat at times. Add a bit of dirty humor and character development in it and the movie is more than enjoyable, with a few minor Nope moments. But even those didn’t ruin the movie for me, as I am a big huge fan of Teen Titans and I just love seeing them finally getting proper treatment in contrast to that hellspawn of a crap show that is TTGO. Plus, we got to see some pretty awesome characters that need more screentime! 

Overall, I’d say that plot-wise DC stayed as true as possible to the source material, and any fan that loved the original Teen Titans series and the comic that the movie was based on would really like it. And not just that, I’m sure new fans that aren’t familiar with the Judas Contract would be into it as well, even if just to see the amazing assortment of characters they’ve put in. I know I loved it. A lot. But again, I just really love seeing my bbies on the screens again and I’d watch and love anything DC’s giving me. xD 

So, all in all, I recommend the movie, absolutely. But for a more in-depth comment, click below. BEWARE though, it’s super long. ;D

VVV SPOILERS AHEAD [aka, SUPER LONGASS version] VVV

First of all, a flashback of the sorta original team meeting Starfire at the very beginning of the movie. Even for a fan, who would kill to see every single one of the Teen Titans characters on screen, I sort of felt that this scene was just a tad unnecessary, as it had no real relation to the movie itself, other than to just show Starfire’s origin (as well as a shot of Kory’s butt and a DickKory kiss that they obviously couldn’t live without). On the other hand, however, I get what DC’s doing. If you’ve seen previous animated movies, such as Son of Batman and Justice League vs. Teen Titans, you already know the origin of Damian and Raven, which is a really cool sneak peek for those, who don’t read comics or are not familiar with these particular characters. And now in this movie we received a glimpse of Starfire’s origin, plus, as we later on see - flashes of Terra’s past as well. And Jaime’s family gets an appearance, too, so all we really need now is to look a bit into Gar’s past and we’re good. So for me, the first scene was a 50/50. On one hand, it felt rushed and non-relevant to the story, but on the other hand it’s cool to see DC providing a bit of character background to those, who may be new to this fandom.

Next up - Dick and Kory. Not my favorite ship in the world, but hey, it’s canon, what can you do. And DC finally revealed more than just throwing not-so-subtle hints as they did in the previous movie. Also, all the dirty jokes - priceless. Really good for a laugh, definitely. It was nice seeing them working as a team and building their relationship at the same time. And, well, it was nice to see Dick in general. I’m always excited to see him around.

Then the team itself. Damian. Always refreshing to see his butt kicked. xD Don’t get me wrong, I adore Damian and his snarky attitude, but I’m glad that the movie didn’t focus on him as much as in other movies featuring this batkid. He got beaten and removed from quite a big part of the movie, which was both kinda disappointing because it’s Damian, but at the same time I can’t entirely say I minded it.  Raven. We didn’t get to see a whole lot of her, which is kinda understandable since the movie was expected to focus on other characters, but hey, there’s no such thing for me as too much Raven screentime. c: What we did get to see, however, was sorta of an aftermath of the previous movie about how she gets along with her trapped father that she’s always carrying with her in the form of the gem on her forehead. That was a neat little nuance that I enjoyed a lot. Also, although it doesn’t seem so at first, it looks like her friendship with Damian is still going pretty strong, so the bond that they created in TT vs. JL wasn’t forgotten, which I have a lot of respect for.  Blue Beetle. As my boyfriend would say: “He’s not the jerk they made him out to be in the last movie”. xD And yeah, it was super cool to see a lot of character development specifically for Jaime (which is a tiny bit weird, since, again, the movie’s expected to focus on other characters). We get to meet his family (and, spoiler alert, at the end of the movie he gets to see them too~), his struggles and how he tries to deal with them. It was absolutely amazing. Beast Boy. As always, we got to see a lot of sides of this lil’ green bean. As the social butterfly that he is, it made a lot of sense that he’d be on social media, post pictures and count followers etc. Although I would’ve liked to have seen it in the previous movie as well (since, as we see in the flashback at the beginning, he’s been on social media for quite a while), it was a nice addition to his character here. And while he’s forever with a smile on his face, his interactions with Terra changed from humorous ‘trying-to-impress’ sort of style to a deep understanding of each other (even if Terra didn’t want to admit it and never would), creating a great character development for Gar, especially after her death. Terra. A part of me didn’t entirely like her.. behavior in the movie. Probably because of the influence of the Teen Titans series’ Terra, who was always bubbly and cheerful among the teen titans. This Terra was suspicious from the very beginning and she had already been on the team for a whole year. You’d think that a person would be able to show more genuine happiness over such a long course of time. But no. Not Terra. So that bothered me a little. But other than that - her design was closer to her comic counterpart and I loved that the most about her. 

NOPE moments:

Slade and Terra. Man. I know and I understand that it’s kinda a canon thing, but oh boy was it cringy to watch. I wish they hadn’t shown that, but I get it that it was her entire motivation to be on this mission in the first place. As creepy as it may be.  Terra’s look in the last parts of the movie?? Dafuq happened with her? Like, why the sudden change? I get that it was the end of her mission and she could return to Slade (*gags*) and everything, but why the fuck did she have to cut her short hair even shorter and pierce her ears?? Also the dark lipstick. Was that supposed to be like a rebel kind of thing? If so, it was really misplaced and out of the blue. So unnecessary. Just no. 

CONFUSION moments:

AKA - DC, are you sure you have your timelines in check??

So. The thing that me and my boyfriend spend too much time talking about is, first of all, the actual age of the teen titans. Because that has never ever been mentioned anywhere. At all. I’ve checked so many sources and come up with nothing. No information or whatsoever. That’s why a lot of things confused us. For example, if Gar was a Teen Titan 5 years ago already, how old is he really? How old is anyone, for that matter? Well, the eldest ones there are obviously Starfire and Dick, so technically Gar should be around that age as well, unless he was suuuper young when he started out in the TT.  But the biggest issue was the timeline itself, as pointed out by my boyfriend. Five years ago they met Starfire. And in the movie Terra celebrated her 1 year anniversary since joining the team, aka, it’s been 1 year since the previous movie. So that makes it that Starfire came to Earth 4 years before Justice League vs. Teen Titans. SO. What the fuck? xD This means that from then on out, in the span of only 4 years, Dick, first of all, went from Robin to Nightwing (which, we all know didin’t happen right after Star came to Earth), then they had to have gone through the Jason!Robin time and Tim!Robin time before they even got to Damian!Robin. And even if Jason and Tim weren’t part of the Teen Titans in this universe, they’re still there. They exist. And they didn’t come to be in just 4 years, that’s crazy. So it just makes me wonder - what the hell did DC do to Jason and Tim? Well, we have seen Jason in the 2010 Batman: Under the Red Hood, but they seem to have thrown Tim out of the equation all together and it just makes me really sad. And it’s confusing asf, too.

Well, to end this review on a positive note: YAY FOR DONNA AND JERICHO.

In the last scenes of the movie we see Donna Troy getting the hang of her flight ability and in the after credits scene we clearly see Jericho and that earned quite a few squeals from the both of us. :D I’m a little confused about Jericho’s age here, though, but hey, it’s all confusing when it comes to ages here >.> All I can hope for some RaeJeri bonding in the future~ C: This ending definitely left me wanting more. And I just can’t wait to see what comes next. I WANT MORE. Even despite all the confusion, I really love this DC animated universe. It needs to be more thought-through in terms of time, sure, but I still love it. I genuinely enjoy it and can’t get enough of it. And I wish we get many more Teen Titans movies because they deserve it! The Teen Titans deserve all the love and they definitely need more of it. Go watch the movies. All of them. Seriously.

[shewhowantsmouseears]

Love Like Lava, 7

Notes: As always, big thanks to my wonderful editors, Drucilla and BlueShifted!

See the light where the sky meets the sea, it calls me~ Hahaha, yeah, I'm amused that I chose a story that's deeply connected to the sea while Moana is a smash hit. But just how connected is Minnie and the others to the sea? You'll just have to see how far I'll go ;)

I'd like to thank some extra people for this chapter - my pals known as Zumi, Greta, LoneWolfPrincess, and Tsa. These duck fanatics really encouraged me to make this feathery chapter.

Summary: Legend says that Hades kidnapped Persephone to be his bride. But now Minnie will learn the truth from the victim's own mouth - if she is a victim at all.

As much as Minnie wanted to devote every single second she had to learning about Mickey, she didn't want to neglect time with her dear friends. So on this crisp windy day as Daisy encouraged Minnie to follow her, holding her hand as they moved around thin trees and ignored wildlife. Of course, that didn't stop Minnie from speaking of Mickey, Mickey, Mickey - amazing Mickey, handsome Mickey, Mickey who loved his family and protected them with his words. Daisy could barely get a word in otherwise, but she found the puppy-love charming. Besides, Minnie was still new to many ways of the world, including the emotion she was supposedly in charge of. Maybe she'd calm down once she was used to it, so Daisy told herself.

When Daisy noticed Minnie pausing in her words, trying to exactly describe the adorable way Mickey's tongue stuck out when he worked on something that required delicate patience, she seized the chance to speak. “Today's going to be a special day for you and I.”

It did the trick and Minnie was instantly distracted, blinking rapidly to remind herself that, oh yeah, they were walking towards something instead of aimlessly wandering. “Huh? Why is that?”

“One way or another, you've become my friend, so you're going to have a privilege very few gods or goddesses know of.” Her beak tilted upwards, pride shown in boastful sunflowers trailing through her hair. “I know I can trust you not to tell anyone else, without my explicit permission.” She had a feeling that Minnie would try to get said permission to tell Mickey.

“What is it, what is it?” Minnie inched up closer to her friend, holding her entire arm in anticipation. “I won't tell a single soul, I promise!” A pause as Daisy awaited the expected. “Unless you'd say it's okay to tell Mickey. But I won't even tell him if you say no.”

“Good girl,” Daisy chuckled, a little embarrassed at how easily Minnie could push a smile onto Daisy's face. Daisy had distrusted others for so long that to have someone so casually take up a spot in her heart was confusing. She wanted to believe it was Minnie's sunny personality that won her over, but there was always that nagging worry far in the back of her mind – that perhaps Minnie was so beautiful, or that just by being the goddess of love, you had no choice except to love her. That worrisome thought was a smidgen louder today, in that only one other person knew of what she would show Minnie. “Watch your step, the shore is pretty steep here.”

“Shore?” Minnie slowed down their walk as their feet hit the sand. Daisy had said time and time again that coincidences didn't truly exist, and now Minnie was starting to believe it. Over and over Minnie found herself back at the sea – it was where she had emerged, where Goofy had lost his lady fair, where she learned of Mickey's existence and soon after discovered Mickey herself. Was there a deeper connection hiding in the waves? She almost didn't hear Daisy call after her – the demi-goddess of plants had let go of her hand to heartily run towards the water, and there was the special surprise.

Minnie was expecting something a bit more grand than a weathered old sailboat that sat halfway in the sand. There wasn't even a port for it to dock, and it lay wedged into the sand.Age hadn't been kind to this boat, with worn out sides and chipped white paint. The sails had been ripped and sewn back together more times than anyone could count, with different colors showing that the original cloth was long since gone. Yet Daisy raced toward it as if it was a beautiful treasure, running her hands along the bow as a noble woman would touch fine silk. “This is my most prized possession,” Daisy declared, turning around with her hands on her hips. “Mine and Donald's! And only you get to see it.”

“It's...got a lot of history.” It was the only compliment Minnie could conceive at the moment. If it was owned by divine beings, why was it in such shoddy shape? She knocked a tiny fist against the hull. “Which one of you made it?”

“Neither of us did,” Daisy said as she took Minnie by the shoulders and pushed her up the tiny ladder on the back. “This is a mortal-made ship. Donald bought it long ago under the guise of a mortal. He leaves it here for me so I can go sailing whenever I want. Now, sit there and wait!”

“Wait for what?” Minnie didn't get an answer as Daisy began to push and shove the boat – inch by inch, it began to retreat back into the water. Once it was submerged, Daisy jumped onto the ladder, and once she was inside her hands worked on pulleys and ropes to make the different parts of the boat move to her command. Minnie's skepticism vanished and was replaced by the awe of the boat's mechanisms and Daisy's mastery of the sails. The wind blew into the cloth, and the boat slowly began to move off into the distance, leaving a gradual wake behind. “We're moving!” Minnie squealed with delight, moving to dip her hands in the cold water as they continued to sail on.

The boat was very small, and probably wouldn't have been able to handle another two on its deck. It clearly wasn't meant for great voyages and heroic trips with adventure. It simply moved from one place to the next, but that was all the girls could ever want. Soon the sandy shore was but a glimpse on the horizon, and they were alone on the water, the wind in their hair. Daisy inhaled deeply, the salty scent of the sea finer than any fragrance. “The ocean is never the same each time you come to it,” she said, slowing down her furious activity now that the boat was capable of going ahead on its own. “And that's what we love about it. On Mount Olympus, things are never changing, and as gods, sometimes we don't change for centuries. But each time we wade into the water, there is something new to see. The fish will always move to a different place, and the sun will greet you in a different direction. Do you understand?”

Minnie did, or at last she thought she did. What she understood most of all was that Daisy deeply and truly loved her friend – this wasn't a rehearsed speech, but one made of passion, where she wanted Minnie involved her world. Minnie couldn't stop smiling, resisting the urge to hug her companion – she feared doing so would send them both into the water. “You know, I heard a man named Poseidon is in charge of the sea,” she brought up. “With the way you and Donald love it, maybe he should've been in charge instead.”

Daisy had her back to Minnie, but her shoulders lowered, and muscles began to clench up. “Yeah...if all was right and fair in the world, Donald would be the god of the ocean. That was all he wanted when they were playing for their roles.” Daisy knew Minnie would ask, and Minnie knew Daisy knew, so she didn't even bother asking and merely waited for the answer. “Centuries ago, Zeus, Poseidon, and Donald took down their tyrant of a father in order to free the world. Funny enough, he'd done the same to his father. I bet Zeus crosses his fingers every day hoping it won't be his turn next.” She shook her head to return to the subject at hand. “With him gone, there were three important roles to fill -  ruler of the sea, ruler of the dead, and ruler of the gods. They didn't want to fight over it, so they left it to a game of dice.” A bitter chuckle. “To this day, I still believe they rigged it so Donald would have the one position the other two didn't want.”

Daisy began to turn around, and for once she seemed to be her true age, a worn down woman of decades long since past. “We all have our place in this world, but it shouldn't be decided for us. I worry about you a lot, Minnie. You had your titles thrust upon you, and you still don't even know where you came from, do you?”

Minnie slowly shook her head no. “The first memory I have is stepping out of that sea shell. There's nothing else.” By now she'd understood it made no sense, and that everyone came from somewhere. Yet she never bothered asking anyone upon Mount Olympus for answers, knowing that would be a fruitless endeavor.

“And you have those weeds-for-brains up on the mountain thinking you're everyone's girlfriend.” Daisy snorted, pacing up and down the ship's center. “You've been the biggest change they've had in years, and I fear for your future because of that.” She stopped, arms crossed, looking out on the still water. “I want to tell you a story, Minnie. You've probably already heard their version of it – how 'Hades' kidnapped me and now forces me to stay with him for half a year. I imagine to them it makes perfect sense. But that's not even remotely what happened.”

~*~

I guess the easiest place to begin this with would be about my mother, Demeter. She's the official goddess of plants, and you should see her work. Compared to her towering forests, I'm like a dandelion seed. She was one of the most beautiful and powerful goddesses on Mount Olympus, and all the men wanted a chance with her, Zeus included, and she let herself have some fun flings. But when she did fall in love, it was with a mortal man.

Now, it's not forbidden for gods and mortals to, well, enjoy each other's company. Zeus does it almost every day. But it's pretty much a bad idea to actually fall in love with one of them. Their life spans are incredibly small, especially compared to people like us who never age or die. Mother said she could handle it when he inevitably passed. Spoiler – she didn't. And it didn't help that he didn't even die of old age. A bunch of robbers broke into his place and killed him. Don't bother looking for tears on me, Minnie, I was still in the womb when this happened. I never knew the man.

Anyway, with him dead, Mother went nuts. First she blamed Donald, accusing him of taking away her husband on purpose because he was jealous of her happiness. Let me tell you right now, not only would Donald never kill anyone, he can't. He doesn't actually control death, he just keeps things organized in the Underworld. Every now and then he can try to bargain with the Sisters of Fate to keep someone alive longer, but it's always a risky gamble and never a guarantee. Not to mention Donald rarely visited the mountain in the first place. Not only does his work keep him busy, but they all treat him like a pariah. They assumed that because of his role, he must be gloomy and scary and depressing. They still assume that today.

Moving on. Out I came, and Mother went into full panic mode. She was afraid of losing me too, and never let me out of her sight. When I say never, Minnie, I mean never. For years I was forbidden to leave Mount Olympus, and I was like you for a while. I didn't know anything and no one bothered to tell me anything except what they thought was important. That's when I first learned about “Hades”, and all the stories about him. Like how he “laughed like a madman” when the dice rolled his way, and how he “stalks the souls of the living”, eager to have them die. I believed it all. Why wouldn't I, when no one would tell me different?

You know how dull Mount Olympus is. I was bored to tears, but I couldn't leave my mother's side. She decided what I ate, what I wore, even how I was supposed to sit on my throne. Then one day, she got this crazy notion that if I married one of the gods up there, I'd always be safe even when we wouldn't be together. I hated the idea, but my opinion meant squat. It was also a blessing in disguise, though, because while she was interviewing other gods to see who was worthy enough for my hand, it meant a chance to escape. So I headed right for the mortal plane, and just like you, I went wherever I felt like, learning everything I could.

Eventually I found that exact same shore you and I were just on. I saw this boat and thought it was absolute junk. I would have moved on, but that's when I saw a good looking guy – who I thought was a mortal - wrestling with the sailing rope, unable to undo a knot. Being the generous soul that I am, I offered to help him.

~*~

“HAHAHAHAHA! WHAT KIND OF MORON DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO UNDO A KNOT?!” Daisy “forgot” to mention that being under Demeter's demented eye left her a tad spoiled. So her snotty superior attitude had her howling in laughter at Donald's failed attempt, and doubly so when Donald was so startled he fell into the water.

If he wasn't flapping around in the water, Donald would have unwillingly poofed into his smoky form, but for now his temper wasn't as hot as it could have been. “Who're you calling a moron! I bet you don't know anything about sailing!”

“I'm pretty sure the first rule is not to go into the water!” Daisy cackled, holding her stomach due to how hard she was laughing.

“Why you doggone stubborn little...” Donald marched out of the water, squeezing what he could out of his robes. “I only have so much free time today, and I ain't gunna waste it listening to you giggling like a hyena! Sailing comes with all kinds of different knots! Why, I bet you don't even know what that is!” He indignantly pointed at what Daisy thought was just the boat itself.

“It's a boat, duh,” Daisy snorted as she tried to catch her breath.

“Name that part of the boat,” Donald demanded, still pointing, water dripping from his beak. For the record, it was the rudder.

“It's...the...boat part.” Oh, what did she care what some foolish mortal thought of her? She was born better than him anyway. “Whatever it is! It's a hideous thing anyway.”

“HEY! Nobody insults my baby and gets away with it!” “I JUST DID!”

“YOU THINK YOU'RE SO SMART?!” He was seconds away from poofing at this point, but a wicked idea saved him from unknowingly revealing himself. Donald was also under the impression that this was a mortal woman, and while he didn't care about the rules of superiority and inferiority, he did care when people of any race dared to abuse his pride and joy. He suddenly scooped Daisy up into his arms – ignoring her shrieks and kicks – and tossed her onto the boat. “There, let's see you sail!”

Daisy was on her feet in seconds, snapping Venus fly traps curling in her hair. Donald might've taken notice if he wasn't so pleased by her furious reply. “How dare you – do you have any idea who I am?!”

“Nope! Couldn't care less!” Donald grinned devilishly as he began to push the boat onto the water. “Go ahead, toots, try and make me pay for it – if you can get back here!”

“I – I will! And you'll be sorry!” Logically she could have teleported to his side and given him the walloping of a lifetime, but her dignity would be gone forever. How hard could sailing be? But now she was in the boat and actually looking at all the handles and pulleys and ropes, it was like staring into the jaws of a wild animal. She stuttered at a loss, aimlessly trying everything and getting nowhere fast. She wound up smacking herself with the boom, and getting tangled in the sails. “Get over here and help meee!” she whined, flailing her arms in a pathetic motion to free herself.

“Apologize to my baby and I'll help you!”

“I AM NOT APOLOGIZING TO YOUR CRUDDY UGLY BOAT!”

“THEN STAY THERE FOREVER, SEE IF I CARE!”

~*~

We didn't get off to a great start.

I got fed up and vanished back onto Mount Olympus, which was probably Donald's first clue that I wasn't mortal either. I told myself that being bored there was far better than dealing with a cranky, violent mortal. Mother hadn't noticed I was gone, though her candidates for marriage had narrowed down. As I stayed there, stewing over what had happened, I told myself that I could learn more about boats and prove myself better than that silly man with a weird voice. That was about the time I borrowed Mother's Viewing Mirror, and she never bothered to ask why I even wanted it. I had to admit, mortals could be really interesting. I told myself I was only looking to upset that man, and once I had accomplished my task, I'd never look again. But let's face it, compared to the same old parties up there, the eternally changing mortal plane was a book you could never put down.

The next time around I pushed my mother to distraction, asking her to make positively sure that Apollo was a worthy man for me. She was so delighted by me faking interest that she didn't even question it. So I headed back down to the same shore, but while the boat was there, he wasn't. Donald can't come up whenever he feels like it, he has to schedule time in advance. While I waited for him to make an appearance, I tried to test my newfound knowledge on his boat. But seeing someone else do it is worlds different than trying it for myself, and I wound up a mess all over again, tied up in ropes and sails without the boat ever leaving the sand. Even worse, he never showed up that day.

Day after day I waited for him, telling Mother about different gods that could be good protectors, even demi-gods from below or children Zeus had fathered. It was weeks before I finally saw him again, and I thought I was ready to show off my new skills.

~*~

“You didn't attach the tack to its shackle.”

“SHUT UP! I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!”

“Well, whenever you get done with that, you have to pull the outhaul-”

“I'LL GET TO IT WHEN I GET TO IT!”

“I'M TRYING TO HELP YOU!”

“WHO ASKED FOR YOUR HELP!?”

~*~

By then we were kinda sure each other was a god and goddess, otherwise we wouldn't have survived the bruising we gave one another. It made me feel a touch better knowing that I wasn't losing to a mortal, but it still stung all the same. I wanted him to know how great I was, to acknowledge me as his better. Each time I would return to Mount Olympus, I would get praised on how pretty I was, but it felt...hollow. Like I hadn't done anything worthy of their compliments except exist. They couldn't praise my powers, since they were obviously weaker than my mother's, so my looks were all I had. Yeah, you know how that feels, don't you, Minnie?

But I wasn't totally hopeless, and I did manage to get better.

~*~

“Watch your telltales. You're wasting energy like this, just let out the sail.”

“But if I do that, I'll have to let go, and you said to keep my hand steady!”

“I know what I said! Just – here, let me show you.”

“No! No! I can do it! I know I can do it.”

~*~

We wouldn't try to go anywhere in particular. Sometimes we'd just drift out onto the ocean and see the sun set. Other times we'd pass by mortal villages and watch fishermen take in their haul. Donald knew a lot of them by name, mostly because he knew their dead relatives, but I still didn't know “who” he was. It didn't really seem to matter. But in his head, he had his reasons not to tell me. If I'd known on day one that he was Hades, I would have run away screaming and never turned back. I told him easily enough that I was Persephone, that I was Daisy, that I was a useless daughter with no ambition save for a wedding ring.

~*~

After he heard that, Donald had taken her hand and turned the palm up. “It's a shame about the ambrosia,” he said, tsking. “Heals all of our wounds instantly, so you can't have the tough callouses the mortals have. They'd be proof enough that you've got more ambition than any of those lazy vagabonds up on the mountain.”

“Does that include all the bumps on my head I should've gotten every time the boom hit me? At that rate, I should've been the demi-goddess of concussions.” A tiny chuckle.

“C'mon, I mean it. There's nothing wrong with not having an exact goal right now.” The boat was smoothly passing between two cliffs, a creaky bridge far above them. The night was approaching and glitters of stars dotted the sky. The wind was dying down for now, and they felt safe enough to sit. “One man might think he'll grow up to be a farmer, and becomes a soldier instead. Even gods and goddess should have the opportunity to at least look for what they want.”

Opportunity – what a foreign word. Daisy had thought that because she had the blood of a goddess flowing through her, that this was enough to justify her existence. But now she wasn't sure of a lot of things. She wanted worth in a different form, she wanted equality, and so many other things she never even knew existed before meeting Donald. She was quiet for a while. “I don't want to be like my mother, deciding things for someone else and being afraid of things we can't control.”

“Then don't be like her. Be yourself. It's not as hard as you think it is. If nobody else likes you as yourself, it doesn't matter as long as you like yourself.”

She glanced up at that. “Do you like yourself?”

“You're darn right I do.” He grinned in that egotistical way she'd come to find entertaining. “I do my job and I do it well, and I'm the best sailor in the whole wide world. And if someone doesn't like me, then they're not worth my time. It takes effort to know people, and laziness just to guess and dislike without a chance. And you, little lady, are not lazy.”

“... Donald?”

“Yeah?”

“You're still holding my hand.”

So he was. “Uh.” So he was still was. “Uhhh.” Still holding it. “I was – just – um – I was going to – to help you practice rigging the preventer!” This involved nearly squishing Daisy's hand to the boom and tying yet another intricate knot. As the blushing ducks debated whether to speak of whatever happened between them, peeking at each other and then pretending they hadn't, Donald made a deep decision. How was she to like him if he didn't tell her who he was? “Daisy, I'm not sure how to put this.”

“Hm.” Daisy was no longer naive about the world, including the many interests of men, and she wasn't exactly objecting to the idea of being Donald's interest. With the knot completed, she rolled her shoulders, coyly fluttering her eyelashes. “I'm listening.” As she began to twirl hair around her finger, a red rose dropping petals tangled in her hands, she expected a confession of how jaw-droppingly gorgeous he found her and he needed her every night and day. She was still a bit spoiled.

But instead of satiating Daisy's fantastic ego, Donald rubbed his knuckles, avoiding her intense gaze. “What do you know about the god Hades?”

Daisy blinked slowly, the candle of lust promptly snuffed out. How disappointing. “That he's some creep who rules the Underworld and kills little children because their mother's cry is music to his ears?”

“Oh, come on.” Donald slapped an open hand to his face, pulling it down hard.

“So what?” Daisy was about to drop her sleeve in an attempt for Donald to focus on something far more gratifying. “What does that monster have to do with you and me right now? It's got nothing to - ” But for all of Daisy's faults, and there were a great number of them, stupidity wasn't among them. Her hand froze as she understood exactly why he asked, and why he now looked so crestfallen, his entire body sagging. In that moment Daisy recalled every horrifying story she'd ever been told about Hades, most of them by her devastated mother. A beast, a merciless creature, a demon who relished in pain and suffering.

But a demon who relished in pain and suffering wouldn't have held her hand so tenderly.

“I don't – I don't care,” she blurted out, rising to her feet so fast that the boat began to wobble.

“Daisy, be careful!” “I don't care!” she shouted louder this time, hands rolled into fists, her eyes feeling hot. “I don't care what they say about you on Mount Olympus, because – because it can't be true, none of it's true! I know who you are, they don't!”

Color flooded Donald's white cheeks, but he tried to hold off her compassion, his hands out and ready to steady her if she tipped over. “It's more than that, Daisy! Once your mother and everyone finds out I've been spending time with you, they'll treat you like dirt too!”

“I don't care!”

“They'll say bad things about you too, and they'll trample all over you!”

“I don't care!”

“Daisy, you don't understand, they-”

“I SAID I DON'T CARE, YOU MORON, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!”

“I'M TRYING TO HELP YOU OUT, YOU OBNOXIOUS BRAT!”

~*~

And that was the first time we made out. It was totally worth falling off of the boat. Anyway, it was obvious to me that once Donald took up ruling the Underworld, his family abandoned him. Despite all he'd done to help overthrow his father, they treated Donald like he was unworthy just because of a pair of dice. Yet despite all that, he was kind and caring and he helped me. How could you not fall in love with someone who wouldn't let centuries of hate and gossip destroy his good heart?

But I was spending so much time with Donald that I had long since stopped paying attention to what was happening on Mount Olympus. If you'll remember, I said that Mother was trying to get me hitched and I had pretended to be interested. I thought maybe she'd be so picky and fearful that she'd never settle on whoever would be my husband, and boy was I wrong. Not too long after Donald and I told each other how we felt, Mother dropped the bombshell – she approved of Apollo, and we were to be married.

Gladstone, right? I don't have to tell you that guy's annoying with a big fat UGH. Of course I said no, and I followed it up with that I didn't want to marry anyone. Mother said that it was for my own good, and that I couldn't possibly know what I wanted, that she knew me better than I knew myself. This from a woman who didn't realize her daughter was gone for weeks! It turned into a screaming match the likes of Mount Olympus had never heard before. The complaints poured in, and all the other gods and goddesses couldn't understand “what the big deal was”. Why not just marry Apollo and sit prettily by his side for the rest of eternity? No one was my ally, and surrounded by all sides by people who didn't care what I said to say, I knew I'd be forced into marriage. No amount of begging, pleading, or crying would get them to change their minds. So I did the only thing I could think of – I ran back to the mortal plane.

With all those eyes looking for me, I knew it wouldn't be long before I was found and forcibly dragged back. I ran to the only place I knew I could be comforted – Donald's shore, and mercifully there he was. I told him what was happening, and as far as I knew this was going to be goodbye. I'm amazed he understood a word I was saying through all of my sobbing. There was nowhere on the mortal plane I could hide that Mother wouldn't be able to find me, now that she was actually trying. I didn't want to let go of Donald, and he didn't want to let go of me. I guess that's what gave him the idea, though he told me after that it was a spur of the moment deal.

When I opened my eyes, the two of us were in the Underworld.

Is it dank and dreary? Kind of, yeah. It's an endless cavern lit by candles that never go out, and a green river flows through it, carrying floating islands filled with the dead. But they're actually really cheerful down there, reunited with their friends and family, getting to be whatever age they please at that moment. They share stories of their lives, and await those they miss most. But back to me. Donald instantly began apologizing, saying this was the only place he could think of to buy me some time while I thought of what to do. You have to give him credit – it was exactly the one place no one thought to look.

I was shocked at first, but compared to what was about to happen to me up above? This was paradise. Maybe if I stayed down here long enough, Mother would cancel the marriage and I could return to the surface and sail with Donald. Until then, I didn't mind staying there. It's really quite cozy once you get used to the place. He's got this adorable three-headed dog who is the sweetest thing, just expect three times the slobber when he licks you. The Sisters of Fate aren't exactly pleasant company, but they do know how to weave a good story. The dead were always delighted to have more company, and I got to see Donald at the role that “destiny” supposedly gave him.

And he does a dang good job. He makes sure no spirits escape, even if he has to grab them himself and yank them down. He helps the lost lovers find one another, and has even conducted a few marriages where everyone is invited. When little children who come there far too early have to wait for their parents, he plays with them and keeps them from crying. He told me he'd like little ones of his own someday – he has no confidence about himself as a father, but maybe as an uncle, with a gang of nephews to call his own.

I missed the sunshine and the sea, but I was allowed to talk to whoever I wanted and actually got full conversations back. I could go wherever I wanted on the river Styx, teach Cerberus new tricks, examine the strings that the Sisters would tangle, but I was given one rule – I couldn't eat or drink anything while I was there. I found that out after Donald slapped a pomegranate out of my hand. Turns out the food and drink keeps the spirits there, and if they left they'd just dissolve into nothing. No one knew what would happen if any god ate one, Donald had never dared, and I wasn't in a hurry to find out.

Whenever new souls found their way into the Underworld, I was with Donald, wanting to see how he reacted to new families finding one another. He's not a huge romantic, but he knew when I needed his arms, and I could erase his stress with just one kiss. We were happy, and curse whoever says otherwise!  There were days I thought I would be content never to return to the surface so long as I had my Donald.  But the longer I stayed there, the sooner we noticed that a lot more souls were coming in than usual. When I say a lot, I mean dozens at a time, then more, then hundreds. At first we thought some giant war was spreading across Greece, but the souls told us that they'd starved to death. The less I go into detail the better.

Did I mention my Mother was nuts? This was nuts into overdrive. When she searched every inch of the world and found no trace of me, she got so upset she didn't do her job – she didn't command the plants to grow. In case you didn't know, mortals really need plants in order to live. No grass, no trees, no vegetables or fruits, nothing was growing and what remained was dying. Animals starved, and it followed that mortals starved too. Zeus tried to demand Demeter to restore things, but she refused, and because he has the spine of a jellyfish, he couldn't think of anything else to do except demand things in a slightly louder voice. It's not like he could kill her. With the ambrosia that flows in Mount Olympus, all of our wounds heal instantly.

When Donald and I realized what was going on, we knew I had to return to Mother's side before everything on the mortal plane died. I cried and ranted and pulled out my hair at how unfair it all was, how everything was suffering just because I didn't want to obey her ridiculous orders. But Donald, sweet Donald, he said he wouldn't force me to go. He left it up to me. Which, in a way, was almost worse. So I asked to have some time to say goodbye to everyone before I went back.

I also did something extra, but didn't tell Donald. He'd definitely have stopped me if he found out beforehand.

~*~

Donald had gone to Olympus first to try and explain things, but the moment he said that Daisy was in the Underworld, he was blamed by every single soul. Demeter screamed that Donald had kidnapped her daughter just to see her suffer even more, and everyone agreed that this was “obviously” what had happened. When Donald ultimately lost his temper and screamed right back, it only made the gods and goddesses more sure that he was a dangerous man who would steal everyone's children for his own desires.

When Daisy joined the group, a hand on her stomach, there was silence for five extremely long seconds. Given how the men and women were surrounding Donald, she could tell right away that things had gone from bad to worse. She tried to reach for Donald's hand, but was clasped into a tight embrace by Demeter.

“Oh, my precious Persephone!” Her fingers dug into her daughter, as if her limbs would protect her from Donald. “It's all right now! I won't ever let that awful man get near you again!”

“Awful? He's awful?” Daisy grabbed a fistful of her mother's hair, yanking her down so they were on eye level. “You let thousands die – you made them die! If you think I'm going to let you badmouth him after that murder tantrum you just threw, you've lost your mind!” Demeter tried to reason that they were merely mortals, but Daisy wasn't done, pushing her aside to snap and growl at the other immortals. “And all of you just let her do this! You all think you're so much better than mortals, but you...” Her rant was postposed as a sharp pain stabbed her stomach, and she hunch over, clenching her teeth. “You...All of you...What's the point of being so powerful, if all you do is just party and...”

“Daisy?” While Donald hadn't spent a lot of time in the presence of other gods and goddesses, even he knew that such sudden pain wasn't normal. He tried to reach for her, but Demeter violently slapped him away, screeching at him that this was his fault.

“Shut up, mother!” Daisy managed to hiss out while bent over, sweat dripping down her feathers. “He does the most important job in the whole wide world, and you all treat him like garbage! You...augh...” She held herself, her vision beginning to blur, yet she refused to stop speaking, needing her opinion heard even if it went ignored. “You...You don't even try to find the truth...You're just happy with whatever is easiest for you! I won't be like you! I won't stay here and...and turn into some empty-headed pawn! I won't let you control my future! I won't let you control me! I...Only I...get to...decide that...”

Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the floor, her breath sharpening. Donald yelled her name in horror, and he knelt down to scoop her up into his arms, begging her to know what happened. Demeter burst into terrified sobs, while the other gods and goddesses didn't dare move – what if whatever Daisy “caught” touched them? As tears began to roll down Donald's cheeks, he only now saw the fruit that spilled out of Daisy's robe – a pomegranate with a fresh bite mark. “What?! This is...” He snatched it up, squeezing it in hot anger and grief. “I told you! I told you not to eat anything! Why did you...You stupid, stupid brat!”

Daisy curled up in his embrace, smiling despite the agony her insides were writhing through. “Because...I finally...found a way...to like myself...” A hard gulp of air. “Some people fight...with swords and shields...this is...how I wanted...to fight...”

But now that the source of the sickness had been revealed, all was not lost. Hera wordlessly stood up from her throne, plucking one of the flowers that grew between the throne of her and her husband. It was possible she didn't know if this would work, and equally possible that she didn't mind if Daisy died right then and there. No one dared to ask Hera how her mind worked or what her motivations were that day. She knelt down, tilting the flower toward's Daisy's open mouth, and the ambrosia poured in.

Daisy's body bucked, thrashing in quiet torment, and hundreds of vines sprouted from her body, popping off flowers of all shapes and colors that died instantaneously. The process repeated again and again, until finally the vines slipped away, and Daisy was breathing normally, the fever gone from her face. A voice dared to speak up – Gladstone's. “Is...Is she going to be all right?”

“I-I don't know,” Donald confessed, helping his beloved sit up in his arms. “The seeds of the Underworld can't be digested and they will never go away. This might work for now, but...she might have to go back to the Underworld for a bit to recover.”

“I won't let you steal her again!” Demeter found her voice and her anger again, towering over Donald as she shook with fury. “She is a bride to be, not yours to take!”

“Yeaaaah. About that.” There came Gladstone again, raising his hand upward. “I've never had bad luck happen to me before, so I'm not entirely sure if this is it, but...I'd really rather not marry anyone who's been in the Underworld. She's been around dead people. Kinda gross. No offense, Persephone dear.”

“None taken,” Daisy replied groggily.

Demeter's face fell, and with her momentum stolen, she faced the other men, trying to gain their support. “Well, she...She'd still be an excellent bride! Any one of you can have her, I trust you!”

“No thanks,” said Mortimer.

“No way,” said Pete.

“It pains me to say this, but I must pass,” said Zeus, fully aware that Hera was glaring daggers at him. It followed that every male god on the mountain, including the visiting demi-gods and all other types of creatures and beasts visiting their favorite deity, politely declined marrying used goods.

With each rejection, Demeter's body appeared to shrink a little more, and she had no weaponry left except to lash out at Donald. “You! This is your fault! You planned this!”

“First off, lady, I am not that clever,” Donald growled as he wiped the tears from his face. “Second off, as much as you'd like to believe otherwise, I don't put people in harm's way to get what I want. Unlike some people. Now I am going to take her back to the Underworld so she can rest! And if you actually care about your daughter, or about anyone other than yourself, you won't cause another apocalypse!” With one last huff, he stood on his feet, cradling Daisy close to his chest. “Anything else you want to say to 'em before we head back?”

Daisy didn't have the words, but felt a long, wet raspberry would suffice.

~*~

So it turned out that I have to stay in the Underworld for a few months every year, or I'll get super sick all over again. And when that happens, Mother throws another tantrum, but at least it's shorter this time around, and since then, the mortals kind of see it coming and know what to do. That's what you can always count on mortals to do – adapt to change. They're really amazing that way. I've also made a vow to never return to Mount Olympus. It's got nothing I want up there.

Being a goddess is a bizarre thing, Minnie. Sometimes I think the mortals don't really need us at all. They'll always find ways to move on and survive on their own. They'll make bigger ships than this, faster ones, and they'll have this entire world in their hands. Maybe one day there will come a time when they forget all about us...and that might be for the best.  We shouldn't be allowed to decide their future or shape it in any way. The same goes for you and me.

You are unique, Minnie, in so many ways. We don't know where you came from, what you can do, or how the future will turn out. But don't you ever let anyone but you decide it. Not even Mickey. Whether you find your place in the world or you never do, it doesn't matter as long as you are happy with yourself. As long as you like yourself, no one has the right to tell you where to go and what to do. And if they try? You fight it in whatever way you can. I'll be by your side all the way.

~*~

“And you can stop hugging me now.” Daisy thought that sappy speech was embarrassing enough on its own, but of course Minnie had to make it worse by holding Daisy tightly from behind and almost tipping her over. “For goodness sake. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not dying anymore.”

“I know,” Minnie sniffled, deeply moved by the story told and the meanings behind it. “But I love you so much, my dear Daisy. I truly do. You're my best friend in the whole wide world.” She had not once believed that Donald had ever kidnapped Daisy, even long before she met the man for herself. The fact that they still perpetuated that lie angered her in a place deep within her soul, doubly so that they would never accept it even if Minnie said otherwise. It also told her that if anyone on the mountain ever found out what she was doing with Mickey, they'd twist and turn it into something disgusting and horrible to suit their own needs. They couldn't be trusted.

“Okay, but I can't steer the boat with you hugging me like this, and I have to return the boat to shore before Donald gets mad.” She reached to try and untangle Minnie's fingers from her stomach. “And I'll have to ask Donald for permission before you show the boat to Mickey.”

Minnie blinked, surprised, which allowed Daisy to safely push her off. “How did you know that's what I wanted to do next?”

“Because you're obsessed with that little weirdo, that's how.” A knowing flick to Minnie's black nose. “If my story didn't tip you off, that mouse must've never been to Mount Olympus, because he'd have drunk the ambrosia and never had his leg shaped that way. But whenever a god has a child, they're fully allowed to bring that kid to the mountain and have a drink of it. So whoever popped that kid out hasn't told a soul about him, and might not want anyone to know he exists.”

Minnie was about to ask why anyone wouldn't want to know about marvelous Mickey, but a thought changed her mind. “What if he came out of nowhere, just like me?” It would be another sign of how they were meant to be, so Minnie saw it.

“I'd normally say that's impossible, but with you, I suppose anything is now.” Daisy shrugged before heading to the bow of the ship. “A mystery falling in love with a mystery. It's very fitting.” With a roll of her shoulders, she set to steer the ship around. “Now, watch me do it. I'll teach you everything I know so you can sail away with Mickey into the sunset.”

“You can count on me, I'll have it all memorized!” Mickey matters aside, she was always eager to learn something new and Daisy was glad to teach. As they pulled ropes and measures sails, Daisy quietly hoped Donald would give them permission to show the boat to Mickey. As much as she loathed her mother's suffocating hold, there was pity to be had for Mickey, who had nothing and no one save for forgetful fish women. She hoped Minnie was right and that Mickey really did come from “nowhere”, so it meant he wasn't abandoned and forcefully forgotten.

Yet she recalled Donald's look when she first told him of Mickey, of his leg and his cave – a look of despair, of heartache and regret. She hadn't been able to needle the story out of him yet, but there definitely was a story there in the waiting. When would he speak of Mickey, and did she really want to hear it? What other disasters had those on Mount Olympus created?

Daisy's fingers found themselves on Minnie's shoulder, clenching her close in a protective hold. They would not cause Minnie pain, not if Daisy had anything to say about it. She would protect her friend.

But as they sailed around the cold waters, with Minnie's mind burning in a hundred new directions, Daisy had no idea that the one Minnie might need protection from was herself.