#will gallows hot confirmed

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Light on the Darkside - Chapter Fifteen.

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.

Words - 3,830

Warnings - 18+ throughout. Topics cover depression, suicide and eating disorders. Minors DNI!

Twenty-three years old. In truth, Ella hadn’t really known where she’d be the year before, her denial and then acceptance of the need to recover herself at the forefront of her mind. Where she found herself was in a position few women would turn down.  

“Oh, fuck, yes, yes, ahhhh!” Her gritted statement was delivered on a bliss filled cry, highly enjoying having her insides rearranged as she was shagged ragged from behind by her boyfriend. Slowing, he grasped her shoulders, pulling her until her back pressed against his chest, mouth laying hot kisses at the side of her neck as his hands roamed over her. 

It shined golden through her, every wave of ecstasy elicited by the slow, deep punch of his cock, one hand squeezing her breasts and sliding to hold her throat, the other moving between her legs to begin stroking at her clit. With every roll of his fingertips, he pulled soft wails from her, teeth nipping her neck, sending little bolts skittering through her.   

“So, how’s your birthday going so far, darlin’?” he panted, Ella turning her head with a big smile, kissing him with smouldering sin. 

“Could be a lot worse than getting pounded by a gorgeous, thick cock.”  

He hummed a chuckle against her lips, rutting her a little harder. “Yeah, ain’t you a lucky girl?” After he’d finished bouncing her around the bed, she had that confirmed even further, too.  

“Baby! No! You didn’t!” she screamed, her mouth dropping open, James’s grin widening at seeing how thrilled she was with her gift. He’d bought her favourite album by The Prodigy on vinyl for her, signed by all four members of the band.  

“I did. Knew you’d die as soon as you saw it, innit. Oh, and you might wanna look inside the sleeve.”  

Curious, she opened it up, her mouth falling open again after pulling out two tickets to go and see them live at Kentish Town Forum in London the following month. The tour had sold out before she’d had chance to get any, so how he’d managed it she didn’t know.  

“My BFG!” she cooed, moving to straddle his lap and kiss him. “You’re the best! Thank you so, so much!” 

“You’re welcome, little,” he hummed, kissing her again and tightening his arms around her. “And yeah, I’m coming with you to suffer the noise. Got us a hotel booked down there for the weekend and all that, too.”  

With his money from album sales running quite low, it was truly more than he could afford, but she was worth it. Besides, he could easily go and pick up some work somewhere around recording their new album come nine days from then, Steve already returned to doing doorman work at various clubs and bars around Warwickshire. He’d done it himself in the past at The Gallows, so supposed he could ask Steve’s boss to hook him up with a few hours. It meant losing weekends around shifts, but it paid very well.  

It was The Gallows they were heading to that evening for Ella’s birthday night out, James half expecting her to want to go to a club that played pounding dance music until dawn. Her revealed plans had been very different, though. He couldn’t say that it wasn’t to his relief.  

After the incident when she’d been grabbed at while dancing on a podium, it had made her feel uncomfortable about returning to her beloved dance scene again, Ella beginning to find herself much more at home on the metal scene. Even the music was beginning to grow on her. Plus, it was well known now wherever she went, exactly who she was; War’s girlfriend, and if there was one woman you didn’t grab out of fear of having your arse handed to you, well. It was her.  

Also, she found that the blokes on the rock and metal scene were much more appropriate, too. Despite the common reputation of being uncouth hellions, she definitely noticed a difference in how she was treated.  

Take one night at The Gallows for instance, Ella walking back to her table from the toilets and suddenly finding herself halted by a man she didn’t know, rapidly removing his plaid shirt and tying it around her waist, whispering discreetly that her hotpants had split at the back. The man had introduced himself as Mark, he and his girlfriend Lizzie becoming fast friends with her and her little group.  

They’d be meeting with them that night, as well as her sister and Andrea, too, who they were collecting from the train station that afternoon after visiting James’s parents. Needless to say, the activities planned for afterwards were the ones he was looking forward to more that day. Apart from seeing his dad and sister, but he was dreading introducing Ella to his mother.  

“If she says anything thoughtless, just ignore her. Carole Kingston ain’t known for having a filter. I’d say she don’t mean it, like, but I’m not so sure any longer. Fucking shit stirrer,” he spoke as they alighted the car outside number forty-seven, Prescott Drive a few hours later.  

Halting him at the bottom of the drive, she grabbed his hands, giving his arms a little shake. “Come on, chill out a bit before you go in there.” 

“I’m fine, I’m chilled,” he spoke. 

Ella snorted softly. “That’s a load of bollocks, baby. You’re practically grinding your teeth. Come on, just breathe it out, relax.” Truly, she wanted it to go well for his sake more than hers, not wanting there to be any existing conflict for him to negotiate. It all depended on what mood his mother was in though, she supposed.  

He dropped a kiss to her forehead, grabbing her hand before walking up the drive past his dad’s car, the front door flying open. 

“Nah, Jimbo! What are you doing with such a pretty girl? Did she not bring her white stick and Labrador with her?”  

“Fuck off, dickhead,” he frowned, Sam throwing her head back with a squeaky laugh.  

“Hi, Ella. I’m Sam, or dickhead, pain in the arse or twat, as my brother often calls me. Nice to meet you!”  

Indeed, those were his preferred names. “Nice to meet you, Sam.” she spoke, James walking past her with a shoulder barge. 

“Out the way, skin!” he muttered, stopping to grin and then pull her into a hug. “What kind of mood is the duchess in?” 

“Not too bad, you know. Freaked out over cheese sauce. She’s made lasagne.” Immediately, his stomach tingled, wondering how Ella would cope with that, a food that was definitely placed on the scary category. It had to be said, though, she was getting better. She managed to eat rice a few times a week without issue, which was good since they had to make food money stretch.  

Moving through the house, they arrived in the large kitchen, the space extending around to a dining room as well. What had once been a modest council house had been turned into a much larger home, the extension built on by Ted, Alan’s brother giving a lot of space that hadn’t existed before, and a garden much easier to manage.  

“Alright, kidda! Ella, looking lovely as usual. Happy birthday, petal!” Alan spoke as he walked back in from the garden, handing her a card and giving her a kiss on the cheek. 

“Awww, thanks, Alan,” she spoke, opening it up, thanking him again after reading the message and finding a twenty-pound note kindly included, Carole turning from the sink. 

“Oh! You’re here! Hi!” Bustling over, she pulled James into a hug, turning then to Ella with a smile. “Well! You’re nothing like the last one, but that’s a good thing. Bright yellow hair, tattoos on her face and a flippin’ great big ring in the middle of her nose!” she exclaimed, the corner of her mouth twitching as she laughed.  

James supposed that was a compliment of sorts. Unless you happened to be Chrissie, his ex. His insides unclenched a little, seeing that his mum appeared to be in a good mood. It was what drove him up the wall about her most, the fact that Carole had the capacity to be a perfectly lovely woman, but all too often let her less favourable qualities get the better of her. 

Still, he knew how quickly she could find a fault and begin to pick at it. Like clockwork, it began over lunch, James noticing her eyes flitting to Ella at regular intervals, very observant over the smaller portion of food she ate.  

“Eh lad, I was out with a few of the fellas from work last night, saw Steve on the doors at that new club they’ve opened in what used to be the old Lloyds bank. When’d he go back to it?” Alan asked, placing his cutlery down and picking up his beer.  

“Not long ago,” he confirmed, crunching through a piece of cucumber. “He’s having a word with his boss tonight, seeing if he can get me back in it as well.”  

Carole’s eyes snapped to her son, pausing from chewing. “James, you aren’t seriously considering going back to being a bloody bouncer, are you?” 

“Yeah, I am. I’m good at it and it pays well. Only downside is losing my weekend nights, but it wouldn’t be every weekend. The shifts rotate,” he confirmed, reaching to tickle Ella’s cheek with his finger when she poked her bottom lip out. If there was one thing she loved, it was going out for a good time with her boyfriend.  

Her eyebrows rose. “Really? That’s the only downside? You getting glassed or worse by some pissed up idiot isn’t something you’re factoring in here?” 

“Ease up, love,” Alan spoke lightly, “he’s a big lad, he can handle himself. Then there’s the ole’ kickboxing, you’ve started that too now, right? How’s that going?” 

James thought it was commendable that his dad obviously wanted to move the conversation on from being something to gripe about. “Yeah, I really enjoy it. Only had two classes so far, go on Monday and Wednesday evenings.” 

“Learning kickboxing won’t stop you from being stabbed.” Oh, no. She wasn’t quite done yet. “Remind me how many times you had a knife pulled on you while you were working doors before?”  

“Three, and none ever got me,” he spoke, chewing the inside of his cheek with irritation.  

He watched her shrug, the corner of her mouth twisting. “I hope you’re not going back to it because underneath, you want them to. We’re not back there are we, James?”  

Ella’s eyes widened, gulping down her mouthful of food, reaching beneath the table to rest a hand on his thigh. God, he was right. No tact was to be found there.  

“I’d say I can’t believe you’ve just said that, but I can.” Fixing her with a hard look, he lifted his chin. “No. I’m not.” 

“Carole,” Alan warned, placing his glass down. “Don’t.”  

“Don’t what? Show concern with what ‘profession’ our son is seeking?” 

“I already have one of those,” the son himself stated, “but sadly ‘cos our corner of the metal world ain’t as lucrative as the more mainstream stuff, it don’t pay fortunes. I need quick cash until we get the next album done, get out on the road again and all that. Touring is where the main revenue is, innit.” 

“Then why in god’s name are you flippin’ doing it? Wasting your bloody time, you are!” 

“Because he loves it.” James hadn’t expected Ella to speak up, but there she was, her hand still squeezing his thigh supportively. “Because he wouldn’t be who he is without his music.” 

Carole wasn’t used to having her opinion challenged, no matter how politely. “What’s that then, Ella? A clinically depressed man who seems to be heading down all the wrong paths in his life? Choosing a career that doesn’t pay and sublimating it with a job fraught with dangers?” 

“Clinical depression is what he has. It isn’t who he is. Who he is, is a musician. A very talented one.”  

His heart bloomed, to hear those words. He’d known Ella for six and a half months and yet, she had a better understanding of him than his own mother. It spoke volumes. Carole, however, wasn’t to be defeated like that. Her words were delivered with the brand of cool snide the entire family were sadly becoming all too used to hearing.  

“So, where are you working at the moment, then? What’s your special talent, Ella?” 

James’s eyes fixed on her, his nostrils flaring. His girlfriend had hit her with something she couldn’t argue back against, so she’d changed track.  

“Currently, I’m not working. I start my new job next Monday, though. At the florist just off the high street.” 

“Oh, Bloomin’ Lovely?” Sam interjected, wanting to try and steer the conversation round. “I bought mum a bouquet from there for her birthday a few months back. The lady was so sweet, with all her bracelets and those crazy glasses and bright pink hair!”  

“Yeah, that’s it!” Ella confirmed. “And her hair is orange at the moment. She seems really cool.”  

“So, what have you been living off since you’ve been out, then, since you’ve only recently found yourself work?” Carole then questioned, the corner of her mouth upturning, thinking she had a win coming her way. 

Ella felt uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t be made to feel small. “I had some cash from my former job in the bank.” 

“Oh, I’m glad to hear you’ve been paying your way and not sponging off my son. I thought maybe the reason he could have been going back to high risk, but high pay work was to support you both. I’m glad that isn’t the case.” Her eyes toured her, picking up her wine glass with a little grin. “Not that you eat much, though. You can’t be expensive to keep. Just as well, really, since you probably vomit most of it back up.” 

How James didn’t throw the knife in his hand directly at her head, he didn’t know, placing his cutlery down and glaring. “That was low. In fucking fact, mum, that was spiteful. I ain’t having that, nah.”  

“Good bloody lord, Carole!” his dad remarked, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “There was no need for that. Ella, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

She nodded, but inside felt her stomach turning over and over, unable to believe how unpleasant the afternoon had turned. All because Carole was wrong and couldn’t stand it. 

She shrugged, sipping her wine with nonchalance. “Don’t apologise for me. I’m not sorry for pointing out the truth.” 

“Mum, stop it. You’re only embarrassing yourself,” Sam groaned, combing her fingers through her short, bobbed hair. 

With those words, James made a decision, looking across the table to see nothing but smug glee from a woman who truly should have been nothing but ashamed for the way she’d just spoken. If only her ego would let her.  

“And that’s the last time I step foot in this house.” Standing up, he turned to Ella, reaching for her hand. “You can’t help yourself, mum, and deep down I don’t even think you want to. I think you enjoy provoking reactions. Alright so fine, I obviously didn’t grow up to be the son you wanted. I’m a basket case of a black metal musician and that pisses you off, but Ella ain’t done fuck all to you.” 

“James, that’s not...” Carole began, but her eldest had truly had enough. 

“Nah, tired of it, innit. You? You ain’t good for my recovery, you wind me the fuck up every time I have to share breathing space with you. Find someone else to pick at, because it ain’t me any longer and it sure as fuck ain’t my girlfriend either.” Walking around the table, he grasped his dad’s shoulder, telling him he’d see him soon, dropping a kiss to Sam’s head and pledging her the same.  

He was about to leave, turning back suddenly. “You know what? One thing I’ve learned in therapy is that with mental illness, sometimes people with a mentally ill parent are more predisposed to it, like. Maybe you might wanna go get whatever the fuck it is you’re suffering from checked out, save you losing any other members of your family, yeah?” 

“Oh, shut your mouth, James! How flippin’ dare you accuse me of that! You’re the crazy one here, not me!” 

Now she’d really done it, the bile in him rising sharply. “Drop dead, you vile old twat.” 

Leaving the house, the first thing he did was take Ella’s face in his hands and kiss her, wrapping her in a huge hug. “I love you so fucking much. I’m sorry she chose today of all day’s to be such a cunt to you. Gave me the push I’ve needed for a while, though, innit. She ain’t no good for me, so I don’t want nothing to do with her.” 

Her eyes widened, shaking her head. “You were right. I wondered, you know, could she truly be that bad? Bleedin’ hell. She’s worse. It’s so flip switch, too!” 

“Told you.” 

“And she’s so calculated! If you prove her wrong on one thing, she veers off and attacks you over something else!” 

“Told you.” 

“Fuck! I’m so sorry you had a mum like her to deal with, especially while you’ve been recovering!” Her jaw tightened, shaking her head. “I could smack her for calling you crazy! What a nasty woman.” 

He took her hand, kissing it before they walked away from the house, the muffled sounds of his parents yelling at each other fading as they moved down the drive. “Yeah, this is why I ain’t been around her much. Her having that attitude towards me is one thing, but you? Nah. Fuck that.” He smirked a little sadly, his nose crinkling. “I still feel like a cunt for telling her to drop dead though, innit. Didn’t mean that, I was just pissed off with her being like that all the shitting time.”  

“I think you were reserved for how blazing you can be when you’re angry!” she cried, James getting into the car and leaning over to open her door for her. “You didn’t even shout at her. You just like, told her it wasn’t on and then removed yourself. It’s pants, it really is, but if that’s how she chooses to behave then honestly, this has probably been a long time coming.” 

He started the engine, but sat and looked thoughtful for a few moments, reaching to grasp her hand. “I love that about you, babe. You’re so fucking wise, and you’re right. It has. Thanks for standing up for me in there, too. Just wish it hadn’t fucking happened. Proper fucking stressed now.” 

Looking at her watch, she saw that the disastrous lunch had left them with three hours to kill until Andrea’s train arrived, her fingers tickling her way up his arm through the thick, grey sweater he wore. “I can take your mind off the stress, if you like?” 

The suggestion in her voice and the way she looked out from under her lashes at him was undeniable. Half an hour later, and he was relaxing in the armchair, smoking a joint while Ella’s mouth bobbed up and down on his cock. There were much worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon, he thought. He could have stayed at his mother’s house, for example.  

The tie had been severed now, though, and while he did feel shit about how it had all ended, there was a very real sense of peace he experienced at cutting her out of his life. If she brought him nothing but frustration then she couldn’t remain. Frustration was the last thing he felt in that moment, though, taking one last puff on the joint before placing it down, not wanting to be too high when he had to drive. Besides, Ella was doing wonderful things for him with her mouth all on her own. 

“Mmmmm, fuck, your cock is so hard,” she moaned, flicking her tongue over the head before taking him back deep again, feeling it twitch. “Makes me really want to get on it, but I’ll have enough of that later, and I don’t want a sore little pussy to take that kind of pounding.”  

Working him faster and faster, her hand massaged the base of him while her mouth gradually added more pressure, his hips twitching and abs locking as with a deep groan, he spilled into her throat. 

Swallowing, she carefully tucked him back into his jeans, licking her lip seductively as she reached for her can of Diet Coke and took a big gulp. “Less stressed now?” 

“Mm.” 

Chuckling at his blissed-out reaction, she moved astride him. “Did I fry your brain?” 

“Mm.”  

She kissed him, all slow heat, his hands grasping tight on her bum. “Cool beans. Can’t be having a stressed-out church burner on my hands.” He laughed, and she received a hard slap to her bum, Ella squeaking as she made herself comfortable on his lap. They had about twenty minutes of the flat to themselves before Steve and Snedders arrived back, the guys laden with bags.  

“Happy birthday, Greenhall!” Steve announced at high volume. “Sorry it ain’t wrapped, but I’m a bloke. I’m proper rubbish at all that!” 

She had her face grabbed and a huge smacker planted on her lips, James beginning to laugh filthily. “Ahh man. If only you knew where her mouth was twenty minutes ago.” 

Steve worked it out in two seconds, shuddering, his face so sour that the flat was filled with riotous laughter at his expense as he strode for the alcohol bottles in the kitchen and cleansed himself with four mouthfuls of Jack Daniels. “Oh man. No. Bleugh. Open your present!” 

Ella peered into the bag, her eyes lighting up. “I love you! You’ve been talking to Hester, haven’t you?” 

“I fucking have!” he announced proudly as she pulled out a wooden carved buddha statue she’d been eyeing in the local new age shop, plus a bottle of Absolut vodka. “Get it open! Let’s do shots!”  

Ella shared a look with James. “Only him. Only ole’ Berserker over there would have designs on drinking my birthday present with me.” 

“Oi! Who polished off my fucking tequila last Sunday and then kept me awake while she bounced all over my best friend’s cock? You and your sex screaming owe me, now get over here!”  

He had a point, Ella scrambling from James’s lap with her vodka as he laughed loudly, moving to Steve who was lining up shot glasses. She had the feeling it was about to be an awesome night, regardless of what had befallen it in the hours before.  

She’d be right to, too.  

[piizunn]

not your founding father (mouthpiece)

My thoughts on Louis Riel being named first premier of Manitoba.

Taanshi kiyawow, Riel dishinikashoon. I descend maternally from seven Métis families from the historic Red River Settlement in Manitoba and Batoche, Saskatchewan. Notably, my Berthelett ancestors worked for the North West Company and were community leaders in the Métis settlement of Pointe a Grouette before it was systemically overtaken by French settlers who claim we formed no roots in the area (St. Onge). My Caron ancestors from Batoche fought in the North West Resistance alongside Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont. My fifth-great-uncle Jean Caron Sr. fought alongside his sons at the age of 52; his house still stands in Batoche to this day, where thousands of Métis make pilgrimages every year to remember the events of 1885. 

What do you know about Louis Riel?

I can only read his words and imagine what guidance he would have provided had he lived longer than 41 years. Or imagine myself in his place as he walked to the gallows on November 16th, 1885. As a child when I visited Manitoba my grandpa and my kokum would take me to visit his grave, just as they did with my mother, who named me ‘Riel’.

We are inextricably linked through time and across our homelands. What’s in a name? Unasked for? Not yet earned? I do not yet know who I am to my people but I carry an important name and the trickster’s spirit, and with these comes the responsibility of understanding and revealing cultural and societal truths (Stimson).

I am still growing into my name

Today I am a mouthpiece

An interpreter of the past

What do you know about the trial of Louis Riel?

July 31st, 1885, Riel gives his final speech. Historical weather data shows that it was a hot day in Regina. Cooler than the days before but still hot with the swelter of the plains. He spoke long, in English, not the language of his birth.

“The day of my birth I was helpless and my mother took care of me although she was not able to do it alone; there was someone to help her to take care of me and I lived. Today, although a man, I am as helpless before this court, in the Dominion of Canada and in this world, as I was helpless on the knees of my mother the day of my birth. The Northwest is also my mother; it is my mother country and although my mother country is sick and confirmed in a certain way, there are some from Lower Canada who came to help her to take care of me during her sickness and I am sure that my mother country will not kill me more than my mother did forty years ago when I came into the world, because a mother is always a mother, and even if I have my faults, if she can see I am true, she will be full of love for me.”

“When I came into the Northwest in July, the 1st of July 1884, I found the Indians suffering. I found the half-breeds eating the rotten pork of the Hudson Bay Company and getting sick and weak every day. Although a half-breed, and having no pretension to help the whites, I also paid attention to them. [...] We have made petitions, I have made petitions with others to the Canadian government asking to relieve the condition of this country.”

“We have taken time; we have tried to unite all classes, even may speak, all parties.”

“During my life I have aimed at practical results. I have writings, and after my death I hope that my spirit will bring practical results.”

“When we sent petitions to the Government, they used to answer us by sending police [...] There are papers which the Crown has in its hands, and which show that demoralisation exists among the police, if you will allow me to say it in the court, as I have said it in writing.”

“If I am blessed without measure I can see something into the future, we all see into the future more or less.”

“The only things I would like to call your attention to before you retire to deliberate are: 

1st That the House of Commons, Senate and Ministers of the Dominion, and who make laws for this land and govern it, are no representation whatever of the people of the North-West.

2nd That the North-West Council generated by the Federal Government has the great defect of its parent.

3rd The number of members elected for the Council by the people make it only a sham representative legislature and no representative government at all.”

“I have never had any pay. It has always been my hope to have a fair living one day. It will be for you to pronounce - if you say I was right, you can conscientiously acquit me, as I hope through the help of God you will. You will console those who have been fifteen years around me only partaking in my sufferings. What you will do in justice to me, in justice to my family, in justice to my friends, in justice to the North-West, will be rendered a hundred times to you in this world, and to use a sacred expression, life everlasting in the other.”

What do you know about Louis Riel?

I have done this walk in my mind so many times that I have lost count. Historical accounts of the day note that it was a chill, clear, autumn morning. The prairies stretched out, silver frost bathed in sunlight. He faced it all and was brave until the end. Despite reports of it being destroyed, former premier of Manitoba Duff Roblin and his family, and the RCMP gloat over the supposed fragments of the rope that hanged the traitor, and I wonder how long the rope would be if you lined up every single scrap of twine rumoured to be the noose that killed Riel?

Does it make you feel less guilty to call him a founding father? Canadians are only able to remember him through his murder and not through his words that can still animate his presence. Written words and objects once owned are ghosts, extensions of our bodies and spirits. When I read his letters and journals I see the urgency in his penmanship, and I think about the sweat and invisible oils of his skin becoming a part of each page as he wrote and wrote and wrote. I wonder where each journal travelled with him during his exile, and why he chose each book. There is one with an illustration of a guardian angel watching over two children, and I wonder if he thought of himself as one of them being shepherded through life by his ancestors. 

Canadians argue about whether or not Riel should have been hanged instead of talking about what he had believed and said and accomplished, and what he wanted to do with the rest of his life had it not been cut short. 

No one talks about his dreams or his fears, and he did not live long enough to answer the question of if he would have wanted to be revered as the first premier of Manitoba. Or, in response would he ask for clean water for all, to stop the sweeps, and starlight tours? Would he ask for the Winnipeg police to search the landfills for our murdered women instead of brutalizing and killing us? Would he call for an end to all colonialism and genocide? Or would he simply ask for a place to smudge and be in peace for a while?

When we send petitions to the government they still answer us by sending the police, before turning around and calling Louis Riel a founding father (Riel).

Canada cannot answer these questions for him by giving him that title posthumously, only sit with the discomfort of blood-soaked hands, and wonder how different things would have been had that sacred fire not been snuffed out in 1885.

I cannot answer these questions for him either

And I am still growing into our name.

Works Cited

Riel, Louis. Excerpts from his final statement in court on trial, July 31st, 1885

Stimson, Adrian, “Buffalo Boy: Then and Now.” Fuse Magazine, vol. 32, no. 2, 2009, pp. 18-25. 

St-Onge, Nicole J.M. “The Dissolution of a Métis Community: Pointe à Grouette, 1860–1885.” Studies in Political Economy 18.1 (1985): 149–172. Web. 

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 21: Leannan Makes a Choice

3371 words

CW: institutionalized slavery, religious themes, noncon, fire, near death by fire, gun violence

Previous, Masterlist, Next

~~~ Revelation 16:8-9

The fourth angel poured his bowl on the sun, and it was allowed to scorch people with fire; they were scorched by a fierce heat, but they cursed the name of God, who had authority over these plagues, and they did not repent and give him glory. ~~~

Over the next few days Chien learned his place in the new order on Donda Island.

He followed DuPont around like – well, a dog. He trotted after the Captain as he walked the halls of the Council building. He stood off to the side during DuPont’s various meetings with his lieutenants. He knew what his purpose was: to show the guards what good performance could earn. And earn it they did – though Chien was promised no repeats of the night of the coup, when one guard caught a thief in the market she was allowed into Chien’s room that night, with instructions to do as she pleased.

It could have been worse, Chien thought. It wasn’t that bad, to turn on the charm, to be malleable, to have fairly vanilla sex in the dark.

Maybe this was manageable.

But what he also learned, standing by during all those meetings, debriefs, and updates, was how the Island and its holdings were fairing.

Things weren’t good.

The river was dangerously low; the heat was killing off smaller livestock like flies; people, too, were succumbing to the temperature. Amongst all of this, certain faithful members of the hold were insisting it was because James and Brochard were still alive, having believed Phineas’ tale. Much was discussed about what to do with them, as well as Jeanette and Phineas. DuPont wanted public executions for Brochard and James, believing Jeanette and Phineas to still be useful; one vocal lieutenant wanted them all dead, another wanted to spare just Jeanette, and so one. Then, of course, there was the method: burning was traditional for heathens, but the risk of the fire spreading was too great, so alternative means needed to be orchestrated. Gallows? Guillotine? On and on they went.

Chien ached to contribute. To tell them how useful Phineas could be. Because maybe, if he saved Phineas, they would like him again – but DuPont’s threats and swift violence were fresh in his mind. He stayed quiet, only murmuring a “Yes, Captain,” when ordered to follow, to sit, to stand.

Occasionally Chien would be stolen away from eavesdropping on these conversations by Maeve. She wore fine dresses now, and would pull Chien into a nook or a closet to kiss. Just kiss – for now.

It made Chien feel sick every time.

Lying in his bed at the end of the day was no escape. The bed was too familiar now. He could still smell lavender, even though he threw out his perfume. It was also hot beyond belief, even at night. He tossed and turned, slept on and off, and got up in the morning hollow-eyed and exhausted.

He tried to slip away to see Phineas, once. That earned him a night with two of DuPont’s lieutenants.

He learned not to complain to Maeve. She’d just shush him and kiss him harder.

Chien felt trapped. He’d always relied on being able to speak to his masters, to wheedle, to cajole, to convince – but now he couldn’t speak to either of them.

~~~

Phineas had a surprising capacity for patience.

They were getting food and water. Sure, sleeping on the floor was a drag. But they could wait it out.

They’d know their opportunity when they saw it.

They had a feeling it would come sooner rather than later.

~~~

DuPont was in Chien’s room. Ordinarily, he had no reason to come by this late. Chien had just gotten into bed, and now sat, watching the Captain drum his fingers on his hip and stare at him.

Chien knew that look of contemplation. James had had that look.

DuPont confirmed the Iowan’s suspicions by unbuckling his belt.

“Come here,” he ordered.

Chien got up and crossed the room, kneeling in front of the Captain without needing to be told. Meanwhile, DuPont produced his cock, already half-hard. He fisted a hand in Chien’s hair, jerking his face up to look at him.

“If you tell my wife,” he said flatly, “I’ll cut out your tongue and throat-fuck you until you drown in your own blood.”

“Yes, Captain,” Chien whispered.

DuPont returned his hand to his hip.

“Get to it.”

~~~

Chien lay in bed, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and his necklace, staring dully out the window. He had drawn back all the curtains in the hopes of getting a nighttime breeze – no such luck. The air was still, dry, and almost painfully hot.

The town outside was dark. In a dry spell like this, lanterns were limited to emergency use only.

A distant bell struck two o’clock. DuPont had left hours ago, satisfied with a simple blowjob. Chien was grateful.

Things weren’t that bad.

Chien felt an awful, sick twist in his stomach every time he though of Phineas, or Maeve, or Jeanette, or Enjolras – but otherwise, things weren’t that bad.

Chien could endure. And if he could endure, he would be rewarded.

He just needed to sleep. Everything would be easier to handle if he could just get some sleep.

“Chien, wake up!”

A hand shook his shoulder. Bells clanged outside. Chien blinked and Maeve came into focus.

“What’s…”

“There’s a fire!” she cried, “Get up, we have to get out!” She pulled on his arm, practically dragging him out of bed.

Chien didn’t resist; light-headed from adrenaline and fear, he got his feet underneath him and stumbled after her as she pulled him out of the room. They raced down the corridor, down the stairs, and out the doors. Once outside, Chien turned to look, and gasped.

The end of the west wing of the Council building was ablaze, the fire roaring like a creature from Hell. Flames reached up into the sky as if to claw at the stars, emitting foul black smoke that blotted out the moon. More people ran out of the building, gathering breathlessly to watch. Chien stared, transfixed, at the inferno, until a thought shot through his mind like lightning.

Phineas.

He seized Maeve’s arm.

“Phineas is still in there!” he shouted, “And Jeanette! They’re locked in!”

Maeve shook her head at him, bewildered.

“They’re in the west wing,” realization struck her, “You can’t go!”

Chien shook his head, letting go of her.

“I have to, I have to go get them!”

Now Maeve was the one to grab him.

“Absolutely not! I forbid you!”

Chien didn’t think. He didn’t think about the fact that he would be breaking a direct order, or that he’d be helping his masters’ enemy escape. He didn’t think about what the consequences might be. He just wrenched his arm away from Maeve and ran.

“Leannan!” Maeve screamed behind him, but Chien didn’t stop.

No, she was right, this wasn’t a very Chien thing to do.

Leannan didn’t stop.

He burst through the doors into the building, hanging a sharp right and running down the hallway into the west wing, past the great hall and towards the lesser-used rooms and his former cell. He could see flickering flames at the far end of the hall, and a haze of smoke filled the air. As he neared the cell he saw a figure, slowly shuffling forward and leaning against the wall for support: Jeanette.

“Jeanette!” he shouted, and she looked up.

“Leannan?”

He reached her side, and pulled her arm over his shoulder.

“Where’s Phineas?” he asked urgently.

“Who do you think set the fire?” she rasped.

“They escaped?!”

“Took them long enough,” Jeanette confirmed.

Relief flooded through Leannan.

“Okay, okay – let’s get out of here!”

He took on her weight and together they hobbled down the hallway. Leannan could tell Jeanette was doing her best; she puffed and strained and leaned on him heavily. But before they could escape the west wing, the ceiling ahead of them collapsed in a fiery cave-in, sending a wave of heat rolling over them.

“Shit!” Jeanette cursed.

Leannan’s mind raced.

“We can go out through the great hall, there are doors to the outside there!”

Leannan pulled them closer to the burning rubble before ducking through a door into the great hall, where Phineas had first struck their deal with Brochard. The fire had not yet reached this room, but Leannan sucked in a nervous breath; straw. The floor was covered with a layer of straw, to keep things clean and sweet-smelling. When the fire reached this room, it would engulf the floor in a matter of moments. Leannan pushed the thought from his mind and marched Jeanette over to the exterior doors on the far side.

They were chained and padlocked shut.

It was Leannan’s turn to curse.

“The guard,” Jeanette started to babble, “Phineas killed a guard, back where we were being kept, he would have keys, Phineas didn’t take them!”

There was no time to think. No time to be scared. This was just what Leannan had to do to survive.

“Okay!” And once again, he ran.

He ran back across the great hall, out into the corridor, didn’t spare the cave-in a glance, and raced down the hallway towards the cell. There were flames at the far end of the hall, but they weren’t at the cell door just yet; Leannan burst in, and immediately spotted the body of a guard, sprawled on the floor, cold blood congealed underneath. He dove for the guard’s belt, retrieving a ring of keys. But when he stood back up dark spots filled his vision, and he almost dropped back to his knees.

Leannan wasn’t made to run like that. And the air was getting very, very smokey.

Leannan swayed and gasped, staggering to lean against the doorframe, trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t die here. He wouldn’t. God always took care of him. God always made sure he survived.

His attention was caught by a banging, accompanied by muffled shouting. Someone was still in the building. He stepped out into the smoke-filled hallway, wishing he had a shirt to pull up over his nose.

The next door down rattled, flames licking its edge.

James and Brochard. They were locked up, too.

No time to think. No time to weigh the options. Leannan moved.

He darted over to the door, the fire at his side unbearably hot, and sorted through the key ring with trembling hands. There was just a padlock on the door, nothing else. He found a key that looked to be the right size and pushed it into the keyhole.

It didn’t fit.

Flames lashed out like grabbing hands. Leannan flinched away as he separated out another likely key.

It fit.

Leannan threw the door open.

“Run!” he shouted into James and Brochard’s shocked faces, and bolted.

He didn’t look back to see if they were following. Leannan just forced one leg in front of the other. He’d never run so much in his life; as horrifically as the fire burned around him, it was inside him, too, his muscles ablaze as they stretched and flexed as they’d never needed to before. The smoke in the hallway grew ever thicker, and he coughed and stumbled – but he made it to the door to the great hall, and with its higher ceiling the air inside was much clearer.

“Leannan!” Jeanette shrieked, and he immediately saw what had her frightened. The ceiling collapse had spread, eating through the wall of the room, spitting hot cinders and debris.

The straw had caught.

Leannan stared in shock for only a moment before springing into action, racing across the room to Jeanette and the exterior door.

“You brought them?” Jeanette exclaimed. Leannan didn’t need to look to know she meant James and Brochard. He was too busy sorting through the keys, trying to find one that looked right – until James snatched them out of his hands.

“Move!” James extracted the correct key and shouldered Leannan out of the way, unlocking the padlock and casting the chains aside, then switched to another key and unlocked the lock built into the handles themselves. Then he was the first one out the door, letting it fall shut behind him. Leannan caught the handle, and held it open for Jeanette and Brochard.

It was this simple politeness, so out of place in an emergency, that did him in.

As soon as Brochard was through the door, it was yanked out of Leannan’s hands and slammed shut. Leannan dove for the handle with a cry, rattling it desperately; locked.

Someone had locked him in.

Leannan screamed wordlessly, pounding on the door. He spared a fearful glance over his shoulder. The fire was spreading swiftly across the straw towards him.

“Jeanette!” he screamed, “Jeanette, help! Please!”

His legs turned to jelly underneath him. He could barely stand as he rattled the handle and clawed at the metal door.

“Help! Help!”

Tears started to stream down his face. He looked back at the fire, growing ever closer. He grabbed the talisman around his neck.

“Please, please, I don’t deserve to die like this, you know I don’t deserve to die like this, please, please, please, please, please…”

He half-sobbed, half-coughed, choking on the thickening air. The flames drew nearer.

“Somebody HELP!” he pounded on the door again.

The door moved.

It opened, nearly throwing him backwards.

“Leannan!” Jeanette shouted from beyond.

Leannan yanked the door open and was through, was out, was alive. He sucked down deep lungfuls of clear air, the world spinning around him.

He just barely registered James, on the ground, the back of his head caved in and a large bloody rock off to the side.

Jeanette threw her arms around him.

“We have to get away!” she gasped, “We have to go.”

“Okay,” Leannan agreed, equally breathless, “Okay!”

Each supporting the other, they stumbled aimlessly away from the blaze, no other goal in mind except distancing themselves from the fire. They wandered into the narrow city streets, weaving between houses and down alleyways. They eventually tripped and collapsed in the dark, huddling together in a heap.

Jeanette groaned in pain, then said, panting, “We have to… get to… the river… Fire’ll spread… whole island…”

“Fuck!” Leannan sobbed, “This is the worst, I can’t believe this is happening!”

“Hey, keep your shit together!” Jeanette warned as Leannan started to cry in earnest.

“I ca-a-a-an’t!” wailed Leannan, “This is too much, I’m not made for this!”

“Nobody’s made for anything!” Jeanette snapped, “Now help me up!”

Leannan swallowed his tears and brought the two of them laboriously to their feet, sniffling.

They soon joined a stream of people headed for the same place: the docks. People were carrying all sorts of things, grabbed haphazardly in the panic; food, clothing, small children, small animals, keepsakes. They all moved faster than Leannan and Jeanette, who limped along slowly. Pain had set into Leannan’s feet, his soft bare soles scuffed up by all his running.

Now that they were on a main street, lit by moonlight, Leannan could see the blood splattered on Jeanette’s dress.

She’d killed her own brother. For Leannan.

Probably not just for Leannan.

The docks were in chaos when they reached them; boat owners were trying to keep people off, or only let certain people on, and were swiftly being overpowered. Boats of all sizes were being packed to the point of capsizing and setting off, drifting downriver. Only two seemed to be holding any ground: a large boat swarming with guards, and a yacht down at the end, also filled with crossbow-armed, uniformed people, though Leannan didn’t recognize the uniforms. He did, however, recognize the person standing on the dock in front of the yacht.

Enjolras.

And Leannan knew, deep down in his gut, that what Enjolras had said was true.

James had tried to kill him.

Therefor, Leannan’s family could really be alive.

He started pulling Jeanette towards Enjolras, pushing and weaving through the shouting, panicked crowd.

Someone stepped in front of him, catching his arm in an iron grip.

“Where’s Maeve?” DuPont bellowed at him.

“I don’t know!” Leannan shouted over the din.

“You’re coming with me!” DuPont declared, jerking Leannan away from Jeanette, causing her to collapse to the splintery boards of the dock with a cry.

“Jeanette!” Leannan shouted as he was wrestled away and marched towards the guard’s ship.

“You!” DuPont growled, “You’re in for a world of pain if I can’t find -”

DuPont’s head exploded.

The accompanying bang! cut through the noise of the throng like an executioner's axe. DuPont’s body crumpled. The following quiet was interrupted only by a handful of screams as the crowd collectively crouched and looked around for the source of the noise.

Leannan spotted them first.

Phineas stood on the flat roof of a nearby boathouse, framed in silhouette by the glow of the fire behind them. They had their big backpack, their traveling boots, and most importantly, their sniper rifle.

“Phineas,” Leannan breathed.

“Leannan!” Phineas shouted, as if they’d heard him, “Get your ass over here!”

“Leannan, no!”

Leannan spun to see Enjolras had spotted him, and was waving an arm.

“Leannan, come here!” she called.

“Ignore her, Leannan!” Phineas ordered, “Come to me!”

“Phineas will just hurt you again, Leannan!” Enjolras insisted, “Please, come with me!”

Leannan looked back and forth between to two of them.

Phineas was an asshole, but they’d always done what was right.

… Had they?

Leannan cared about Phineas. He had run into a burning building for them.

A burning building that Phineas had created.

Enjolras promised… something. Maybe family.

Phineas was a known entity. Chaotic, but a familiar chaos.

Enjolras was a mystery.

Then Leannan looked at Jeanette.

He knew without a doubt that Phineas had left her to die.

He had already disobeyed direct orders. His primary master was dead. Maeve might be, too.

In a way, for once, he was free to choose for himself.

They’re all alive.

He had the chance to find out if it was really true.

And he knew Phineas would never help Jeanette.

The world snapped back into focus around him. The mass of people was moving again, pushing and shoving their way onto the quickly shrinking number of boats. He wove between people back to Jeanette’s side, his limbs feeling like lead, and helped her to her feet. She whimpered in pain, and leaned on him.

“I’ve got you,” he said, “Just a little further.”

He started towards Enjolras.

Enjolras’ face lit up when she spotted them coming through the crowd. She rushed forward to help them, moving in to support Jeanette’s other side.

“Come on, almost there!”

They reached the boat, and Enjolras scooped Jeanette up under her arms and lifted her onto the yacht like she was a child, and moved to do the same for Leannan.

A second shot boomed out, silencing the throng again.

“ENJOLRAS!” Phineas screamed.

Enjolras and Leannan looked up to see Phineas lower their gun from pointing in the air, to aim it at Enjolras.

“He’s mine!” they shouted.

“You gonna shoot me? Huh?” Enjolras squared her shoulders towards Phineas, spreading her arms. “Fucking do it then, Phineas!” she yelled, “You won’t!”

Leannan’s eyes darted back and forth between them once more. Even from this distance, he could see Phineas’ shoulders rise and fall with enraged breaths as they took aim.

“No…” Leannan breathed.

But Phineas didn’t shoot. They stared down the scope at Enjolras for a long moment, then threw the gun down with a long scream of feral rage.

“That’s what I thought,” Enjolras muttered, and lifted Leannan onto the boat. Then she turned to the crowd.

“We can take fifteen!” she announced.

People started to clamber onto the yacht as Enjolras counted them. Leannan paid them no mind; his eyes were locked onto Phineas, who had sunk to their knees on the roof, staring at him.

They looked very small.

“Okay, that’s all! Cast off!”

The boat juddered and began to vibrate beneath Leannan’s feet as the engine started up. The dock slowly drifted away. Phineas slowly drifted away.

“Leannan!” Enjolras clapped a hand down on his shoulder, “Leannan, are you alright?”

Her voice sounded a bit hollow and distant. Leannan opened his mouth, and his own words sounded dreamy and far away too.

“I don’t know… I think…”

Leannan collapsed into Enjolras’ arms.

~~~

Previous, Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @thecyrulik

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

[29pageshomestuckeveryday]

Homestuck, page 1,524

Who is this bothering you?

Author commentary:

Right here, this is it. This is when the story blasts off with virtually nonstop troll interaction. It pretty much never looks back. In hindsight, the complete takeover of the story by the troll stuff was inevitable. Because of the way they're being introduced slowly—a mysterious conversation here, a wild and colorfully eccentric new character there—they all seem pretty intriguing at this point. It's easy to take trolls for granted as almost the center of the story when you already know about them and have been exposed to them before even reading HS. But man, when this was all just emerging for the first time, through fast and loose storytelling methods, this was Hot Fucking Stuff, let me tell you. People were psyched.

By saying "authored by the constellations," I really wonder if Rose, clever person that she is, already picked up on the fact that the twelve losers in her trollslum are zodiac-themed? I know a bunch of readers picked up on it from just a few of the troll handles. Seeing all twelve handles at once makes the theme pretty obvious, but only seeing a few at a time takes a bit of deductive reasoning. It's not instantly evident that "gallowsCalibrator" could be referencing the mechanics of a scale, or that gallows are associated with harsh justice. Or even "adiosToreador." You had to think, like, hmm… Oh, I see, bullfighting. Something about a bull… Oh, I get it now—scales, bulls, Libra, Taurus, twelve characters, it's the damn zodiac. This is how puzzles work. GET IT?????

This one section contains a huge payload of lore being revealed. Points that could have been roughly deduced earlier are now being explicitly confirmed, along with the introduction of some entirely new ideas. There's important stuff here, which maybe bears reading a couple times to make sure you've got it all. Thank god it's being conveyed through leet speak in all caps.

Terezi was the only one who went about this in a fairly sensible way. I guess once Vriska got around to her trolling stunts, she was pretty logical and effective about it too. It's just too bad her actual goals were destructive, vainglorious, and kind of stupid. That's her brand, though: cooking up smart, cunning ways of achieving incredibly ill-advised goals.

[rielstarr]

not your founding father (mouthpiece)

February 17th, 2024

Live performance in collaboration with musician Tys Burger creating improvised sound art in response to my words.

Photo documentation by Elizabeth Fox

Taanshi kiyawow, Riel dishinikashoon. I descend maternally from seven Métis families from the historic Red River Settlement in Manitoba and Batoche, Saskatchewan. Notably, my Berthelett ancestors worked for the North West Company and were community leaders in the Métis settlement of Pointe a Grouette before it was systemically overtaken by French settlers who claim we formed no roots in the area (St. Onge). My Caron ancestors from Batoche fought in the North West Resistance alongside Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont. My fifth-great-uncle Jean Caron Sr. fought alongside his sons at the age of 52; his house still stands in Batoche to this day, where thousands of Métis make pilgrimages every year to remember the events of 1885. 

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT LOUIS RIEL?

I can only read his words and imagine what guidance he would have provided had he lived longer than 41 years. Or imagine myself in his place as he walked to the gallows on November 16th, 1885. As a child when I visited Manitoba my grandpa and my kokum would take me to visit his grave, just as they did with my mother, who named me ‘Riel’.

We are inextricably linked through time and across our homelands. What’s in a name? Unasked for? Not yet earned? I do not yet know who I am to my people but I carry an important name and the trickster’s spirit, and with these comes the responsibility of understanding and revealing cultural and societal truths (Stimson).

I AM STILL GROWING INTO MY NAME

TODAY I AM A MOUTHPIECE

AN INTERPRETER OF THE PAST

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE TRIAL OF LOUIS RIEL?

July 31st, 1885, Riel gives his final speech. Historical weather data shows that it was a hot day in Regina. Cooler than the days before but still hot with the swelter of the plains. He spoke long, in English, not the language of his birth.

“The day of my birth I was helpless and my mother took care of me although she was not able to do it alone; there was someone to help her to take care of me and I lived. Today, although a man, I am as helpless before this court, in the Dominion of Canada and in this world, as I was helpless on the knees of my mother the day of my birth. The Northwest is also my mother; it is my mother country and although my mother country is sick and confirmed in a certain way, there are some from Lower Canada who came to help her to take care of me during her sickness and I am sure that my mother country will not kill me more than my mother did forty years ago when I came into the world, because a mother is always a mother, and even if I have my faults, if she can see I am true, she will be full of love for me.”

“When I came into the Northwest in July, the 1st of July 1884, I found the Indians suffering. I found the half-breeds eating the rotten pork of the Hudson Bay Company and getting sick and weak every day. Although a half-breed, and having no pretension to help the whites, I also paid attention to them. […] We have made petitions, I have made petitions with others to the Canadian government asking to relieve the condition of this country.”

“We have taken time; we have tried to unite all classes, even may speak, all parties.”

“During my life I have aimed at practical results. I have writings, and after my death I hope that my spirit will bring practical results.”

“When we sent petitions to the Government, they used to answer us by sending police […] There are papers which the Crown has in its hands, and which show that demoralisation exists among the police, if you will allow me to say it in the court, as I have said it in writing.”

“If I am blessed without measure I can see something into the future, we all see into the future more or less.”

“The only things I would like to call your attention to before you retire to deliberate are: 

1st That the House of Commons, Senate and Ministers of the Dominion, and who make laws for this land and govern it, are no representation whatever of the people of the North-West.

2nd That the North-West Council generated by the Federal Government has the great defect of its parent.

3rd The number of members elected for the Council by the people make it only a sham representative legislature and no representative government at all.”

“I have never had any pay. It has always been my hope to have a fair living one day. It will be for you to pronounce - if you say I was right, you can conscientiously acquit me, as I hope through the help of God you will. You will console those who have been fifteen years around me only partaking in my sufferings. What you will do in justice to me, in justice to my family, in justice to my friends, in justice to the North-West, will be rendered a hundred times to you in this world, and to use a sacred expression, life everlasting in the other.”

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT LOUIS RIEL?

I have done this walk in my mind so many times that I have lost count. Historical accounts of the day note that it was a chill, clear, autumn morning. The prairies stretched out, silver frost bathed in sunlight. He faced it all and was brave until the end. Despite reports of it being destroyed, former premier of Manitoba Duff Roblin and his family, and the RCMP gloat over the supposed fragments of the rope that hanged the traitor, and I wonder how long the rope would be if you lined up every single scrap of twine rumoured to be the noose that killed Riel?

Does it make you feel less guilty to call him a founding father? Canadians are only able to remember him through his murder and not through his words that can still animate his presence. Written words and objects once owned are ghosts, extensions of our bodies and spirits. When I read his letters and journals I see the urgency in his penmanship, and I think about the sweat and invisible oils of his skin becoming a part of each page as he wrote and wrote and wrote. I wonder where each journal travelled with him during his exile, and why he chose each book. There is one with an illustration of a guardian angel watching over two children, and I wonder if he thought of himself as one of them being shepherded through life by his ancestors. 

Canadians argue about whether or not Riel should have been hanged instead of talking about what he had believed and said and accomplished, and what he wanted to do with the rest of his life had it not been cut short. 

No one talks about his dreams or his fears, and he did not live long enough to answer the question of if he would have wanted to be revered as the first premier of Manitoba. Or, in response would he ask for clean water for all, to stop the sweeps, and starlight tours? Would he ask for the Winnipeg police to search the landfills for our murdered women instead of brutalizing and killing us? Would he call for an end to all colonialism and genocide? Or would he simply ask for a place to smudge and be in peace for a while?

When we send petitions to the government they still answer us by sending the police, before turning around and calling Louis Riel a founding father (Riel).

Canada cannot answer these questions for him by giving him that title posthumously, only sit with the discomfort of blood-soaked hands, and wonder how different things would have been had that sacred fire not been snuffed out in 1885.

I CANNOT ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS FOR HIM EITHER.

AND I AM STILL GROWING INTO OUR NAME.

[pagetreader]

There was a bewildering plethora of emotions whirling around in her chest. Lust. Pain. Hurt. Carnality. Longing. Eroticism. As much as she despised the man she now had in her grasp, she craved the sensation of euphoria that came from the ache she felt when Major Tallmadge gripped her, squeezed her, and demeaned her. 

With John gone and no longer guiding her, what better option awaited her anyway? Her life was doomed to be wrought with misery. Why should she waste energy fighting that? Who better to bring that misery than the man who had sent her brother to the gallows? 

They toppled onto the table and the lid to her meal slid off with a loud rattle. No doubt the back of his uniform was being stained with whatever slop they’d dared to offer her. The way he’d cried out when she’d pierced his bottom lip prompted a shudder, followed by a deep throbbing between her thighs, causing her to grind against his lower half. The taste of iron was heavy, staining her lips a deeper shade of red than the carmine dye she applied daily. Oddly enough, she thought she liked it. But then he pushed her away just enough to appraise her with wild eyes, unsure if he was more offended or disgusted. 

"Madam," he choked, "we...w-we..."

No words escaped her parted lips as she gazed down at him with a dull panic simmering in her gut. His next gesture, however, surprised her in a way no other action could. Tallmadge brushed the hair back from her eyes. Though her brow transitioned from furrowed with fury to quirked with confusion, the loathing burning in her eyes remained bright and white hot. 

The blood was smudged across his mouth, his expression one of complete and utter shock. Was he astonished? Was he angry? The fact that he was physically stirred didn’t need more confirmation than the obvious erection hardening between her legs as she straddled his pelvis tightly. Still no words, only appalled panting between them. In an instant, Tallmadge swiftly leaned upward, capturing her lips in a fervent, violent, and delicious kiss. 

His touches were frenzied, starved, and violently passionate, serving to heighten her arousal as he handled her roughly. Her heat felt electric, aching, and in dire need of him to rutt up into her as hard as he could. What was happening? What had he done to her? 

“You contemptible knave,” she snarled through a moan. Rocking her hips back and forth, every brush against the bulge in his breeches sent shivers straight upward and made her whine sensually.

“You bloody repel me.” 

Already slick with want, her splayed skirts hid the evidence stained on his fall flap. Louisa clawed at his queue until she’d tugged it free of its ribbon. Then she bit down hard in the crook of his neck, aiming to draw more blood. If he bled, he hurt. And if he hurt, maybe he’d hurt her in return.

“I don’t think you could get me to completion if you tried. You don’t have the bullocks to please a woman.”

Louisa still writhed and wriggled about in his hold, prompting Benjamin to tighten his grip. "Please," he begged again. Finally, she offered a grudging nod. He mirrored her nod and then slowly, slowly, relinquished her wrists.

For one deceptive moment, it seemed Louisa might actually keep her promise, but then a defiant spark erupted behind her eyes and she launched herself forward, tightly wrapping her legs around his waist. Far too much happened next for him to become scandalized. She snagged her nails across his neck, and then a cry of pain caught in his throat once she smashed her forehead abruptly into his, leaving him disoriented as a haphazard of colors danced behind his lids.

Stumbling backwards, Benjamin collapsed atop the table, twisting his hands through her skirts and attempting to heft Louisa off of him just as her teeth pierced into his bottom lip. The taste of blood invaded his senses, and then her lips soon followed, pressing and pulling with a bruising intensity that made his head swim.

He felt disgusting, depraved, and breaking the kiss with a shivering breath, Benjamin peered back at her in wide-eyed bewilderment. "Madam," he choked, "we...w-we..." There is no we, he could practically hear her scream. Swallowing, he tried to ignore the way Louisa straddled his waist and arched into his hips; of how violence was the only touch he'd grown accustomed to, and thus, her attack felt normal and acceptable and deserved.

Brushing the hair back from her eyes, Benjamin attempted to salvage this with a hint of care -- he was a gentleman; he was determined to be a gentleman -- and yet with the blood smeared across their lips and the deep, primal ache slowly tenting his breeches, there was no way this moment could be saved. And once he fumblingly crashed his mouth back into hers, groping and pulling at her petite frame, he spiraled them headlong into the arms of the damned.

Sarah hadn't cared for him either -- she'd hated him -- and as Benjamin clumsily rocked Louisa's hips into his erection, he realized that he was never meant to be loved.

Perhaps it was much deserved.

[pinnithin-writes]

Breaking the Circle - Part 29 2099 words.

Hartline stood on the beach alone, watching the waves hush in and out. It was a calm night, and the sea was a slumbering animal for now. They studied the waves, the dark ink wash of the water, the intermittent points of light reflected from the sky. Everything shimmered. It wasn’t hard to believe such a thing - alive, dangerous, powerful - was ruled by a god. Possibly was a god. Antioch’s story was only further confirmation of what they’ve suspected from a very young age.

If they walked into the water, would they make contact? Would they eventually meet this entity in the waves? Antioch saw god against their will; had paid for the encounter with their life and would do so again. Would Hartline die if they willingly went looking for god?

They examined their own thoughts. There was a delicacy required about this, and Hartline had never been very good at that. Contacting another deity felt inadvisable, somehow, and Hartline wasn’t quite sure if the wrongness came from instinct, the way they were raised, or Telis herself meddling with their desires. Did gods get jealous? The entire governing principle of the Mortal Coil was balance in all things - no Sister was stronger than the other, they feed into one another, they give and take. Introducing a third player threw off that balance. And Hartline didn’t even want to touch the possibility of more than just three gods out there.

The water, turning icy in the early weeks of Venodale, lapped at Hartline’s bare feet. They shivered. They had spent some of their best and worst moments in the arms of this ocean. It felt violating, in a way, to know that whatever entity governed the sea had watched it all happen. Perhaps they didn’t care enough about the affairs of humans to bother paying attention. The ocean took away life as often as it supported life, utterly indiscriminate.

There was the hangup, Hartline realized. Life and death bled into all things, so it was hard to tell where one deity’s influence ended and another began. The fish Whitecap built its industry on kept an entire population alive. Telis had a hand in that, so was the sea not also hers? The sudden, dangerous monsoons were responsible for countless deaths, and generations of fishermen called the sea their final resting place. So there was Soyinka’s hand.

Did they share creation? Did they create the sea? Could gods create other gods? Were some more powerful than others? How did this entity beneath the water come to be, and how did it feel about being shadowed by the celestial juggernaut that was the Mortal Coil?

What ate at Hartline the most, though, was Antioch’s resurrection. They were painfully, violently jealous of that fact. And even though Antioch had come back different, changed, Hartline found themself wishing Reynin could have come back too, even if it made him different. Hartline knew they would love Reynin in any form the two of them took, so they thought surely they could love a different Reynin, altered by death.

But it wasn’t Hartline’s decision. If it had been they would have already made it. They dug their toes into the sand with frustration, thinking themself in circles, unable to do anything but question. They left the beach more troubled than they’d been when they arrived.

Antioch was executed three days later. A public hanging hadn’t happened in Hartline’s lifetime, but several of the elven churchgoers remembered when it was a more common practice. Hartline had been expecting… more, somehow. A trial, at least. In retrospect, they should have known better than to hope for fairness from the United Temple. Antioch threatened the sovereignty of the Sisters, so nothing could save them from their fate.

It was a cloudless day in the market quarter. The breeze blowing in from the sea was cold, but the sun beat hot on the back of the crowd gathering around the gallows. Hartline wondered who had been responsible for erecting the dour structure. The consistent hammering of nails in wood, saturating the most crowded part of Whitecap, was a stark reminder that there were consequences to defying the church. To spitting in the face of Life and Death.

Disgusted with themself for being a bystander, Hartline remained on the fringes. They recognized acolytes and priests amongst the spectators, a few villagers they’d interacted with, and a number of strangers who just happened to be in port for the grim occasion. The stalls and shops were all closed for the afternoon. A few people had even brought their children.

Whitecap’s meager force of watchmen was present – a grand total of three men, on the verge of retirement, and a large reason why the church was such an overshadowing fist of law. Constable Jobe, a bearded man Hartline had personally tangled with many times, surveyed from the foot of the structure. Hartline’s attention, however, was more focused on the participating Soyinkans. Two escorted Antioch, two more flanked the platform, and two followed behind Nieven Ulatris, who climbed the steps with a solemn air.

Hartline’s stomach roiled at the ceremony of it all. The procession was selling it well, making it out to be a righteous thing, a good thing, the deserved comeuppance of a dangerous extremist. Hartline’s Codex weighed heavily in their pocket. Whether they agreed with the text or not, the church claimed to follow its teachings, and nowhere in verse was the decision of life and death delegated to priests. Hartline searched the crowd for Haemir, hoping to see at least a small margin of opposition, but he was nowhere to be seen. Washed his hands of it, as he always did.

This was wrong. This was wrong. This was wrong, wrong, wrong. Hartline hated themself deep in the pit of their stomach. If Reynin was there, he would have tried to put a stop to it. He’d have found a way to state his case respectfully and diplomatically, in a way that appealed to the people’s empathy. He could always paint a scene in any color he wanted. Hartline could only see the painful, indifferent blue sky.

While Antioch was moved to their designated place on the platform, Nieven stepped forward to address the crowd.

“Greetings,” they began. Their voice rang clear and pronounced over the market square. “The reason for our gathering is unpleasant, but necessary. I thank you all for bearing witness to the act of justice taking place here today. May it serve as a reminder that, while we must constantly strive to put violence behind us, serious crimes deserve serious punishment.”

They went on to pontificate at length about law and order, the protection of truth, and the Sisters’ guiding hands over everyone present – yes, even this poor, hateful sinner. They emphasized the necessity for unity between the church and the village, promising that through the Mortal Coil, all would be safe from those who threatened the natural order of life and death. Hartline, who had heard much of it before, tuned in and out. Their gaze was on Antioch, facing down death with their eyes rolling. Cynical to the end.

As the noose was fitted over the prisoner’s head, Hartline scanned the faces in the crowd. It was some consolation that a few people appeared mortified, but most looked on with curiosity and several outright jeered. Nothing this momentous had happened in Whitecap for quite some time. Antioch was well known, but not well liked, and talk of their death would persist for weeks to come.

Nieven finished their speech and turned to Antioch, expression disdainful. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Hartline looked back to Antioch’s face, squinting in the sun, praying for them to see sense. Lie, they urged, just lie. Lie and live another day. The noose hugged their throat like a viper.

Antioch leveled the head Soyinkan priest with a dangerous smile, all teeth, wild as the sea. “I’ll be back,” they promised. “See you soon.”

Nieven’s expression was calm and placid as ever, only a brief twitch of the scar on their cheek betraying their rage. They gestured with a long hand to the attendant at the lever.

It was a quick, painless death. The heretic’s neck broke when the rope went taut. A few gasps rose up from the crowd. Silence followed, the body of the accused swaying in the sea breeze, and Hartline found they couldn’t look now that it was over. After a long moment, a ripple of murmurs broke out and the audience began to disperse.

As the crowd thinned, Hartline recognized a troupe of fishermen approaching the platform. Several of them had worked with Antioch in life, hauling nets alongside them day and night. One of them spoke conversationally with the constable, gesturing to the corpse swinging from the gallows. Hartline approached against their better judgment. The guilt wouldn’t let them walk away.

“Just doesn’t feel right,” the fisherman said, “leaving ‘em up there to collect flies.”

The remaining handful of villagers nodded their agreement.

Hartline was able to contextually gather the request as they listened along. They wished to remove the body from the square and tear down this morbid monument in the heart of their city. Give Antioch a little dignity and lay them to rest in the arms of the ocean. A burial at sea was, after all, traditional for someone of their profession.

Nobody mentioned that Antioch had already been buried at sea once before.

Nieven caught the conversation happening below them and rapidly descended the rickety stairs. “I’m sorry,” they said pleasantly, smoothing down their robes, “I thought I heard discussion of desecrating a corpse.”

Constable Jobe came to the fishermen’s defense, summarizing their request and explaining the tradition. “It’s pretty common here,” he said. “Most folks who can’t afford a funeral with the church do it this way.”

Nearly everyone present would go out that way, when their time came. Hartline probably would have, too, had they never been brought to the church in their youth. The handful of stragglers nodded and murmured assent.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” Nieven replied. They flicked their hand, as if attempting to shoo the fishermen away. “This blasphemer has expressed numerous threats to the church and its people. Threats that affect not only my community, but yours, as well.”

Jobe’s eyes raised briefly to the corpse overhead. “Begging your pardon,” he said in a gruff voice. “They’re already dead.”

“How very observant of you, officer,” Nieven answered him with a smile. The ocean wind tossed a lock of their hair out of place, which they tucked away gracefully as they explained, “The body must now be burned, blessed, and scattered. This is how Il Ocade treats all abominations, to ensure they rest peacefully and meet Soyinka as intended. The United Temple has its customs too, gentlemen,” they inclined their head to address the group at large. “Even if there’s no real danger of this individual ever rising again.”

Hartline finally broke their silence. “Then why do you have a problem with it?”

Nieven’s eyes lanced over with a look that could cut. “This doesn’t concern you, Mister Hartline.”

Hartline folded their arms and ignored them. “I’m just saying,” they persisted. “If Antioch was full of shit about coming back, why can’t these guys just take the body?”

“Unfortunately,” Nieven said emphatically, “the accused squandered their funerary privileges when they slandered the Sisters and threatened this church.” They motioned at one of the acolytes on standby. “Do cut that horrible thing down,” they directed.

Hartline could feel an old familiar anger bubbling up in their chest, the hot, flagrant grief of injustice. They took an obstinate step closer. “You’re afraid they were telling the truth,” they said. “Just admit it.”

Nieven’s response was to backhand Hartline so violently they went sprawling. They skidded over the cobblestones, splitting open their palms where they caught themself. Constable Jobe, the fishermen, and the acolytes looked on with alarmed expressions, but no one moved to assist Hartline as they staggered to their feet again.

“Honestly, Mister Hartline,” Nieven lamented, calmly shaking out their hand. “I thought you’d have grown out of this behavior by now.”

Hartline fixed the priest with a dark, accusatory stare, positively burning up inside, hating them and hating them and hating them. “You know,” they snarled, their cheek stinging with pain, “one day you’ll die too.”

Nieven met their gaze, unintimidated, as the shadow of Antioch’s corpse swayed over their face. “Of course I will, child. Death awaits us all.”

[gemalawasliveblogs]

Hey, it's Terezi! She's also easily the meanest and most effective troll, even Karkat mostly comes across as silly whereas Terezi immediately tries to hit where it hurts...and phases John, later. She's also the only one to successfully sabotage the kids' session, killing a John and a Dave, even if she really wasn't happy about the actual result of her actions. Rose, however, is not phased by Terezi's attempt at all, even as Terezi continually tries to fuck with her. Terezi says she wants to stay mad forever, and then ends up dating Dave for a while and having a flirt with John much later on (and if you count postcanon, a fling with Rose). She's as comically macky on the humans as Karkat is. But also, lucky us - Terezi's linear, unlike some trolls (looking at Karkat and Kanaya on this one).

It's kinda funny that the two trolls who have end-of-comic canon romances with humans (it's at least seemingly the case for Karkat, definitely for Kanaya) are also the two who troll them the weirdest. I also like how the moment she finds something in common with Rose, Terezi changes gears...though, Rose has no way of knowing that hatefriends is an actual thing for trolls (yet). She also gives us our first instances of canon Classpects (her own, Tavros's, Karkat's, and Aradia's). Also, Terezi is the most hateful to the humans as of yet...but also the most helpful, directly telling us about things like Classpects, Paradox Space, and Exiles right away. She really is the incarnate form of a veteran player in a game who just immediately helps while being a dick. It's also our first hint that SBURB is not about saving or rebuilding the world...but something else entirely. Also, Terezi funnily enough gets tired of explaining and fucks off to when Rose knows more. Hussie also has a LOT to say here. I'll put it under a cut, because this is getting long.

Right here, this is it. This is when the story blasts off with virtually nonstop troll interaction. It pretty much never looks back. In hindsight, the complete takeover of the story by the troll stuff was inevitable. Because of the way they're being introduced slowly—a mysterious conversation here, a wild and colorfully eccentric new character there—they all seem pretty intriguing at this point. It's easy to take trolls for granted as almost the center of the story when you already know about them and have been exposed to them before even reading HS. But man, when this was all just emerging for the first time, through fast and loose storytelling methods, this was Hot Fucking Stuff, let me tell you. People were psyched. By saying "authored by the constellations," I really wonder if Rose, clever person that she is, already picked up on the fact that the twelve losers in her trollslum are zodiac-themed? I know a bunch of readers picked up on it from just a few of the troll handles. Seeing all twelve handles at once makes the theme pretty obvious, but only seeing a few at a time takes a bit of deductive reasoning. It's not instantly evident that "gallowsCalibrator" could be referencing the mechanics of a scale, or that gallows are associated with harsh justice. Or even "adiosToreador." You had to think, like, hmm... Oh, I see, bullfighting. Something about a bull... Oh, I get it now—scales, bulls, Libra, Taurus, twelve characters, it's the damn zodiac. This is how puzzles work. GET IT????? This one section contains a huge payload of lore being revealed. Points that could have been roughly deduced earlier are now being explicitly confirmed, along with the introduction of some entirely new ideas. There's important stuff here, which maybe bears reading a couple times to make sure you've got it all. Thank god it's being conveyed through leet speak in all caps. Terezi was the only one who went about this in a fairly sensible way. I guess once Vriska got around to her trolling stunts, she was pretty logical and effective about it too. It's just too bad her actual goals were destructive, vainglorious, and kind of stupid. That's her brand, though: cooking up smart, cunning ways of achieving incredibly ill-advised goals.

[shewhospeakswiththunder]

Perhaps you’re feeling bored at home or, if considered an “essential” worker like me, you need a little fun and stress relief. Here is my masterpost of fic recs from my two years of reading so far. Maybe you’ll find something new, or reconnect with an old favorite. Either way--

Enjoy! 😷💕

Reylo Fics that Deserve All the Love

Near Kinsman by englishable

Englishable is just one of the best writers I’ve encountered in fandom. This historical western mail order bride AU is top notch quality.

The Masochism of Self-Defence by greyorchids

The Reylo dynamic in this Boston PD AU is steamy, but also heartfelt. 

So Much Thin Glass by walkingsaladshooter

Never knew I loved modern day Gothic AUs until I ran across this one.

Heaven Forbid by DarkKnightDarkSide

I was stunned by the author’s creativity in this Priestlo fic. So smutty. So... inventive 😉🔥

Sonder by deathbyhumidity

Two strangers passing each other by on the train. Soft, dreamlike, somber, poignant. Modern AU.

And Still I Would Remember by Inmyownidiom

A Victorian era AU of two souls that parted and come crashing back together.

So, You've Decided to Glamour a Human Girl. by selunchen

Faeries AU! Ben, a fae, and Rey, a human. Shenanigans ensue.

Live Long, and Prosper by SaintHeretical

For the Reylo Trekkies. Hell, even if you don't do Star Trek, read this. PHENOMENAL.

Mr. Solo & Miss Wellfound by LinearA

“Regency/Victorian AU, Ben sees Rey's stockinged ankle by accident.”

Diyari by Nervoustouch

Modern archeologists AU. Snarky banter with dashes of Indiana Jones, The Mummy, and Sahara vibes.

Drawn to the light of your burning sorrows by Kyriadamorte

The Mothlo AU you didn’t know you needed. Both gritty and soft.

Crown Glass by RebelRebel

Fantasy AU, with lots of beautiful imagery and engaging character dynamics.

Kohelet 3:16 (Call Me A Cab) by LinearA

NYC Jewish Leia and Ben. Skillfully layered plot, nuanced characterization. Smut is HOT.

By the Shores of Varykino Lake by hipgrab (merrymegtargaryen)

Unhealthy dynamics, definitely read the tags. “There’s a lot of fucked-up-ness”, in the author’s own words. But it’s good writing. Fair warning.

Let Me Put My Darkness In You by ArdeaJestin

Canonverse. Hux is an insufferable, pompous ass and Kylo Ren writes terrible, melodramatic poetry.

Wintertide by Zabeta

Whimsical and primitive in turn, this lives up to the style of a true fairytale AU.

The Forty Thieves by PoetHrotsvitha

Peaky Blinders/Gangsters AU. Rey starts as Ben’s bartender and ends up as so much more.

I Said to My Soul, Be Still by LinearA

Dark!Rey takes her man. 🥵🔥💕

Hux's Rousing Pep Talks by Riels_shorts

This fic is hysterical. It’s not Reylo, and I don’t care. My list, my rules.

It's All I Can Do To Leave You Alone by TazWren

Office AU. Silly, spunky, with a bashful Ben. 

Sip the Honey Sweet by dietplainlite

Anne of Green Gables-esque/Edwardian era AU, the title really says it all.

The Pull to the Light by HarpiaHarpyja

Entrancingly macabre. This modern/fantasy/monsters AU catches your attention from the get-go, and never lets you off the hook.

lay then the axe to the root by sciosophia

All the Bronte goodness, plus smut.

The Golden Age by TourmalineGreen

Golden Age of Hollywood AU in which Ben is a jaded actor in serious need of an image fix, in the form of fresh-faced actress Rey.

Never Be Your Curse by Kate_Reid 

Kylo Ren is a go-go dancer in this AU. That was enough to get my attention 😘

Gallows God by Killtheselights

Bursting with deliciously grim imagery, an intelligent take on Norse mythology.

Thunderstorms, Clouds, Snow, and a Slight Drizzle by aNerdObsessed

Who doesn’t love an ugly sweater Christmas party? Ben Solo, that’s who. All the nostalgic wintertime feels in this modern AU.

Though My Soul Has Set in Darkness by englishable

It’s not long, but it’s good. A lyrical dive into the mindspace of child Ben Solo. A true gem. Also not technically Reylo. Still don’t care.

I Dare You by tinylittlebrain

Daredevil Kylo has pissed off ER doc Rey Kenobi for the last time. Spicy!

stuck in colder weather by redbelles

Professor Ren stops grad student Rey from biking home in a snow storm. And takes her to his home. You can guess where this goes 😉

Between Sky and Sea by nessalk

Serious Indiana Jones vibes with a Caribbean flair. Painstakingly researched, and moments of true beauty and joy.

But Before Tomorrow by Kate_Reid

Such good writing. Canonverse.

The Sword of Prince Hector by englishable

Exploration of what redemption might feel like for Ben, canonverse. 

if compassion be the breath of life, breathe on me by Victoryindeath2

All the angst and unknowns that we were left with in the wake of TLJ are soothed in this canonverse piece.

build a ladder to the stars by redbelles

An exploration of events post-Crait. Fantastic, beautifully written.

nor are we forgiven (which brings us back) by TolkienGirl

Both Kylo and Rey get to see what life would have been like if they both got exactly what they thought they wanted after TLJ. Fascinating read. 

Forsworn by Erulisse17

This Mando/ST crossover has everything you could want--action, witty banter, space romance! So much fun!

Reylo Favorites & Classics

One Shots

59 Minutes by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)

For Science by KyloTrashForever, ohwise1ne

He Made It Through the Wilderness (somehow he made it through) by LovesBitca8

light carries on endlessly by lachesisgrimm (olga_theodora)

Grey by ocjones

The Idiot's Guide to Flirting by Violetwilson

High School/College AU

I Caught Fire by KyloTrashForever

Mountain Springs High School by animal

Epithumia by pontmercy44

Soul Searching by OptimisticBeth

Office/Workplace AU

Sensual Storytime by andabatae

The Food of Love by LovesBitca8

Historical/Dystopia AU

Hiraeth by Ferasha

a manner of virtue by neonheartbeat

The lamb's thirst by animal

Wanted by Inmyownidiom

She Who Would be Queen by sasstasticmad

go i know not whither and fetch i know not what by voicedimplosives

ABO

Knot My First Time by KyloTrashForever

Canonverse/Canon-divergent

variations on a theme of you by diasterisms (Reydar)

i will be the wolf by diasterisms

Sky Marked Souls by AnonymousMink

The Death of Kylo Ren by nymja

World In My Eyes by sasstasticmad

i'm always in this twilight (in the shadow of your heart) by diasterisms

Catch Me I’m Falling by violethoure666

Sword of the Jedi by diasterisms

You'll Be the One to Turn by postedbygaslight

Dark Crown by Violetwilson

Harry Potter AU

Nocturnal Studies And Other Peculiar Magic by WaterlilyRose

Otherwise Modern AU

Pretense by Celia_and

Insta-heart by slipgoingunder

Serotonin and Dopamine by pontmercy44

The Elusive Mating Dance of the Porgus Adorabilis by andabatae

Hanging by a Moment by crossingwinter

WAR DOGS by fulcrumstardust

miles from where you are by Mooncactus

Charcoal by luvkurai

Stay by jeeno2

coarse and rough and irritating by frak-all (or_ryn)

Blades Crossed by the-reylo-void (Anysia)

Embers by sciosophia

Mitan, Midi by animal

Janus by englishable

Say My Name by Graendoll

Thank You for The Music by hipgrab (merrymegtargaryen)

darling, so it goes by akosmia

This is the Sign You've Been Looking For by RebelRebel

Broken Things by midnightbluefox

One-Night Stand by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)

The Rebel Side of Heaven by jeeno2

On The Bumpy Road (To Love) by violethoure666

we could plant a house, we could build a tree by Like_A_Dove

I’d Like My Obituary to Hint at a Sequel by Violetwilson

Only If You Want To by Violetwilson

Not Reylo, Still Awesome

Gingerflower/Gingerrose, Armitage Hux/Rose Tico 

Between Sand and Sea by Brit Hux-Tico (birchwoods01)

If Ever I Would Leave You by Weddersins

Her Yellow Rainboots by Weddersins

Merrical, Cal Kestis/Merrin (Jedi: Fallen Order)

The Stars Alight by FlyingMachine

Heavy Ice by FlyingMachine

Caltrilla, Cal Kestis/Trilla Suduri (Jedi: Fallen Order)

No One Else by xanderwilde

call it what you want by xanderwilde

tear you to pieces by xanderwilde

Dramione, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy (Harry Potter Universe)

Now Is A Gift by SenLinYu

Sex and Occlumency by Graendoll

Zutara, Katara/Zuko (Avatar: the Last Airbender)

oracle bones by an orphaned account

Fics by Me

Virtue Ethics

Reylo College AU (completed)

Dr. Ben Solo, adjunct philosophy professor and part-time martial arts instructor, discovers a young woman in his Intro to Philosophy course whom he thinks may not actually be enrolled at the University.

Chiasmus

Reylo Role-reversal canonverse AU (WIP)

Scourge of the galaxy, Kira Ren, is tasked by the First Order to eliminate the last of the Jedi. When she captures hotshot podracer Ben Solo to extract Luke Skywalker’s location from him, things do not go according to plan. 

This Dance of Light, This Sacred Blessing

Snapshots of a modern Reylo AU. Smutty, prosey one-shot.

Listen Up, Kid

Canonverse Reylo Post TLJ one-shot

The ghosts of Supreme Leader Kylo Ren's past are back to haunt him with a vengeance. A well-meaning, familial kind of vengeance. Or, A Star Wars Carol.

Ben’s Body

Reylo Modern AU (completed)

Rey is an up and coming sculptor specialising in human shape and form. Her new next door neighbour has a body to die for and she's determined to preserve it in marble forever. Now she just has to convince dashing and reclusive Ben to model for her. Preferably naked.

Growin’ Up

Reylo High School AU (completed)

Ben Solo was supposed to only be ruining his own life with his bad decisions. Rey Niima was just trying to pay attention in class. Both get stuck in detention.

Seven Texts, 2 AM

Reylo Modern AU, smutty one-shot

Ben has good reasons not to have sex with his neighbor, Rey. She has other ideas.

Song of the Forest

Reylo Fantasy/BatB/Fairytale AU (completed)

Once upon a time, a girl with an unknown past appeared on the doorsteps of a lord’s manor, and now the forest at the edge of the lord’s property is calling to her.

A Season of Frost & Warmth

Modern Reylo P&P AU (completed)

When Ben shows up to a Halloween party with no costume, it only confirms Rey’s certainty that he is the world’s biggest jerk. Until it comes to light that maybe... he isn’t. 

Follow Me Home

Modern Werewolf Reylo AU (completed)

Rey gets stone drunk and brings home a big cute husky she found in an alley. The next morning, she finds a naked man built like a fridge sleeping on her living room floor, and no dog in sight.

The Gentleness That Comes

Reylo Modern AU one-shot

Underground boxer!Ben is resigned to his life of violence, until he meets a pretty new bartender one night.

Unlikely, Unbidden, Unbound

Gingerflower canonverse AU (WIP)

General Hux is imprisoned by the Resistance when the First Order falls. He had known his death was coming, it was simply a matter of course. He’s disappointed to learn the Resistance has other plans, and an unwavering policy of giving people second chances.

@thereylowritingden @reylofic @nancylovesreylo @grlie-girl @lilia-ula @greyforceuser @tazwren @mhcalamas

[cupcakemolotov]

Feel Like Home

Had a really strange dream last night and @goldcaught talked me into giving it some shape and writing this out.  Just a quick little thing, will expand on it if I have time/the muse for it. Not really a huge number of warnings for this one. Does reference past potential sex but no details. Just magical shenanigans and Bonnie and Caroline being besties.

Caroline bit her lip, studying Bonnie’ face. Her best friend rarely wore such a worried expression anymore, but in this case she couldn’t blame her. In less than forty-eight hours, she’d dropped whatever her witchy business had been, gotten a cat sitter, and hauled butt to New York City. 

And all because Caroline had called her with an SOS. 

Fingers curling into her palms, she glanced around the high rise apartment they were currently camped out in. The space was gorgeous, all warm wood and wide open windows with lush furniture that invited you to linger. The floor was saved from being chilly thanks to a collection of gorgeous rugs, the art work on the walls tasteful and heart-breakingly gorgeous. The bathroom had been copy/pasted directly from her dreams and the tub was gorgeous and everything she wanted in life. 

It was an apartment that she coveted, and one that was millions and millions of dollars outside of her price range. Just the view of New York City alone was a multi-million dollar addition. But her favorite fall jacket had been hanging in the closet, she’d found her awesome, weekend date to-go bag on the side of the bed. It had included a change of clothes and kick ass underwear. She felt safe here, welcome, and had absolutely no memory of how she’d gotten here or whose cologne lingered on the sheets.

“Okay,” Bonnie said finally, rubbing the wrinkle line between her eyebrows tiredly. “I’m really, really glad you called.”

Caroline eyed her doubtfully. “You don’t look happy.”

Bonnie waved her hand. “That’s not about you. Not entirely, at least.”

“Well, I’m not sure who else I’m going to call when I wake up in the middle of supernatural shenanigans, but I’m glad I called you too.” Taking a deep breath, Caroline looked at her beseechingly and tried not to panic. “How did I get here? I couldn’t find any texts explaining and we both know I'm a serial texter. How did I not send you fifty messages about my underwear choices for my date? My shoes? My dress? There isn’t a single hair check selfie on my phone, Bon. That’s impossible. I don’t just let someone talk me into visiting New York without at least a pro/con list two pages long.”

“Oh, I am aware,” Bonnie muttered. Running a hand down her face, she grimaced. “You can look at my phone for evidence later. But, Caroline. You’ve lived in New York for six months. You have a super cute closet for an apartment. I have pictures of that to prove it.”

“I…” her words died at the sincerity on Bonnie’s face. Blowing out a breath, because Bonnie Bennett would never lie about something like this, she cast her thoughts back and slowly nodded, relief heady. “Okay. Yeah. This spring. I remember packing my things in my rental and mom looking both relieved and tired.”

“Yeah, she’s wanted you to spread your wings for a few years. After the bout with cancer, you were being stubborn.” A lifted brow. “It was such a surprise. You. Being stubborn.”

Caroline gave her a disapproving look. “Do you have to say that like it's a bad thing?”

A small smile touched the edge of Bonnie’s mouth. “I guess it depends on what you are being stubborn about. Do you remember that big fancy PR party you were being forced to go to about six week ago?”

“No,” the word was said with great reluctance. “I feel like I should though.”

“Oh, you definitely should.” Bonnie drawled. “I didn’t attend and I know a great deal more about it than I would like. Clothes, shoes, departmental involvement and the dick from accounting who spends way too much time looking at your ass. Your boss, who insisted you go because she keeps thinking if she plays nice you’ll one day introduce her to your ex-werewolf boyfriend.”

Caroline did not want to talk about Tyler. “Your point, Bon?”

“You don’t remember Klaus.”

The name tugged something in her chest, a sense of awareness she couldn’t name, and Caroline frowned in concentration. “Who is Klaus?”

“The Black Dragon of New York.” At Caroline’s blank expression Bonnie sighed heavily. “Well, that confirms some of it at least.”

“Bonnie…”

“You moved to New York six months ago with a job offer for a Public Relations firm that specializes in supernatural reputations.” Her lips twisted in something like an amused grimace. “Your… history with witches and werewolves left you overqualified for the entry level position, as did your original internship in Chicago.”

Caroline pursed her lips. “By overqualified, that better be a comment on my personal awesomeness and not that they hired me because I dated a werewolf. That would have annoyed me. Why didn’t I remember that? I should have remembered that.”

“Because you don’t remember Klaus.”

Which made absolutely no sense to Caroline.

“Do I need to open wine? There was quite a collection that I am going to have no qualms drinking if that would absolutely help me understand the words you are saying.” Caroline threw her arms open wide. “I’m sure whoever lives here can afford it.”

“Spirits, if I thought it would help, I’d have brought tequila.” Bonnie looked heavenward and slouched backwards, something like gallows humor darkening her face. “Klaus Mikaelson is a dragon. A black dragon, specifically. He has been on top of the food chain for centuries, Caroline. He picked New York as his seat of power this century because he was bored in Europe. When he got here, he ate half the witch council, flattened three werewolf tribes, and casually made alliances with the necromages as if they were cute but annoying pets. He owns New York. He rules North America with a very, very short temper. Hell, I think he built this tower to his exact specifications because he now lives exactly one foot higher than every other building in New York. You would not believe how that man likes to lord over people.”

Caroline tried to recall the differences in dragon color and why that might be important and came up blank. “You’d think I’d know who he was with my job description,” she said faintly. “That seems like the kind of detail I would pick up on. And did you say this tower?”

Was there a floor above her? She hadn’t really spent a lot of time looking out the windows. She should have located the elevator and checked to see if it listed the number of floors. Figure out which one she was on. Something to do later then. 

“This tower. But more importantly, you’d probably have remembered that you tossed your drink in his face six weeks ago at said PR Party.” Bonnie’s expression grew even more pained. “I’m told the flowers he sent you after that were very nice.”

Caroline tried to suck in air. “I did what now?”

Bonnie nodded, motioning with her hand towards the bedroom. “Two days ago, you went on what I’m pretty sure was your third date. And you apparently stayed over.”

Eyes widening comically, Caroline glanced around the apartment again, trying to comprehend was she was seeing with new eyes. “Bonnie Bennett, I would remember fucking a dragon.”

Bonnie snorted, slapping a hand over her mouth as she visibly struggled not to laugh. Her shoulders shook, breath escaping in faint, choking noises. 

“This is not funny,” Caroline rasped, launching to her feet. Meeting her best friends watering eyes, she waved her hands dramatically around them. “You are telling me that I have been sleeping in Klaus Mikaelson’s bed for at least two days? And no one has been here to chuck me out? He hasn’t asked me to leave? Did he go on vacation? If he bailed on me like that and didn’t even so much as leave a note, I don’t care how hot he is, that was probably our last date.” Her eyes narrowed. “I even packed my cutest underwear. He did not deserve them.”

“You can keep the underwear thing to yourself,” Bonnie said hastily, voice still trembling with laughter. She cleared her throat, and tried again. “And to answer your question, no one knows where he is. That’s the problem. Forty-eight hours ago, the witch council announced they had successfully overthrown his hold on the city. Two hours later, you called me and said you couldn’t remember where you were or how you got here, but you had a really strong feeling that you shouldn’t leave.”

Caroline sat back down slowly. “What does that mean?”

Bonnie shook her head. “I don’t know. But what I do know isn’t… great.”

Caroline tried to smile. “That’s not really comforting.”

Bonnie ignored her. 

“Klaus brought you back here, to his… for lack of better word, lair. You probably had sex.” Bonnie’s nose wrinkled, but she kept going. “Dragons are possessive at best, Caroline. I don’t know what is going on between the two of you, but it took him over a month to sweet talk you into a date and yet you are keyed heavily enough into his wards that you were able to invite me, a witch, into his home without either of us getting fried.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. You also feel safe enough here that you didn’t bolt home in a walk-of-shame after waking up alone and suffering from amnesia. ” Her eyes were solemn, not a hint of tease on her face. “Whatever spell was used, it has wiped Klaus from your memory and life so thoroughly you don’t have so much as a text or picture linking back to him. So either you were caught up in the crossfire of the spell that took him out or the entirety of New York has also forgotten him. And none of those options are good ones.”

Caroline swallowed past her suddenly very dry mouth. “What does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” Bonnie said with a sigh. “But his magic is here, you're here. Which means he is alive and we are probably going to have to find him. And we will have to be careful, because if anyone from the council realizes that you’re probably the key to finding him, they’ll try to kill us. I’m already not super popular with some of the older factions, I cannot see this helping matters.”

“What, wait?” Caroline said up straight. “Why do we have to find him? Aren’t there other people who can do that? Didn’t you just say he rules this city? Surely he has like, minions or something that can do the heavy lifting?”

“If only.” Bonnie nodded towards her wrist. “But why us? Because you’re wearing his magic, Care. And while I definitely do not approve of dating a dragon, no matter what I think about it, there is no way his magic would cling to you if you hadn’t agreed to it. Probably. Which means when you aren’t dealing with a weird jedi mind wipe, you care about him. For some reason. And the Caroline I know doesn’t leave people behind.”

Caroline glanced down at her wrist and swallowed hard. Now that Bonnie had pointed it out, she could see the gold shimmer of a mark she couldn’t decipher beneath the familiar blue swallow on her right wrist. That mark felt… right. Familiar, as if she should have known it was there the entire time. Blowing out a breath, she glanced back at Bonnie’s unhappy face and grimaced. 

“I bet we can find tequila if we look hard enough.”

[newsiegirlscout]

Comfortember Day Four: Anxiety!

I should not have spent as long on this as I did, but fanfiction is always cheaper than therapy.

@brushes-of-sage, because they need both and the best I can offer is some Team Awesome in these trying times.

Varian had to be the worst liar Eugene had ever seen. 

All second-guessing, slipshod explanations; he animated everything so much more dramatically, and one look at the way his eyes darted away usually gave away exactly what (and where) he was hiding. 

And Eugene had never seen it any more clearly than in the way Varian said “I’m fine.”

*******************************************************************************************

Project Obsidian had started as one of Varian’s ideas, a second-wave of the infamous Rrrrooster; originally, it had started as a counterattack, a way to slow down the moonstone’s power.

After Cassandra kidnapped him, his blueprints increased the strength of the catalyst and the firepower drastically; in Varian’s own terms, he moved on to figuring out how to slow down Cassandra. Eugene himself understood little of it when Varian explained it for the first time, but whistled upon seeing the sketches amidst masses of scribbled notes and smudged ink. 

“So this will stop her in one shot?” 

“Yeah! It should, anyway.” he said, sipping delicately from the coffee Eugene had insisted he wouldn’t like, and wincing to confirm he didn’t, “Once it hits black rock--which her armor is made out of--it will crystallize immediately and immobilize her within six-point-seven seconds--or was it seven-point-six? The blowback on it is enormous, though, heh, since the liquid amber serum is dispersed at three hundred fifty miles a second, so, heh, might want to make sure your soldiers are up-to-snuff on their armor upkeep.” Varian rubbed his own shoulder and laughed softly. “You need to deploy the trigger slowly, too--got a heck of a burn from the experimental trial, testing the prototype with a nonreactive compound.”

“Y’know…” Eugene said softly, “If we can get a decree passed for it, then I can put it at the front of the attack, but I think you’re the best man for the job.” 

His eyes widened, coffee mug crashing to the floor. 

“Eugene-” he said, hands shaking, “I-uh-I couldn’t, I mean, your soldiers are s-so much better trained--” 

There it was--the Captain of the Guard smirked, hearing the trademark voice crack, stutter, and haphazard excuse. Typical translation: I’d love to, but--was it don’t want to? Still nursing a crush on the notorious dragon lady, maybe? 

In the silence, Varian stumbled for words clumsily, looking valiantly for a way out. “And besides, ah--” he flushed crimson, gesturing to his shoulder, the opposite of the one he’d claimed to have burned. 

Since when has this kid been worried about getting hurt? Wait--

And it clicked, as the alchemist stood up and closed his singed sketchbook, sliding it into his satchel even as the pages crumpled. 

I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m going to hurt someone. 

“Hey, not so fast now…” Eugene said in the softest tone he could, “Kid, has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?” Then, with a bit of a chuckle, “And I mean terrible, you could pick that up from the next kingdom over.”

Varian cracked a small smile, rubbing his shoulder sheepishly. “That bad, huh?”

“I mean, we can talk about whatever you’re hiding later, but as the former Flynn Ryder, it’s my duty--no, my destiny--to impart upon you the key to getting away with murder.” 

“I’m insulted, Eugene, you say this like I haven’t.”

The elder of the two winked and gave him finger-guns. “Well, technically, you didn’t manage to carry through on either of those things, so here’s how to charm the court--and the audience--alike.”

*******************************************************************************************

“So by instituting Project Obsidian into the royal force, I think we could protect Corona against future attacks from Cassandra.” Varian finished, concluding his presentation at the royal meeting. Nigel leaned forward, and there was something in his...energy that made Varian uneasy. 

“Interesting proposal.” he said quietly, staring straight at the alchemist, “Why the direct action, in particular? I believe the princess last spoke in favor of peaceful efforts….on several occasions.”

And suddenly, the room grew hot. 

A current-red flush spread from Varian’s face down to his neck, and his chest tightened. Vaguely, he was aware of the sliding of Eugene’s chair against the floor, the almost colloquial way he challenged the royal advisor with a smile--”Well, Nigel, I believe you last spoke in favor of dragon elimination, how’d that work out for you?” but the jostle of Eugene’s hand against his shoulder was the first breath of air before falling under the riptide. 

And Rapunzel held her hand to him desperately as Queen Arianna pulled away from the golden fragments, crystallizing, fractalizing, reaching towards her--

And Lance offered him a second chance as Andrew was armed with the most volatile compound Varian had ever created and he had no promise, no word, and no trust to offer them--

And Cassandra screamed as the automaton’s mechanical claws crushed her ribcage (he’d never heard her scream before, and the ha that registered immediately in his mind was one of the first things to haunt him in prison)--

And he was going to give her a silent death on a hair-trigger impulse.

Nigel’s quill scratched across the parchment, and he was going to prison, he was going to be tried at the gallows, he was going to be hanged without a single person to speak for him--

He barely managed a half-bow and a quick approximation of “Thank you for your time” before his throat closed 

And he left the palace grounds as fast as his boots could carry him

And he sobbed.

*******************************************************************************************

Eugene’s boots crossed the castle garden lightly, and Varian turned away as soon as he saw them. 

“Had a feeling I’d find you here.” he said quietly, sitting a few feet away on a beautifully-painted swing between two flowerbeds. “What’d I tell you? All about misdirection and a cat’s tone, you can get anything you want. We have a tentative act, minus Rapunzel’s signature, and, I think, one of history’s greatest lieutenants.” 

“Go away, Eugene.” he said softly, “Delegate someone else, I--” his shoulders shook, tears pooling in his eyes as he huddled closer to the trees “I-I’m just going--I’m just going to hurt her.” 

“Now, what is it?” he said playfully, digging his heels back into the soft ground, “Speculative hypothesis number one: Varian of Old Corona has proven effective the use of amber as non-lethal force.”

“Premise.” he grumbled, as Eugene swung back ever so slightly. 

“Not just a science rule?”

“A hypothesis is an idea of what will happen, a premise is a presumption that it will.” he said, though his tone was flat and emotionless, devoid of any enjoyment. 

“Premise numero due: Cassandra of Corona has given the conditions for permission of strong force if necessary; Princess Rapunzel has requested the strongest non-lethal force available.

Premise three: Varian of Old Corona is a good person, and wouldn't hurt anyone.”

“Even you can’t get--get away with that, Eugene.” he snapped, even as the panic set back in because he would, and he had, and they knew it. “Even if I didn’t want to--half my stuff blows up anyway, and I--if I made the wrong decision too fast, I could--”

The Captain knelt down closely by him, lifting his chin up softly and smiling. “But you won’t.”

Varian got no further into his argument before he was wrapped in a hug warm and strong and trusting enough, and just for once, everything was going to be okay. 

“Tally-ho, then, lieutenant,” Eugene said brightly, patting him on the shoulder, “Our training awaits.”

“Tally-ho, Captain.” Varian said quietly, smiling.

[rielstarr]

Not Your Founding Father (Mouthpiece)

Taanshi kiyawow, Riel dishinikashoon. I descend maternally from seven Métis families from the historic Red River Settlement in Manitoba and Batoche, Saskatchewan. Notably, my Berthelett ancestors worked for the North West Company and were community leaders in the Métis settlement of Pointe a Grouette before it was systemically overtaken by French settlers who claim we formed no roots in the area (St. Onge). My Caron ancestors from Batoche fought in the North West Resistance alongside Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont. My fifth-great-uncle Jean Caron Sr. fought alongside his sons at the age of 52; his house still stands in Batoche to this day, where thousands of Métis make pilgrimages every year to remember the events of 1885. 

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT LOUIS RIEL?

I can only read his words and imagine what guidance he would have provided had he lived longer than 41 years. Or imagine myself in his place as he walked to the gallows on November 16th, 1885. As a child when I visited Manitoba my grandpa and my kokum would take me to visit his grave, just as they did with my mother, who named me ‘Riel’.

We are inextricably linked through time and across our homelands. What’s in a name? Unasked for? Not yet earned? I do not yet know who I am to my people but I carry an important name and the trickster’s spirit, and with these comes the responsibility of understanding and revealing cultural and societal truths (Stimson).

I AM STILL GROWING INTO MY NAME

TODAY I AM A MOUTHPIECE

AN INTERPRETER OF THE PAST

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE TRIAL OF LOUIS RIEL?

July 31st, 1885, Riel gives his final speech. Historical weather data shows that it was a hot day in Regina. Cooler than the days before but still hot with the swelter of the plains. He spoke long, in English, not the language of his birth.

“The day of my birth I was helpless and my mother took care of me although she was not able to do it alone; there was someone to help her to take care of me and I lived. Today, although a man, I am as helpless before this court, in the Dominion of Canada and in this world, as I was helpless on the knees of my mother the day of my birth. The Northwest is also my mother; it is my mother country and although my mother country is sick and confirmed in a certain way, there are some from Lower Canada who came to help her to take care of me during her sickness and I am sure that my mother country will not kill me more than my mother did forty years ago when I came into the world, because a mother is always a mother, and even if I have my faults, if she can see I am true, she will be full of love for me.”

“When I came into the Northwest in July, the 1st of July 1884, I found the Indians suffering. I found the half-breeds eating the rotten pork of the Hudson Bay Company and getting sick and weak every day. Although a half-breed, and having no pretension to help the whites, I also paid attention to them. [...] We have made petitions, I have made petitions with others to the Canadian government asking to relieve the condition of this country.”

“We have taken time; we have tried to unite all classes, even may speak, all parties.”

“During my life I have aimed at practical results. I have writings, and after my death I hope that my spirit will bring practical results.”

“When we sent petitions to the Government, they used to answer us by sending police [...] There are papers which the Crown has in its hands, and which show that demoralisation exists among the police, if you will allow me to say it in the court, as I have said it in writing.”

“If I am blessed without measure I can see something into the future, we all see into the future more or less.”

“The only things I would like to call your attention to before you retire to deliberate are: 

1st That the House of Commons, Senate and Ministers of the Dominion, and who make laws for this land and govern it, are no representation whatever of the people of the North-West.

2nd That the North-West Council generated by the Federal Government has the great defect of its parent.

3rd The number of members elected for the Council by the people make it only a sham representative legislature and no representative government at all.”

“I have never had any pay. It has always been my hope to have a fair living one day. It will be for you to pronounce - if you say I was right, you can conscientiously acquit me, as I hope through the help of God you will. You will console those who have been fifteen years around me only partaking in my sufferings. What you will do in justice to me, in justice to my family, in justice to my friends, in justice to the North-West, will be rendered a hundred times to you in this world, and to use a sacred expression, life everlasting in the other.”

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT LOUIS RIEL?

I have done this walk in my mind so many times that I have lost count. Historical accounts of the day note that it was a chill, clear, autumn morning. The prairies stretched out, silver frost bathed in sunlight. He faced it all and was brave until the end. Despite reports of it being destroyed, former premier of Manitoba Duff Roblin and his family, and the RCMP gloat over the supposed fragments of the rope that hanged the traitor, and I wonder how long the rope would be if you lined up every single scrap of twine rumoured to be the noose that killed Riel?

Does it make you feel less guilty to call him a founding father? Canadians are only able to remember him through his murder and not through his words that can still animate his presence. Written words and objects once owned are ghosts, extensions of our bodies and spirits. When I read his letters and journals I see the urgency in his penmanship, and I think about the sweat and invisible oils of his skin becoming a part of each page as he wrote and wrote and wrote. I wonder where each journal travelled with him during his exile, and why he chose each book. There is one with an illustration of a guardian angel watching over two children, and I wonder if he thought of himself as one of them being shepherded through life by his ancestors. 

Canadians argue about whether or not Riel should have been hanged instead of talking about what he had believed and said and accomplished, and what he wanted to do with the rest of his life had it not been cut short. 

No one talks about his dreams or his fears, and he did not live long enough to answer the question of if he would have wanted to be revered as the first premier of Manitoba. Or, in response would he ask for clean water for all, to stop the sweeps, and starlight tours? Would he ask for the Winnipeg police to search the landfills for our murdered women instead of brutalizing and killing us? Would he call for an end to all colonialism and genocide? Or would he simply ask for a place to smudge and be in peace for a while?

When we send petitions to the government they still answer us by sending the police, before turning around and calling Louis Riel a founding father (Riel).

Canada cannot answer these questions for him by giving him that title posthumously, only sit with the discomfort of blood-soaked hands, and wonder how different things would have been had that sacred fire not been snuffed out in 1885.

I CANNOT ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS FOR HIM EITHER.

AND I AM STILL GROWING INTO OUR NAME.

[adventuresloane]

The Wanted (Revised Hurloane Fic) -- Chapter 2

Summary:

“They had nearly as many names as they had stories told about them. Ram. Raven. Red. Devil. Deputy. Outlaw. Short ‘n Long. Ghosts of the Rapids.”

Hurley’s a bounty hunter, the Raven is an outlaw, and the desert is a lonely place.

(The 50k+ Old West Hurloane AU Where Hurley Becomes A Thief Too that no one asked for. Updates every Friday. Edited and reposted from an old version of the story–more significant changes to come in later chapters. T for non-graphic violence and discussions of death/injury/trauma.)

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They woke up that night to a hand shaking their shoulder.

They sat straight up and tried to pick out shapes around them. The sky was still dark as fertile soil, and it bore plentiful stars.

In front of them was Bane, crouched on the ground with a lantern only bright enough to light both of their faces. Glancing over, Hurley saw the two black lumps on the ground that were the still-sleeping forms of Barbra and Jerry.

Bane looked at them pointedly for awhile, then stood. Nothing further was needed for Hurley to know that he wanted them to follow.

He led them to where Hurley had been hoping, maybe against hope, he wouldn't. He came to a stop a few meters in front of the door to the wagon. They looked at the ground.

"Just because you went against my orders once and had it work out," he said quietly, "doesn't mean I expect you to make a habit of it."

They bit the inside of their cheek. It was the only way of holding their tongue at the moment.

"You suppose we were too rough, then? That's why you insisted on undoing the ropes?"

They sighed. "Sir, I just don't believe in kicking people when they're already down. She's not a threat now."

"That doesn't surprise me." He paused, then gestured toward the wagon a little with the hand holding the lantern, causing it to swing on its creaky metal handle. "Let me tell you something about that one. And it's not one of those bullshit tall tales about the Raven that people like to pass around. This is true."

They looked away from the locked door and back to him.

"She's been caught only once before, as far as anyone can confirm. Another posse from another town did what we're doing now, only they didn't do it nearly as well as they should have. Most of the accounts say that they just bound her wrists, left her tied to some tree or post near their camp, and then went to sleep. Well, you can imagine what happened. Someone like that, unguarded, you can bet she got away in the night." He let out a sigh through his nose. "That was nearly five years ago. Compared to now, the Raven had only had a handful of robberies under her belt, smaller ones. And it was well before she killed anyone."

"Sheriff..." they said, but they took too long thinking of where to begin, so he went on.

"I'm saying this because I like you, Hurley. I think you're like me. Both of us feel the need to protect the innocent as much as we need to protect ourselves, and you'll do what you have to do to protect. And when you get more experienced and maybe become my deputy--" They looked back at him with a jolt at that. "--since I get the feeling that would suit you, you can start making more judgment calls yourself. But keep this in mind when you do. Had that first posse handled her capture properly, Abernathy would still be here today, not to mention everyone else she's thought to have killed in other towns, and I think about that. And do you know what else? Maybe if she'd gone to prison at that time five years ago, she would've eventually gotten out and lived the rest of her life, instead of facing the gallows. I think about that with these people, too."

Their mouth felt dry as they took in the night air through it. They had been ready to defend their decision before, but Bane was maybe the one person who knew how to shut them up.

He sighed again. "Anyway, that's it. I don't mean to berate you. Listen. Tomorrow morning, I'm going out to scout for signs of other bandits reported to be in the area. I'm leaving you to stay behind and keep guard." He spoke emphatically as he brought out his rope. "The Raven is to stay tied before then. I'll undo the ropes tomorrow, but not until she's worn out enough. I don't want you or anyone else here put at a disadvantage around her."

Hurley mulled over whether to push back. Maybe they should've been honored to have such a responsibility, but on the other hand, it seemed pointed and deliberate that he would choose not to take them along when they'd been the one to catch the Raven. But they thought better of it anyway. "I won't be, sir."

"Good." He then went over to the wagon and took the lock off the door. Then, with the hand that was not holding the rope, he pulled out his gun. He looked back at Hurley, and while they did not follow him this time, they only met his eyes for a few seconds before glancing away.

Just because they didn't see didn't mean they couldn't imagine. They heard a thud, then a louder one followed by a grunt. Bane said something that they couldn't make out. Then, quickly, he was outside again.

"I think we ought to get some sleep," he said before walking past them. They paused before heading back with him toward the fire.

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

Just after first light, as promised, Bane left with the other men. As Hurley had realized while lying awake last night, he was also leaving them with an opportunity.

They opened up the wagon almost as soon as the others were out of sight. "Me again!"

"Outstanding," muttered the Raven, glancing heavenward as though locked in place half-way through an eye-roll. To Hurley's relief, but not to their surprise, Bane had made good. She was back to only having the chains around her ankles.

They knelt in front of her and reached out. "Hands, please."

"You think I'm going to just let you cuff me some more?"

"I'm going to shackle your wrists, but then I'll undo the ones on your feet so you can walk around better," they answered patiently. "It's not good for you to have your ankles shackled too long. It'll start to get painful."

"Take off the ones around my feet first, then."

"I'm not stupid, uh, Devil, was it?"

"Then I'm not letting you do shit to me."

Hurley thought, then shrugged. "I can't make you do anything. All I know is it's not good for you to be chained the way you are for too long, and I thought you'd want to change that sooner rather than later. So you don’t get hurt.”

She didn't respond, which, they hoped against hope, meant she could be thinking it over. Without warning, she thrust out her hands toward them. She had what could nearly be described as a pout on her face, like Hurley used to see on their younger siblings, and it was difficult not to snort out a laugh at it. Those were simple and fun memories, so Hurley tried to enjoy them without thinking too hard about them.

After they had finished fastening and unfastening chains, they turned to her and waited for her to make eye contact. When, after what must have been half a minute, she finally did, they nodded their head in the direction of the open wagon door and then stood. Bane's warning rang through their head, and they quickly countered it by reasoning, again, that Bane had never actually told them not to let the Raven out of the wagon. It wasn't as though Hurley were leaving her unguarded, as those others had. When Bane came back, he would see how well they had the situation under control, in their own way.

They turned when they reached the threshold to find that she was still sitting on the floor, examining them with one cocked eyebrow. "Don't you want to go outside? You can if you want." She only kept looking at them, so they went on. "I think it'd be a good idea for you to walk around more, for one. So you're not just sitting and getting stiff."

There was another beat. Then, gradually, she started to stand. Just by looking at her, they'd been able to tell right away that she hadn't slept well, but now they saw the full extent of the toll the night had taken on her. Her movements were slow, and she tried not to move her arms more than she had to. She paused and winced more than once when she moved the wrong way. Bane was right. Hurley was definitely at more of an advantage since she had been left tied overnight.

"Can I ask you something?" They didn't wait for a response before going on, "Why didn't you try to shoot me when I caught you? You could've. I saw the gun they took off you."

They waited some time for an answer. For awhile, it seemed that she would not give it at all. Then: "I wasn't quick enough. What else would you expect?"

But it wasn't just a matter of not being quick on the draw. She hadn't even thought to reach for it while her hands were free. They considered it as a new, welcome wind blew. The air had been largely still and hot for the many days that they had been in the desert, and they liked how the gusts came on with the sounds of ocean waves in their ears. They realized that they missed rain.

When they looked back at her, she was looking out at the horizon with her face to the wind. "Here's another question, then."

"Is this an interrogation?" she quipped without turning their way.

"It's curiosity. I was wondering...I heard you got caught once and got away."

"I did." The Raven's smile was sudden, startling, and bitter.

"How?"

"What do you think, Red?"

"I think I should've known by now I wouldn't be getting a straight answer."

"Well, it's not that it's a story I don't like telling," she said. "Just not to you. Not keen on letting you know how I got away."

The wind sent the loose sand skittering across the ground like sideways rain. As they watched it, Hurley said, "That's not what I meant. I mean, you just ran off into the desert alone and survived?"

"Sure." She shrugged. "I don't have a problem out here. That's just other people."

"Alright, but--" They stopped as they saw a near-empty canteen start to roll away and jogged to retrieve it. It was nearly lifted off the ground before they caught up to it.

The Raven watched them while, around her, loose sheets used for bedding began to flap. Concern was on her face now, they saw.

After a while, her focus went back to Hurley. "Storm's coming."

They looked at the vast, featureless sky and then back to her.

She just rolled her eyes. "Don't be stupid. Grab some wet bandanas so we can put them over our faces," she said before she went back into the wagon, shutting the door behind her.

They had to pause to ponder what that meant. Slowly, they looked back at the sky, and initially, there was nothing. But as they squinted against the brightness they saw, where the cornflower sky met the near-orange earth, there was a thick and muddy smudge. It stretched almost as far as they could see to the left and right. A thin line on the horizon, until, too soon, it wasn’t, and it grew and bloomed before their eyes into clouds, the towering clouds of a storm, except that these were billows of dust. Too big to go around, too quick to outrun. Even if they had had any option other than staying put at the camp.

They watched it until they couldn't anymore. They turned toward the wagon as the wind buffeted hard. After a few steps, they stopped, then grabbed a few pieces of cloth and soaked them with water from the canteens. It wasn't until they came back into the small space that they remembered that the wagon didn’t lock from the inside.

They couldn’t even cough. That’s what they found when the dust storm finally came, after the wind shook down the wood of the wagon and made it creak, after the sun no longer shone. They couldn’t cough, no matter how desperately they wanted to, because immediately after a coughing fit, they would automatically gasp and inhale, and what they would inhale was the air that was now more dust than air. They had hoped that the lack of openings in the wagon would prevent the worst of it, but even so, the fine, fine dust came in through the single tiny window and through the gaps between the slats and through the crack in the door. They felt that every time they breathed, their lungs were filling and turning to a pair of hourglasses. All of this came to them in darkness. They didn’t open their eyes once as the storm enveloped them, though they felt the dust collecting along their squeezed eyelids. It stuck to the corners of their eyes where the tears gathered as they struggled not to let out a cough.

The chill, though, was what surprised them. As soon as the light was blocked out, the heat, once stifling inside the enclosed space, rapidly drained away. In its place came a cold that soaked into their bones. They had always known that the desert could be as cold as it was hot, but it was always the cold that came as a shock to their bones.

It was only when, after gods-know-how-long, the wind stopped that they looked. The haze of unsettled particles in the air gave the world a sepia tone. But they made out the small piles of dust along the edges of the floor.

The Raven was still beside them. As they turned to look at her, they found her with her eyes closed and her head slumped against her shoulder. She breathed, faintly.

It took them several tries before they could get out a sound, with the way their throat had become coated in a layer of dirt. “Hey,” they finally managed to croak as they moved in front of her, “are you--?”

In an instant, a pair of hands slammed against their sternum and knocked them back. They caught themself on their elbows before their back could slam into the ground, but by that time, the Raven had gotten to her feet, suddenly not dazed in the slightest. Before they could do anything, she reached into their pocket and pulled out the key to the cuffs.

Hurley rolled over to look at her upright. She had started to move away, fumbling with the key as she struggled to unlock the shackles despite the small amount of slack the chain afforded her. That bought the time they needed. They grabbed her and dragged her to the ground with one pull. She growled, but before she could push back, they shoved her chest back to the ground with one hand and then pinned her hands above her head with the other. She flexed against them for a moment before going still and wild-eyed, with a heaving chest.

They stared down at her. “You know, you’re not as strong as you look,” they said hoarsely, still panting.

She just huffed.

Once they got the key back, they got up to push the door open, slowly. They tried not to gasp when they saw. Beyond the camp, the nearby desert looked nearly unchanged--the sand was still just sand. But where the sandstorm had come up against the features of the camp, it had done damage to them. Dust and grit piled like snow. They thought about all it must have gotten into, the food and the tools. Where they saw things that had been there before missing, they wondered whether the objects had been buried or blown away.

It took a moment for them to breath again, but they did. It still hurt a little to do so.

They stepped into the reformed outside in order to do what they always did, which was to deal with what was in front of them--with the fire pit full of dust, with the water full of dust, with the dust that had formed drifts against the wagon and buried the wheels hopelessly. "It's okay," they said, maybe to the Raven behind them and maybe just to themself. "We're okay."

When the posse was not back by midday, Hurley began to wonder.

When the hottest part of the day arrived, when the whole party would normally stop and rest, they thought that perhaps the others were doing that now, wherever they were.

When the sun began to sink, they waited for far too long to build a fire. They weren’t especially good at doing that, anyway--with how long it took them most of the time, they might as well wait around for the others to return rather than struggling themself. Anyway, Bane normally built the fires, letting one strike of flint against flint ignite the tinder. They had even seen him do it with sticks, faster than anyone else. When the color had left the sky, they finally went at it, and the effort they exerted was almost enough to get them to stop shivering as the evening chill overtook them.

It wasn’t until quite late in the evening, when the wail of the coyotes had been ongoing for hours and they had nothing to do but sit and listen to it, that they could no longer prevent themselves from considering it. The storm had been moving in the same direction that the posse had been traveling, far faster than they had been traveling. This part of the desert was flat, far more open and barren than the areas full of sheltered canyons or stone formations. Was there anything out there to act as a shield from the wind? Was there anything there, even, that stood taller than Bane? How much worse would it have been without the wagon as shelter?

They struggled, more and more, to keep their feet on the ground. To keep from feeling that they were floating detached from the rest of the world in the night. Like a boat whose moorings had silently come loose and had begun to drift out to sea unnoticed in the dark. They tried not to believe that they were alone. It didn’t work. They were.

They stared and stared out to the east. There was no way that they could have slept, even if they had felt like it. Eyes were on them, always. Even when the Raven seemed to sleep--which she didn’t much--they didn’t allow themself to be convinced. They had learned their lesson. They knew they were being scrutinized. Of course she would try anything if they so much as managed to doze, and while they had dropped the key into their boot so that she didn’t have a prayer of sneaking off with it without their noticing, her quickness still posed too much of a risk. They kept on looking as yellow leaked into the sky with the approach of morning. Everything up to their eyeballs ached. They had not even blinked enough overnight.

They almost surprised themself when, as the sun began to shine at full strength, they uttered quietly, "They're not coming back."

"Oh, your posse?" came the response from behind them, from the woman lying on her back and lackadaisically tossing a coin into the air, though they had been speaking mostly to themself. "Yeah, I doubt it. Not if they got caught out in that shit."

They physically flinched. Having someone else voice it was somehow even worse. But they had to refocus. Not think about what had happened and not think about the likelihood of Bane’s return in the future. There was only what was in front of them. They took a breath and turned to her, saying, "Since we might be out here together for a bit, I figured I'd ask again. What's your name?"

With a degree of petulance that would have been impressive if it weren't infuriating, she replied, "The Raven."

"Right. What's your actual name that you use when you're not hiding behind a criminal alias?"

"Devil."

"Okay, listen up. I know you're giving me a hard time because you're upset and need to take it out."

"Oh, please don't misunderstand me. I'm giving you a hard time because it's funny." She rolled over onto her belly. "And what do you mean we're gonna be out here for awhile?”

“I mean I’m getting you back to Goldcliff.”

She hissed a laugh. “Right. Of course. By yourself, with your broken, horseless wagon.”

“I didn’t say I’d try to do it by myself.” They came closer to where she sat, next to one of the half-buried wagon wheels. “All I need to do is keep us alive until someone passes by who can go and get help.”

Her expression changed back to ire now. “You’re out of your fucking mind! There isn’t nearly enough traffic this far out here to just wait around for some rescue. We’ll die sitting around here first.”

“No, we won’t,” they said simply. They had made a promise to Bane. They committed, then and there.

She only glowered at them. Then, quick as anything, she went to knock them off their feet, but they were expecting it this time, and they weren’t slow either. They pushed her back down and, before she could recover, clapped a chain around her foot. They attached it to the unmoving wheel and then backed away from her.

They shouldn’t have looked back. They wouldn’t have, had they not heard the chains jingling. She pulled back on them for a bit, as though to test the strength of them, and then stopped. Something shifted. She quit resisting, suddenly. The fight fled her in a way that was more obvious to them than when she had first been caught two days ago. (Had it really only been two days?) She stared at the line of metal links that swung lightly between her ankle and the wagon. Then, she hunched her shoulders and pressed her mouth and nose into the collar of her duster. Her thick hair kept most of her face concealed.

It was just for now, they reminded themself. Just until they knew what they were doing.

[kauriart]

Sunshine in the Dark Chapter 4: Savor

A NSFW Dragon Age fic  |  Alistair x Bethany  | Read it on AO3

It is three weeks to the day when the darkspawn attack.

Bethany wakes in the dead of the night with a lighting bolt of awareness clanging in her brain. The sharp, discordant shapes of dangerous things moving across her mind.

Alistair is already awake, rolled up onto his hands and feet, expression stiff and hard-mouthed, confirming what she already knows — how does she know?

“Darkspawn,” he hisses.

Alistair moves with a swiftness rarely found in men of his size, and is armored and armed before she finishes fumbling with her boots. He whistles, the sound low and quiet, and the closest Wardens look up at once. He gestures hastily and they scurry off in separate directions, beginning some sort of battle formation. Then he turns back towards Bethany, snags her neatly around the collar, and starts to haul her to her feet.

He fumbles around in the pack round his waist, and comes up with a handful of something that he promptly claps over her mouth.

Whatever it is sticks unpleasantly to the roof of her mouth as she chews, but she manages to swallow, and begins to shove herself into her armor. But she’s stiff fingered with dread, and fumbles her breastplate. It drops to the stone floor like a jangled, broken bell.

Discordant.

Disastrous.

She can feel the dangerous shapes of the darkspawn that lurk in the back of her mind, rush forward towards the sudden sound, jittering with excitement. Whatever is happening, she’s just made it worse.

Alistair hisses through his teeth, fingers working at the fastenings of her armor. Strapping her in with a sort of desperate efficiency. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Bethany couldn’t agree more.

He squeezes her hand once, tight through the leather and greaves, and snags the shield still on the ground. He looks to the other Wardens, forming in three tight knots, and then back to her. Anguish and fear shivers across his face for a moment before his expression solidifies. “Stay close to me.”

“Alistair, if I die and you haven’t kissed me, I’m going to be very cross with you,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

He blinks at her, startled, then snags her round the waist with his sword arm, tugging her suddenly close, and presses his mouth to hers.

It is a little thing, as kisses go. Brief, and warm, and soft as the sunrise. And she thinks her heart might burst with happiness.

“There,” he says a little breathlessly, “but don't think you can die on me now, Bethany Hawke.”

“I love you,” she sighs, because she does.

The confession slips out easy as breathing. And it's probably a terrible thing to say when they are three heartbeats away from being beset by a darkspawn horde, and it makes Alistair look a bit like she's just gutted him.

But, well… it’s true.

And she can't be sorry about it.

About any of it.

And the magic is right against her skin, light as a soap bubble. And easy. And good. The way magic ought to  feel, like a living extension of her own body. She casts a barrier around Alistair. The air around him glitters with magic, gold-speckled motes clinging to his hair.

Alistair blinks, expression still staggered. “What?” He croaks. “You— Beth, I—”

But the rest of what he says is swallowed by the sudden rush of armored footsteps and the hiss-snarl of darkspawn voices, as a wave of the creatures comes rolling into the open space at the end of the tunnel.

What she knows of darkspawn she learned from her family's terrible, tragic flight from Kirkwall. From her brother's death. From Wesley’s death. From watching peasants and soldiers flee the advancing horde. It's what you do when the darkspawn approach — you run, or you die. And Bethany has seen people trample each other to escape the darkspawn, but she has never seen this.

The darkspawn break against the first knot of Wardens; the team under Stroud's command. She can hear the impacts of bodies as they slam against the Warden Commander's enormous shield, the rake of claws on metal and the shriek-scream of darkspawn meeting swift and vicious ends. In this the Warden's work in perfect synchronization. Hacking away with an emotionless focus that speaks only of routine. There is no fear. No triumph. Only the simple task of death-dealing. Only Wardens at their duty.

Bethany has no such experience. Panic, rage, and elation bounce around inside her — for no matter her fear, she feels a savage joy at each darkspawn the Wardens fell.

One less darkspawn. One less terror stalking the night. One less. One less. One less.

With each darkspawn that falls, perhaps there is a sister somewhere who gets to keep her brother.

And then the darkspawn flood the clearing, and there is no time for distraction. Each cluster of Wardens is drawn into battle. Bethany’s group loops her into the center of their formation, keeping her from direct conflict with the darkspawn.

She focuses on defensive spellwork — maintaining this many barriers across an ever-shifting battlefield is difficult enough, and to her the darkspawn seem like and endless writhing mass.

The battle ebbs and flows as the Wardens gain, and lose ground in turns. They’re holding overall, Bethany thinks, slowly pushing the darkspawn to the edge of the clearing. Slowing tearing their way through the mass of them. But it is brutal, wearying work.

In front of her, Alistair slips a bit and swears breathlessly as he regains his footing. The ground beneath them is becoming precarious. Slick and uneven, littered with the remains of fallen darkspawn, and pieces of rotting armor and weaponry.

Stroud is like a beacon for his Wardens, bellowing clipped orders across the battlefield, the formations shift and reform at his command. They press forward in a brutal attack that leaves a trail of dead darkspawn behind them.

Then all around the clearing the Wardens sort of freeze up all at once. A half-second hesitation that rolls across them all like a wave, like a stutter in time. And then Bethany feels it — huge and hulkling and more menacing than anything she's ever felt. As if dread was given physical from, and set loose upon the world, and—

Oh god oh god—

—it comes barreling out of the darkness, scything through the Warden formations, sending everyone scattering.

Bethany freezes, horrified.

An Ogre.

Just like the one that killed Carver. Tall as a building, and hulkling with muscle and a huge rack of twisted horns. It has something rotting caught in the crest of its armor, and it smells like horror and death and behind it Lothering burns, and people are screaming in the distance, and her mother's cries are shrill and terrified, and she has her fingers in her fucking hair doesn’t she? — didn't she?

And Carver steps between her and certain death.

Only it’s— The man before her has nearly three inches on her brother, hair sparking copper in the dim torchlight. Broad-shouldered. Stalwart. Shield in hand.

Alistair.

And she will be damned if she stands by while someone she loves is taken from her again.

All at once her magic rises up inside her, against the flimsy dam of her control, and bursts out in a flare of blue-violet light.

The ogre's head swivels in their direction.

Alistair turns, eyes bright with fear. “Bethany! Don’t—!”

But she has her brothers’ frenzied courage after all, and for the first time in the whole of her life, she need not worry about restraint.

She charges the creature, the light from her staff flaring with blue-fingers of electricity. Waves of magic buffet off of her, pushing Alistair out of the way as though caught up in her current.

A boom-flash of energy lights up the space, casting terrifying, distorted shadows against the walls. The full force of the spell catches the ogre square in the middle, but the creature hardly even breaks stride.

The ogre is quicker than it looks. It grabs her, fist clenched tight around her middle, fingers thick as belt buckles, and lifts her bodily off her feet.

Just. Like. Carver.

And something inside Bethany cracks wide open.

There was a reason the Gallows still whispered of Malcolm Hawke. It wasn’t because he escaped. It wasn’t because he turned a Templar from the Order. It wasn’t because he married the Amell heir. It was because he was terrifying.

Some bloodlines run too close to the fade.

Magic has always been at the bottom of every breath Bethany has ever taken. It’s why she always had to fight so hard not to let it show.

Flame and frost are easy enough. So is lightning. But it's force that comes most naturally to her. Raw power that wastes no effort on elemental vanity. Just will and fury and nothing more.

The ogre raises her to its mouth, teeth like blunted axes strung with black saliva, and below, Alistair is just unhinged, screaming, hacking away at one of the ogre's legs. She can feel the small spawn ricocheting into him, through the barrier she cast. He shrugs them away with his shield, panic lending him a terrible sort of strength. And for a moment the world just stills, going slow and strange and quiet, and she can see it all — the desperate tears on Alistair's cheeks, and the way Stroud has shouted himself hoarse, how Runsk is down to a single axe, and Briggs is on one knee in a puddle of red — and the ogre's massive teeth part in slow motion to bite her in two, breath gusting against her, hot and foul and furious.

The ribbon in her hair breaks, dark curls fluttering away from her face.

And then she shoves — all the promise of her bloodline, all her terror, and rage, and grief, and guilt, and a lifetime of swallowed spells — she shoves it all, as hard as she can into the soft palate of the creature's mouth.

Fist of the fucking Maker.

And the ogre’s head explodes.

And just — Ew.

(Later, she will remember to thank Andraste that she’d had her mouth closed when it happened.)

The sound is worse than anything, like a burst melon, half-hollow, half-squish. It’s spine shudderingly awful enough that it cuts through most of the rage still thundering through her. Especially when the beast begins to collapse in slow motion, still clutching her. She ought to have thought this through a bit better, because now she’s probably going to be crushed to death by its headless corpse, which is just… really unfair.

But she still has a barrier around herself, weak, shaky thing, so she doesn't snap her spine when she hits the ground, but her elbow still bends in a direction it definitely wasn’t meant to go. The pain of it is so lancing that her lungs seize up and she hardly makes a sound. Just a soft little ah, as agony bursts into her like a lightning bolt.

She can feel the startled panic that spreads through the horde, fast as fire. Robbed of their leader the rest of the darkspawn scatter like fish in a pond. One bolts directly towards her, but before she can even think to wrench herself out of the way, a sword punches clean through its chest. Alistair is behind the creature, eyes still bright with a berserk fury. He splits the thing in two, sword wrenching horribly from its sternum up through the top of its head.

“Nnh! Beh—” For a few heartbeats Alastair can barely speak, jaw clenched as tight as a fist. He is trembling. Black blood all down one side of his face. Then he drops his shield with a clang and pulls her against him, hanging on as though his legs can barely support him. “Beth… Maker… I thought—” He presses his forehead against hers. “You were screaming the whole time. Screaming. Screaming. I thought… I t-thought— ” His voice breaks on a sob.

Her arm goes up around him, fingers on the side of his neck where she can feel his sweat and his skin, and his heart tripping over itself with terrified relief.

“Alistair…”

“Don’t ever do that again Beth, please? I—” His voice is suddenly muffled as he presses his face against the curve of her neck. “Just don't. Don't.”

“Oh,” she breathes, as her magic rises up with a sigh, covering him, touching him everywhere her fingers can't. And though she’ll never be even half the healer Anders is, she can feel her magic spilling out of her, buoyed by Alistair's love — Love. How extraordinary —  and she knows he loves her, as certain as his freckles and his kind smile. It isn't possible to have secrets when his skin is all lit up with her magic, and she can feel every beat of his heart, every breath, every shifting emotion.

And she thinks he's loved her all along, from their first hello, and has been trying so hard not to let it show.

And all she can feel is the joy of it.

The pain in her elbow and her ribs dissolves in a warm green rush.

She can feel the other Wardens at the edges of her consciousness, prickly in all they places they've been hurt. But her magic flows like water across the clearing, touching them. Mending where she can, easing where she cannot.

But Alistair doesn’t even notice, he holds her face in his hands, brushing sweat and blood and damp black curls away from her eyes. “Are you alright, Beth? Truly?”

She nods.

He leans against her with a sigh of relief so profound for a moment she thinks she'll buckle under the weight of him. But he tucks an arm beneath her to keep them both upright, and holds her against him.

She drops her head against his shoulder, suddenly exhausted.

The rest of the Wardens look as tired as Bethany feels. Even Stroud seems unsteady. He has a solid streak of blood from his eyebrows to his collarbones.

“Well Hawke.” Stroud says, and wipes at himself with the back of his hand. “From where I'm standing, it looks like that brother of yours rather undersold your abilities." He takes in the ogre's corpse impassively, and the rest of his Wardens, battered and bruised, but whole. "Warden mages," he mutters to himself, "rare as dragon bone, and twice as valuable.”  

***

They leave the battlefield as quickly as they can and walk for a while. Alistair keeps his arm at her waist and she leans against him a bit, until they’ve staggered far enough away that Stroud signals for them to rest. Alistair starts shoveling food into her almost as soon as she sits down. She isn’t hungry, but she manages to eat a little, though she thinks she keeps falling asleep between bites.

Stroud moves through the battered group of Wardens pressing a hand to each one, ensuring for himself that everyone is safe and whole. Alistair lingers at her side, uncharacteristically quiet.

The thing about being so low on mana, Bethany finds, is that it cuts through some of the worst effects of the joining. Presumably she can still sense Darkspawn — and annoy Orlesians — but for the first time in weeks she isn't ravenously hungry, or crawling out of her own skin with lust. And it's… nice, she finds, just being her. She never wanted to be her, not really, not entirely. A her without magic, yes, all normal and neat and of no danger to her family.

But now the magic feels settled onto her bones in a way it never did before, and she’s just…

... content.

It feels easy now, and it never did. And she wonders what it is that shifted inside her.

“You need to eat more,” Alistair mumbles to Bethany, but he doesn’t move, sitting close, long legs neatly tucked against her.

“I’m all right,” she assures him, voice quiet. “I promise.”

Alistair closes his eyes.

They don’t stop for long. Stroud calls for them to march, pressing deeper into a city that winds on and on and on. They pass by an orchard, filled with rows of squat trees, branches heavy with fruit. Alistair props them up against one of the trunks, before he turns towards her, head against her shoulder, and falls promptly asleep.

The eyelashes resting against his cheek are dark and surprisingly long. She doesn't know how she hadn't noticed before.

Alistair isn't the only Warden to succumb to exhaustion. Most of them are piled in companionable heaps throughout the orchard, dozing. Lip is snoring loudly enough that he nearly drowns out Briggs and Runsk bickering about how much of a finger Briggs had to lose before he can rightfully claim it was bitten off by a darkspawn.

"More than that," Runsk insists. "You've still got most of the nail. I once saw a Warden lose an entire hand. That's a nibble, that is. That's an insult. You must taste like proper shite, my friend."

And Bethany laughs. Feeling lightheaded and lighthearted. Giddy with victory, and suddenly brimful of affection for them all, this little blue-coated family.

Halfway across the orchard, Stroud meets her eyes, taking in Alistair slumbering at her side, and the way his fingers are tangled with hers — Alistair has barely broken contact with her since the battle ended.

Stroud gives her a thoughtful look, and an approving nod. The droop of his mustache makes it hard to see if he's smiling; but she thinks he is.

***

When they stop for a third time, they are miles away from the battlefield, and tuck themselves into a low-ceilinged cavern a little ways away from the road. There's a spring there, with a series of little pools, the water, deep and dark and steaming.

Alistair steers Bethany towards one of the pools in the back, with a group of squat, sparse bushes that offer little in the way of privacy. But she finds she doesn't mind. The effects of the joining are dampened — the hunger nearly gone, and the desire is there, mellow and warm, but not demanding — but her connection to the other Wardens remains sharp as ever. Little bursts of bright awareness in the dark, like stars strung all over the night sky.

Bethany runs a hand up the side of her breastplate, where the ogre's claws raked shallow lines into the silverite. "I suppose I'm a proper Warden now,” she muses.

Alistair eyes the marks with a clenched jaw, and doesn’t reply. But he helps her with the buckles of her armor, setting each piece carefully beside the water’s edge, though his own he simply chucks into a pile at his feet.

He pulls off her gloves, one by one, skimming his fingertips up the inside of her exposed wrist. “I can’t stop shaking,” he says, finally, and starts to fumble with the row of clasps at the front of his blue surcoat.

Her hands are shaking too, from mana depletion, as much as the aftermath of adrenaline, and when she tries to work open the fastenings on her own coat, she can’t manage them. A tiny line appears between Alistair's brows when he reaches to help her.

Her coat is heavily stained, more black now than blue. Alistair's hands tremble as he works each of the buttons on her coat open, before helping her out of it. She’s still entirely decent, clad in tunic and breeches and boots, but Alistair seems unsteadier, breath all frayed at the edges. His thumb drags across the length of her collarbone.

“You don’t mind anymore... touching me?”

“Mind?” He stares at her for a moment, expression tender. “Maker’s breath, love.” A crease appears between his brows, and for a moment she’s afraid he’ll pull back, but he reaches up to cup her cheek, thumb just beside her mouth. “I don’t think I can bear not to anymore.”

She tucks her head, and kisses his palm, brief and chaste and Alistair shivers. Then she reaches, and very deliberately untucks his tunic from his breeches.

Alistair takes a ragged breath.

She slides her fingers beneath the hem, finding warm skin that breaks out in goosebumps at her touch. Her fingers twist, catching at the fabric, tugging it off him as he raises his arms up, bending down a little so she can pull his shirt off entirely. She drops it at their feet.

The style of her tunic is a little different. There’s a tie along the neckline, done up into a long-eared bow. His hands shake a little as he reaches, pulling carefully until the knot comes undone. The front of her tunic gapes a little.

“Your ears are very red,” Bethany observes.

“Yes,” he agrees unselfconsciously, and tugs her tunic out of her breeches and over her head in one easy motion.

The air is cool against her bare skin.

Alistair tips his forehead against Bethany's and lets his breath out in a tiny sigh.

She has an enormous bruise across her middle, where the Ogre had gripped her. Magic can heal the hurts, but it can’t always erase all the damage once it’s made; not from a healer of her caliber anyway. Alistair bears his own marks from the battle; a set of bruises on his shield arm, and another on his shoulder, nearly star shaped, earned in the last minutes of fighting.

But they are gentle with each other. And slow. As if this is something to be savored. As if they have all the time in the world as they undress one another — barely touching each other with the tips of their fingers. Undoing belts, and buckles with a careful reverence.

There is no graceful way to help each other out of their breeches and boots, but they manage well enough. Though the blush creeps steadily down the side of Alistair's neck and halfway across his chest. The hard length of his cock stands out from his body.

“The quiet doesn’t keep,” Bethany says. The corner of her mouth crooks up.

“I know," he gives her a wry smile and one last, heated look, and leads her into the pool.

The water is blissfully warm. Bethany makes a sound of deep gratification that definitely makes Alistair’s ears go pinker. He dunks himself entirely, and comes up again with a gasp of breath, shaking the water from his eyes.

He helps her wash her hair first thing. Fingers combing gently through the strands. Even wet it still retains a loose and lanky wave.

"You've the loveliest hair," he husks, winding a damp curl around his finger. His voice is low and reverent, with a hushed sort of devotion. “The loveliest everything, really."

She tucks her cheek against his palm.

"I… Beth,” Alistair looks at her through the fringe of his wet bangs.

And he's no mage but he just makes time stop—

Oh Maker, he’s so beautiful.

— the world going still and quiet beneath his soft brown gaze. And maybe they stand there forever, lost in each other and the beauty of the pools. She wouldn’t mind at all, spending her life just looking at him. His hair wet and dark against his neck, rivulets of water running down the wide span of his shoulders. The way the muscles of his chest move as each breath grows more and more ragged.

“Oh bugger,” he mutters, and reaches for her.

His hand finds her hip beneath the water, and tugs her closer. Close enough that her breasts brush against his chest. She can hear the tiny catch of his breath and her mind all but blanks, overwhelmed by his sudden nearness as much as his nakedness.

“Alistair...”

He tilts her chin gently upwards, voice all husk. “Bethany…”

She raises up on her toes, and he bends his head, and they meet in the middle with a kiss that is more like a promise kept than one broken.

“What about the rules?” She whispers against his mouth.

He kisses her for another solid minute before pulling back with a groan. “I can't— Maker take the rules, Beth, I want—” The rest of what he says is muffled against her lips as he leans in to kiss her again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

His knee slides between her thighs, pulling her against him until there is not even an inch of space between them. Not a hairsbreadth.

“If you don't— I won't— Beth... Beth tell me— If— I'll stop, I'll never— Please…” He pauses kissing her only long enough to drag his mouth alongside her neck, pleading breathlessly against her skin.

She grabs his head, angling his mouth back to hers. But there was a question in there, desperate and inarticulate and a little panicky, and the last thing she wants is for him to regret this tomorrow.

Or ever.

“I don’t want you to stop," she breathes.

He makes a groan that fractures in two, and reaches a hand down between them. For a moment she expects to feel the familiar touch of his fingers, but instead it’s the hot, blunt tip of his cock that he presses up against her.

“You— you’re sure?” He asks. The plea in his voice is obvious, and the tears stand out brightly in his eyes.

“Yes,” she wraps her arms around him, nodding, trying to shift herself against him, trying to make him understand. “Yes Alistair, please.”

He shudders, and presses forward.

But she’s near weightless in the water, and all he ends up doing is pushing her away from him in slow-motion.

Alistair swears, and gives an awkward sort of chuckle, and Bethany feels a fizz of laughter rise through her, because everything about her life is ridiculous.

And wonderful.

For the first time, it’s wonderful.

Bethany kisses him again, delighted.

He hooks his hand beneath her knees, and lifts her, wrapping her legs carefully around his waist. He carries her to the back of the pond, where the rock rises dark and slippery with bioluminescent algae. She can feel the hard stone at her back, and Alistair’s heat pressed all along her front — hard there too where his cock juts against her belly.

Alistair breaks the kiss, and grins. "Shall we try that again?"

“I love you,” she breathes.

“You— what?” He’s looking at her exactly as he did the first time she'd said those words to him, shocked, and startled, his heart cracked wide open with longing. “I… I thought I'd just imagined… Beth, I—” He shakes his head, dropping suddenly speechless.

“I love you,” she says again, watching as the world roll over him with that same tremulous, tender joy. A man who has been given something he desperately wants, but doesn’t believe could ever belong to him.

 “I can’t — Beth, I’m not supposed to — but Maker you must know by now… how I feel.” He brushes a damp curl behind her ear. “Even if… if you…” He shakes his head, not able to say it.

But Bethany slips her hands around the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “I can’t feel it now. The joining. I haven’t felt it since the battle. None of this is going away, Alistair. Not for me. Not ever.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just presses his mouth against hers, edged with a sweet sort of desperation.

She can feel his hand between their bodies as he notches them together, and the sudden surge of his hips. A stretch. A slide. And he's inside her.

Alistair makes a broken sound, half rasp and half husk. And she makes one to match.

He's perfectly still for a moment, trembling, breathing harder than he had at the end of the battle. Dragging air into his lungs as though he'll drown if he doesn't.

She presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck, and he makes another noise like she's gutted him.

They're still for long moments. Touching. Tasting — though Bethany still can’t taste. Content to be connected. Wrapped up in each other, and the quiet intensity of it all.

Then Alistair buries his hands in her hair and slides himself out, slowly, slowly, slowly, before pressing back in. Presses his mouth against her, and she can’t tell if the wet on his cheeks is water, or tears, or sweat, or a little of all three.

She tries to tell him she loves him again, but the words tangle into sighs, into broken bits of sound with no clear meaning. So she hangs on, riding him. Ruined by him. The brutal tenderness overwhelming everything.

Her breath catches on a sob.

Alistair's hips surge through the water, steady and certain. And for all the nights she's spent wrapped up in her own desire, imagining this very encounter, this — now — is a hundred, thousand times better. She can feel him under her hands, shivering, shaking; hear the catch of his breath, and the whispered praise that tumbles from his lips.

She hangs onto him. Soaring. Drowning.

Alive.

And while the desire isn't rending her apart as it had the first time he'd touched her, it still floods her senses. A solid coil of heat in her belly that makes her skin feel tight and hot. And maybe it's the warmth of the water making her dizzy and overwrought and—

“Maker, Beth,” Alistair husks.

Her eyes flutter open, and she swallows back the low keening sound she'd been making.

Maker, if she looks at Alistair now….

He tips her chin up. “Look at me, Beth.” He husks, panting. “I want to see your face when you come. I’ve never seen… Please, love, please.”

She does.

He keeps his eyes on her as she falls apart. Greedy for the sight of her. Her orgasm is different than before, low and fierce as thunder. His, is only a heartbeat behind.

He nearly shouts her name as he comes. And staggers, nearly tipping them both into the water. Bethany hangs on through the aftermath, Alistair’s breath harsh against her cheek and little bursts of starlight behind her eyelids. He braces both hands against the stone behind them.

"That—" Alistair gasps, “that—”

Bethany smiles against his skin. “Maker be praised,” she suggests.

“Oh, absolutely,” he chuckles breathlessly, and kisses her.

*

4/5 …… Read it from the beginning

[tgarnsl]

Pain, tender, ground and BONUS tea

Pain

The silence that followed was that which follows a broadside: a terrible, heavy thing that stretched the seconds into hours and the minutes into years. Hornblower hung there, suspended in his misery like a man at the gallows, choking on his grief.

“William,” he gasped, releasing William’s hands. “William, speak to me, please.”

But William could not. The confusion on his face had been replaced by terrible anguish; he shuddered and collapsed in on himself like a ship breaking beneath a great wave, drawing one knee tight against his chest.

“I can’t,” he whispered brokenly. “I don’t remember. I want to, but I can't—”

“Easy,” said Hornblower, catching William’s face in his hands, forcing William’s fearful eyes to meet his own. “Easy, now.” He spoke slowly and gently, as though William were a child waking from a long and terrible nightmare, his own miseries forgotten in the face of such pain, and when William did not shy away Hornblower gathered him up in his arms and held him close, touching his back, stroking his hair, until the trembling ceased.

--

Tender

Horatio rose to his feet when William appeared in the doorway, his seal-skin draped across his body like a Grecian cloak. With his heart in his mouth, he crossed the waiting room to take William’s hands in his, heedless that others might see. “Then—” he began, unsure of what to say.

William’s face broke into a grin. “It’s been confirmed,” he said, and relief flooded through Horatio. “I’ve received my commission.”

The tension broke, and Horatio began to laugh, unable to prevent himself from doing so. He had been so foolish to think that William might fail, not when he was as good a lieutenant as Horatio could have ever wished for. Should Horatio ever be given command again, William would be at his side: only the knowledge that the whole room was watching stopped him from sweeping William up into a kiss. Perhaps William understood how Horatio felt; Horatio watched as his smile softened into something infinitely more tender than amusement.

--

Ground

His heels caught in the sand and he pushed off, rolling them both over in one fluid motion, pinning William’s wrists to the ground. Now it was William lay beneath him, struggling in vain to get free, and Horatio could not help but grin at the sudden reversal. William was smiling too, even as he wriggled, his gaze unfocused as he looked up at Horatio.

“You won’t escape,” said Horatio, laughing at William’s frustration.

William snarled, but it was only half-hearted; his eyes had not left Horatio’s face. They were so close — mere inches away — and Horatio realised all too late how this must seem to William, to be shamelessly entwined like this, as though — he would not give voice to that thought, no matter how he might desire it. There was a bloom of colour in William’s cheeks, a pink that darkened when he caught Horatio watching, but whatever uncertainty he may have felt passed quickly, replaced instead by a stern resolve. With a short, sharp intake of breath, he strained up and pressed his mouth to Horatio’s.

--

Tea Coffee

Horatio could no more refuse William in this than he could refuse him his love. “Yes,” he said, meeting William’s earnest gaze. “Yes, I will.” He pressed the wrack into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. It tasted of the sea, as he had expected, but of something sweeter too: the first bite of a sun-ripened peach; a piece of marchpane melting on the tongue; a hot cup of coffee, sugared to perfection. He found himself smiling, and saw William smiling at him in return.