#yes i've already posted nearly the entire fic on AO3 already don't @ me

[mudandmire]

✨WIP Sunday✨

It's not as satisfying as Wednesday, but life and work is a thing so ta-da.

A couple of things:

After a lot of consideration I've decided to change the name of 'Ghost' to 'Once it Slips Through Clenched Teeth.' You can entirely blame the Iliad because I had an assignment based around it and found the quote "once it slips through a man's clenched teeth" and the whole stanza I basically fell in love with but that part in particular? *chefs kiss* I think it fits the story I want to tell better, and honestly going into this I had no idea what to title it so the song I listened to while writing the first chapter or so was the only thing that came to mind. I don't necessarily like having to change the title, but I'm not happy with it being 'Ghost', feels too contemporary, so y'know what? I'm changing it.

Chapter two is on it's way, maybe I'll just use this list to justify myself to myself lol. ANyway, yes chapter two is in the works it's currently 7k and it's. It's gonna be long because I'm not even halfway through yet so bear with me I'm s l o w and writing clever, scheming people is h a r d.

I'm gonna post my Azris Week stuff on ao3. I thought about doing that during the event week but I was a mess and I've also never reached that level of productivity and probably never will again I was on f i r e. So, I'm doing it now :)

So I leave you with this little chapter two snippet (excerpt?) of the fic hereby known as Once it Slips Through Clenched Teeth -

What catches, sinks in, and drags forcefully a memory from the back of his head is the color of his hair: dark. Near black. It curls at the nape of his neck Eris finds as he completely stills to watch him pass. Little swoops of it brushing against the collar of his shirt.

Eris' hand falls to Fir's head instinctively, ignoring the nudge of his nose into his leg.

Dark hair.

A scream rends through his mind, a ripping sensation curling through his chest as he holds back a gasp through a locked jaw.

'Please!' He had heard someone shriek. Cold under his face, cold under his body, cold everywhere.

Eris clutches at his head, the sudden turn of his stomach emptying it completely so those voices, faceless but for a crimson haze, echo into it freely.

There was another one. The one who didn't scream, or beg, or drag him because suddenly the bruised aching along his shoulders and back makes sense.

What was the voice—

'She doesn't even know your name.'

A lash through the air, the sting of remembrance along his bones, his back. Eris stiffens until everything hurts. The memory isn't complete, isn't nearly whole enough to know faces or names.

But—

Touch. He remembers touch like silk dragged over skin. Chills rake through him, as if trying to replicate it. The trees had haloed above his head, stretching impossible, sepia fingers into a watery grey sky. At that point he had figured he was dead already, but the numbing in his feet and hands told him he wasn't quite there yet.

Fir whines, low and distressed as his head presses into Eris's hip. He doesn't move, just lets Eris's hand stay clenched in the fur of his neck.

The picture it made, the trees and the sky, had been broken by a dark head of hair.

Dark like the servant boy, feathered like the wings of a raven, no face under it.

There had to be a face.

Pushing at the dwindling remnants of the memory, he scrambles at the seams of it to find any hint of a facial feature.

"—or lordship?"

Anything. Eris squeezes his eyes further closed, ignoring the wet pressure of Fir's nose digging into his thigh. He runs through the things he knows of this figure; invisible tendrils through the hair, scraping over the voice, but no matter how he angles the picture a face never rises from the dust of it.

Inexplicably—he's angry.

"Your lordship, are you alight?" One of the sentries reaches out to grab his shoulder, a friendly shake to make sure he's not going to fall over.

Eris's eyes open with a flash, flicking his hand away in a dismissive gesture.

...

*gestures wildly* See? See?? I work, I do the thing, I am doing the thing I've just never done the thing before so I'm s low but I try and do the thing f ast because I wish to please the lovelies.

Here's the Iliad quote if anyone's interested:

“I say no wealth is worth my life! Not all they claim

was stored in the depths of Troy, that city built on riches,

in the old days of peace before the sons of Achaea came—

not all the gold held fast in the Archer’s rocky vaults,

in Phoebus Apollo’s house on Pytho’s sheer cliffs!

Cattle and fat sheep can all be had for the raiding,

tripods all for the trading, and tawny-headed stallions.

But a man’s life breath cannot come back again—

no raiders in force, no trading brings it back,

once it slips through a man’s clenched teeth.”

- Achilles' reply to Odysseus

[thetisming]

i close my eyes and think about slow dancing

& Julyet fic because ao3 is down! (i'll be posting this to ao3 later lol i just want to get this out)

William smiled at his wife and her friends while they danced. She had decided to have another night out, considering that the last time she did it didn't go particularly well and involved so much more drama than either of them would've liked, and William decided to go with her.

The thing was, he wasn't dancing. 

He had never been a dancer, really. He could do some things, but nothing too big, unlike his wife. He was content to just sit and stare at her, smiling and laughing with her friends as she twirled.

Then, Juliet sat beside him.

“You’re not dancing,” she stated.

“No, no, uh, I'm not a dancer.”

“That's okay! You still can! Nothing's stopping you!” 

“No, I'm okay with just… watching her.” He smiled at Anne, who smiled back and waved at Juliet. William wasn't sure if the heat on his cheeks was because of all the stimulation in the bar, or from his wife. And although it was embarrassing to be a grown man blushing over a woman smiling at him, and in a bar, no less, he still hoped that it was the latter.  

“Come onnn! You don't have to be any good!”

“Well, I definitely won't be, so-” Juliet grabbed his hand and pushed him towards his wife, who caught him, and William could tell she was trying not to laugh, while he struggled to find something to say. “Looks like I fell for you,” he said, then mentally facepalmed himself. Anne failed at concealing her laughter while William composed himself.

“Looks like you did.” William took a good look at his wife, then smiled.

“May I have this dance?” He asked, doing a more posh accent than his own and extending his hand.

“We’re in a bar, William, they don't do slow dances here. Besides, it’s my night out, this is for fun dancing!” Still, she took his hand and twirled him around, before letting go. William just laughed and joined her in her dancing. He noticed a smile from Juliet, but he simply focused on copying his wife's movements. He didn't do it well, but he tried his best and did have fun.

Eventually, they of course decided to leave the bar and head home. They paid the babysitter and checked that the girls were asleep, before collapsing on the couch. 

“That was fun,” William admitted.

“It was!” Anne snuggled against him and kissed his jaw with a smile. William looked at his wife again, analysing her entire physical being. Her long blonde hair, her blue eyes, her green dress, her soft skin pressed against his. He slowly and unsurely raised his arm to put it around her. “I love you.”

“I love you too. So, you asked me something earlier…” William rolled his eyes playfully and stood up, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?” He requested once again, only now they were in the comfort of their own home. 

“You may.” She took his hand and allowed him to pull her up, putting one hand on his shoulder and the other staying in his hand. William put his hand on her waist, gazing at her while she led the dance. She spun him around into her, although the two of them were both a bit tipsy so he nearly fell to the ground, making them both laugh. After that, the two of them simply swayed together. William couldn’t help but laugh as his wife pulled him up the stairs of their house, and he smiled wider with every movement. The two of them got changed, took their hands in each other’s and got into bed. Anne picked up a book and began to read, while William took another breath in, and let his breath out be a few more seconds of appreciation for the way his wife looked in that moment. He lightly flapped his hand then pressed it to his chest before looking away, not noticing that Anne had looked up from her book.

“Did you have fun?,” she asked, making him look back at her.

“I think I've already told you that.”

“Can you not be pretentious for one minute?,” she teased. William just rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, Anne, I had fun. A lot of fun, actually.”

“Good.” She kissed him and weaved her fingers through his hair, working with his curls in her fingers gently. When she inevitably pulled away, she had the dorkiest grin on her face (not that Will could judge, he had his own smile to match). Anne reached over to her husband's side table (adjustable, walnut) and handed him his bonnet. He thanked her and put it on before resting his head on her chest and twisting a lock of her hair around his finger.

“9:30 bedtime tomorrow?” William looked up at his wife.

“Please.” The two of them laughed again, more quietly this time. “G’night, Will.”

“Sleep well, dear Anne.”

[forkanna]

WARNINGS: The Messenger and all related characters © Sabotage Studios. Story ©2021 (and published 2024) to me. Rated M for a little steaminess in the latter half, though nothing too explicit.

NOTES: Happy New Year! Or something. I hope anyone reading this is happy and thriving, despite so many geopolitical, ecological, and economic upheavals.

I've gone quiet because I was working on a very large new fic that will be starting soon, and also just to recover from working on my previous stories, and to take care of some other life stuff. That's why, other than assisting with some friends' works, it's taken me almost half the year to release anything new. Most of you probably haven't even noticed, I'm sure, since my update schedule slowed to a crawl last year.

Believe me, I have a couple of very hefty works that are nearing the completion stage. I just hope the fandoms are alive and interested when I put them out there.

Alright, so I have a deep love of challenging platformers (challenging, not frustrating like Super Meat Boy). I wrote this one quite some time ago and simply forgot, and found it again when sifting through my files. Maybe Sea Of Stars being released will make it still be relevant, even though I'm posting it so long after The Messenger came out. If you've found it, enjoy!

Jessex

[AO3 LINK]

"So how long have you been in this shop?"

"My entire life. You think the shop is your ally? You merely adopted the shop. I was born in it, molded by it. I didn't see outside the shop until I was already…"

"…"

"That would be funnier if you were from where I'm from."

"Okay… but really, you haven't been The Shopkeeper here all your life, have you?"

"I haven't. But I also don't feel any need to tell you about my secret past, so you can probably drop that now. Don't you have a big demon to defeat or something?"

"…right."

"Good. Now go. Let me bask in a few whole seconds of peace before you come back in here and demand to know what's in my cabinet again. Nosy ninja."

"I just thought since we're spending all this time together, it might be polite to get to know you."

"Maybe I don't want to be known. Especially not about my past from before I found my way into this weird little pocket of reality. Definitely nothing about solar and lunar warriors who had to sail between dimensions. Maybe something from the after-time; I could tell you something about then."

"…"

"…"

"Do you have any stories to share?"

"Of course, here's one for you."

~ o ~

Stop me if you've heard this one. A monk walks into a bar… wait, not quite right. I'll try it again from the top.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful monk. Very few ever got to see her face because from the moment she began training, a veil covered the lower half. Not much is known about the clan she came from other than that they trained as hard as the ninjas in their own discipline. A strong clan of true warrior women. They seemed to favour orange; orange gi, orange balaclava, orange slippers. They wear wraps around their forearms and calves that are yellow to match the yellow trim on the rest of their uniforms. Very sunny, I guess you would say. Sunny warriors.

As you probably have been able to guess by now since you keep asking me so many questions, she used to do what you do, back before the warrior from the west passed you the scroll. "Messenger" is what you'd call a revolving door position. Don't ask what a revolving door is; it's pretty self-explanatory, but also pretty horrifying. Much worse than the Burning Crags or the Underworld.

What a serious messenger the Monk was. Way better than you. She might have been your match in terms of fighting ability and athleticism — or similar, anyway — but she didn't let herself get distracted nearly as much. Discipline of the mind is just as important as discipline of the body, you know?

Yes, this is me asking you to stop with my cabinet. Again. You're like a dog with a bone.

She came in pretty often the same way you did, asking the same questions about how to climb up a wall in her way, catch air currents… you get the idea. And she didn't have as many relentless questions as some people, but we would talk here and there.

"It must be a difficult job, to guide warriors like myself to their fates."

"It's a hobby," I joked. I joke a lot. You have to break the boredom somehow. No, it's definitely not a defense mechanism to cover a plethora of anxieties.

"Oh, it is only a hobby?" She bowed, all deferential and polite. Those intriguing twin cones she styled her hair into barely even moved; she must wrap those ribbons — yellow, because why wouldn't they be — very tightly. Or maybe she just stuck them there; detachable head-cones. I've heard of weirder things. "My apologies, I should not have assumed this was your duty."

"Ah, that's… it's fine. So how do you get your hair like that?"

What? Colour me curious.

"Hm? Oh…" It was hard to tell without her veil, but I thought the way the corners of her eyes crinkled meant she was pleased. Her voice was just as reverent and respectful as always, so no help there. "You like this?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's pretty neat."

Her small-but-strong hand drifted up to caress over one of the cones. "Thank you. Many of the men and women of our order adopt such hair styles; they are appealing but functional. Long hair that is not kept in check would interfere with my ability to battle evil."

"Right, of course. I've often thought about doing something with mine, or maybe getting a cool hat."

"A… hat?"

"You know. Sits on top of your head, fashionably keeps the sun off?"

After a second of complete silence in which I really thought she might turn and stalk out of the room, completely disappointed with my conversational skills, she instead covered her mouth and began to let out the most musical, tinkling laughter I've ever heard in my life. And I've met an actual pixie before.

Don't ask to meet a pixie. The consequences are way too catastrophic.

"Ah, I see. Then I hope you will have a hat one day, Keeper of the Shop."

"Maybe." I was trying not to let on that I was having a good time; it's kind of my thing, to act like I'm just sort of aloof and indifferent. "But I can't help noticing you have pigtails, even though the cone-things are supposed to keep your hair out of the way. Fashion over function?"

She reached back to pull at one of the pigtails. "Yes… they are disliked by my master. But she has admitted that I am a more fierce monk with them in my way than any of my sisters are without them."

"You have sisters? Big family?"

"Sisters-in-arms," she clarified with another small laugh.

"Ahhh. Got it, sorry. Anyway, I think they look nice. As long as they don't get you killed by some ugly hell-beast, of course."

There was a slight twinkle in her playful deep brown eye. "They will not."

~ o ~

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"…"

"What? Don't you think that's a nice story? Isn't it cool to find out sometimes I chit-chat with other Messengers because I get super bored?"

"It's not that. I just thought you were going somewhere else with this."

"Where else? I never go anywhere but this shop. Or do I?"

"…right, but the way you described how she looked in so much detail made me think you were interested in her."

"…"

"Wow."

"What?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you speechless before."

"Watch it, ninja boy. It's just that you kind of strike me as the hapless protagonist type, so I wasn't expecting you to pick up on, well, anything."

"Oh, so you WERE interested?"

"…maybe."

"Huh."

"Oh, stop smirking. You didn't find out any great truth of the universe, you just figured out that a hottie made me take notice because I'm not blind."

"So did you do anything about it?"

"Excuse me? That's getting kind of personal, don't you think?"

"No, not really. I think you started telling me about her, and you like talking enough that you might want to tell me more if I ask."

"VERY personal now. And a little rude."

"You don't have to tell me anything. But it's really not that bad for me to just ask you to keep going, right? If you say no, you say no."

"Touché."

~ o ~

Even though you were a rude boy, and a little entitled, I'll tell you about another time the Monk came into my shop. Which was only forever, and not long at all. You'll know what that means one day, after you dance with magic.

The next few visits were pretty standard and all business. Monk wanted an upgrade that will help her take more hits, another that can transform her staff into a whip and back again. It's weird, she seemed to have a lot of trouble making it turn back into a staff… that wasn't supposed to happen, but oh well. Can't always trust Artificer's inventions but he does his best.

Which was why I gave you the rope dart instead. What would you do if you couldn't have your sword back? That'd be epically rough. Especially in the middle of a boss fight. Besides, some friends of mine had decent success with the prototype.

Then one time was a little different. She had just beaten back a throng of exhausting cultists — long story, too long for me even. And you know how long my stories can get. She seemed to need some time to rest instead of heading right back out into the fray.

"Here, take a seat back here."

"Oh?" After figuring out what I meant when I stood and moved aside, her brow furrowed a tiny bit. "Oh… no, I could not take your seat from you. This is your home."

"Well, not my home exactly… but seriously, I know you fought hard out there. Take a load off. You want some tea? Might not have any of the Astral stuff left, but…"

With a slight bow, she said in a flustered voice, "Please, you do not have to be so kind. I will be fine."

Thing is, polite as she always was even though she could easily kick my ass — and I'm no ten-pound weakling and don't you forget that, ninja boy — I could also tell she was dead on her feet. Copping a quick squat wouldn't be enough. So I did something for her that I have never done for any other Messenger, before or since.

I let her see my room.

~ o ~

"This isn't your room?"

"Yeah, of course it is. You see that big canopy bed in the corner, all those Tower Of Time Quarterly magazines on my nightstand?"

"Huh?"

"No, doofus. This is sarcasm; I'm being sarcastic. I can't sleep here if there's nowhere to sleep."

"…sometimes, you're kind of a jerk."

"And sometimes, you're kind of a doofus. Isn't it great that we can work around our differences for the good of the universe?"

"…"

"Moving on…"

~ o ~

Once we went through the secret entrance you don't get to know about because I don't think you can control your curiosity but it's also NOT that cabinet so don't assume so much, Monk let out a soft gasp when she saw how great my room was. Like, I can't undersell this enough; my ancestors really put some work into this whole place and it's gorgeous. Not super big but not small, either; a decent sized suite. Four stars all the way.

"Oh, it is beautiful!"

"Thanks. So, uh, you want anything to drink or eat? You ought to keep your strength up."

She turned from where she stood in the middle of the room, and it was even harder to ignore how she outshone my room. And this is my room; that's just about impossible.

"No, I could not impose. I am used to foraging. While I pass through the forests or the caverns, I will find mushrooms or wild greens, fruits, and prepare them by a campfire."

"Whoa. Real outdoorsy type. That's pretty dope."

"Dope? I am… you think I am stupid?"

OOPS. That not-old-school slang was going to get me in trouble. "No, no! I meant to say, uh… well, nevermind, I meant it's really neat you can do that. I bet you never have to go hungry that way." This badass warrior turned me into an awkward teenager again.

"Oh," she said softly, and I was relieved to see that slight crease in her brow fade again. Good; I already felt like crap for making her feel bad, even for a second.

"I'm really sorry. But yeah, here - I've got… okay." Yes, there was a little kitchenette. Did I not say my room was epic? "Instant ramen; I think you'll like that. Or at least, it'll fill you up and give you that carb-energy so you can do your thing tomorrow after you rest up. Man cannot live by potions and wild mushrooms alone."

"I assure you, I am fine," she told me with that laugh that set all my hair follicles tingling. "I am very grateful for your help, but please, do not go to so much trouble."

So I made her cup ramen. And yeah, you called me out on carrying a tiny torch for her monkness, so I should go ahead and admit that this wasn't exactly your top-tier first date activity. On the plus side, it wasn't like me giving her a place to rest counted as a date at all.

By the time it was finished, she had sat at my little two-person table. Honestly, I had always thought the second chair was a little redundant when I never had visitors, but figured there was no real reason to throw it out. Now I was glad I was lazy. I set one cup in front of her and another in front of the other spot - which actually wasn't my usual spot. But there was no way I was gonna tell Monk she couldn't have my seat. Even if it did bother me, which it didn't, I would have let her sit wherever she wanted, any day of the week.

"Thank you," she breathed with her palms pressed together, bowing slightly to me. She reached for the chopsticks laying across the paper lid.

"Oh - wait, you have to wait a couple of minutes."

"Hm? Why? I thought you prepared the food already…" She seemed uncertain.

"Yeah, but it's still, uh, steeping." I figured if she knew tea, she would get that one.

I was right. "Ahhh, I see. What is it? I believe I smell a broth…"

So I explained ramen. Turns out, she had something kind of similar in her own village, but definitely not the instant kind. Which I figured — for reasons. You're not ready to hear about all that.

"Okay, here," I said when it was done turning into the good stuff. I took the chopsticks and peeled off the paper fully, started stirring. "Just gotta stir it up good before you start in."

"Yes, I see," she said in a very serious tone. Why was it cute that she was serious about this? It wasn't; I just thought she was cute, so everything she did was… I'm gonna stop talking about that.

After I slurped up some noodles, I watched her carefully. Maybe this would be when I got to see her face. It was fine if she wasn't ready, or was shy, or if it was part of her tradition that monks didn't show their faces. I can relate. But if I was allowed…

No such luck. She leaned forward in such a way that her veil hung forward, so I still couldn't see her face but she was free to bring the noodles to her mouth. Then she sat back and chewed. Dang. Still, at least she seemed to like them well enough, if the way her eyes closed briefly in contentment was any indication.

"Not too hot?"

"It is very good, thank you." She let out a tiny sighing noise that may have been a burp; she was that kind of badass angel that could make even that adorable. Literally goals. But I noticed she was staring at me very intently.

"What?"

"What more can I do? Against the Primal Fear. I would really like to conquer it very soon, and help to restore peace."

"You're not ready," I told her simply, even though I was a little distracted by that thumping noise. What was it? Oh — right, it was my heart.

"I am ready. You have told me yourself that I'm the strongest Messenger you have ever seen. Is it not my duty to go and stop this darkness, so no others need to die?"

"Oh, if only it were that simple." Wow, it was so hard to endure the intensity of those eyes staring through my soul. I almost felt like I wouldn't make it. Before I knew what I was doing, I reached across the table to rest my hand on top of her clenched fist.

"Give it time. You have trained harder than anyone I've ever met, but training isn't the same as out there doing the real thing. Kick a little more butt, take a few more names, and you'll get there. You'll be ready for the Primal Fear someday."

A little at a time, the tension in her posture began to ease. I really expected her to say something like thanking me for putting everything in perspective, or for her to argue with me about it again. Instead…

"Do you like to… touch my hand?"

"Do I huh? Oh." After an awkward pause, I took my hand away. "Sorry about that. Probably should have cut that out once I was done saying my thing."

"You do not need to apologize. I'm beginning to think you care for me."

"A-ahh, well that's not-"

"I care for you, too."

Well. I'm really damn lucky she cut me off, because I had been about to deny everything. It's not my job to hit on The Messengers; it's my job to make sure they carry the scroll, that they don't come back as corpses. Even though I didn't really want to lie to anybody, it was way smarter not to get feelings complicating the whole arrangement.

Except she went and said that. Went and told me I wasn't the only one.

"Y-you do?"

"Of course. You have been so helpful to me, so wise and generous. I could not have come this far without your guidance. What kind of monster would not grow to care for you?"

I'm looking at you, ninja.

"Aww, I'm just doing what I can…"

Leaning forward intently, she said, "You must have been a very strong Messenger. I would love to spar; there is so much we could learn from each other."

"Spar? Really? You and me? I, uh… I might be a little out of practice." Not very. I mean, I still tried to keep fit, even though there's only so much you can do standing behind a desk in the shop all day. Still, I knew I couldn't drop my guard entirely; any day I might be called upon to step in again. I just hoped it wouldn't be for the usual reason.

Monk finished off another slurp of her noodles and sat back to nod eagerly at me until she was finished chewing. "Yes! Even if you are, I am sure I will still learn much!"

"Well… if you wanted to go now, we could. Probably better now than after we finish all our noodles."

"Oh, will they not grow cold?"

"I can heat 'em up again, no sweat."

So we got up and paced into the middle of the room. Have I mentioned how happy I was that she was taller than me? God, tall women are absolutely goals. She took up her staff and pointed the business end at me, though her head tilted to one side after a moment.

"You will not take off your robe?"

"Oh. Yeah, that would probably be good, even though I don't really need to." We had all trained to fight in those big blue robes. I mean, if you can't fight in your uniform, then it's obviously a pretty crappy uniform for an order of mysterious warriors, right?

When I took it off and draped it over the back of my chair, I heard a quiet noise from Monk. Of surprise, maybe? I hoped not of disappointment. But when I turned back to look at her, she was all business, ready to start smacking each other around.

"You okay?"

"Yes," she confirmed with a dutiful nod. "I am ready when you are."

So we did the martial arts thing. I'm sure you know how this goes well enough that I don't have to explain. I wasn't all that surprised that she kicked my butt from here to Glacial Peak, but I did at least put up a pretty good fight first. At some point, I tossed aside my belt and we both kicked off our shoes, and we went a lot harder than you would probably think I could, anyway. We traded bruises and bloody lips and we loved every minute.

Eventually we collapsed back into the chairs with two cups of cold water in front of us that I had grabbed before giving up on being able to move for a little while. Even though I couldn't see her mouth, Monk looked elated.

"You… have fun beating me up? Huh, bully?"

She seemed alarmed by that accusation, even if it wasn't serious. "I… I am not!" But then we both laughed breathlessly. That old thing about really getting to know somebody when you fight them? I guess it was pretty true, even though a good cup of tea and a long conversation will do a pretty similar job for you.

"Was only kidding," I panted a minute later, when we had caught our breath and downed some water.

And I know this is probably getting annoying, but if I thought she was the bee's knees before… with her face flushed and chest heaving, sweat matting her hair slightly — not to mention the strength just radiating off her in waves…

"Keeper?"

"Huh?"

"I asked if we could have a rematch another day," she repeated, eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement. I got distracted way too easily; maybe it was because I had burned up my ability to ignore how good she looked while sparring with her. Yes, normally I can keep my eyes on the prize, but watching how gracefully she fought… it tested me more than the sparring.

"You… bet we can." Another sip of water to coat my suddenly-dry throat. "Sorry… I was supposed to let you… rest."

"It is alright. You do not need to worry about me; I can resume my mission now."

"No, no way. Stay, finish the noodles, take a shower and grab a nap. Or, I mean, in whatever order…"

But Monk was already shaking her head. "I cannot take that much time away from my mission. Great evil will not wait to be vanquished; it will punish the world until we stop its progress."

"Actually… it can wait."

"What?"

"Okay, so this might be a little high-concept for you, but…" Normally, we would put her through the big challenge and unlock some new abilities — don't ask, spoilers and all — once she had proven herself before she got to know any of this, but I could give her a few basics. "Time stands still in here. More or less. So when you're in here, it's like everything has stood still out there."

The Monk blinked a few times, sitting perfectly still.

"Think about it this way; imagine you're on a surfboard-"

"No, no, I already think I understand. I am just… confused as to how this can be true. You also will not tell me where this really is, and why I can come here from so many different doorways. It is magic, yes? But what kind of magic can be so powerful?"

Damn, that would teach me to underestimate a badass amazonian warrior monk.

"That's… a secret. You might find out someday. But yeah, take a load off, rest and recuperate. Then you can head out in the morning, ready to kick primal caboose - and it will be like you never left. Trust me."

Chuckling a little at my wordplay, she said, "You are… very kind." Then she took another long drink. "Very well. I will do this, because there is wisdom in what you say; if I am exhausted, I will stumble, and cannot be the best hero for our world that I can be."

"There ya go. That's all I was trying to say."

"Do you have a hot bath? It is very good for relaxing the sore muscles."

~ o ~

"What a player."

"Hey, watch it, kid. I didn't 'play' anything."

"You got her into a bath."

"Uh, yeah, in another room. I promise, not one second did I spend in the same room as the bath. I saw nothing."

"Hmmmm."

"Do you want to hear the rest of this story or not?"

"Actually… I'm not sure. It's starting to sound like it's too personal for me to hear."

"Oh."

"What?"

"No, you're just always such a busybody that I kind of expected you to keep drinking this up like Kool-Aid."

"Like what?"

"It's… don't worry about that one. One day, you may be ready for the legend of the Purplesaurus Rex. I'll skip ahead a tiny bit."

~ o ~

Or a lot.

Like I said, not a dang thing happened other than me giving her some hospitality. Yes, I got to see what she would look like in a blue robe after her bath, which was kind of exciting in a weird way. It was like she was closer to me because she was becoming part of the Order — even though that was a ways off. Still gave me a little cold chill.

Monk had been through quite a bit by the time there was another shift. We sparred a few more times, shared meals and conversations. And she came back battered and scarred, I put her back together. She slid me all the Time Shards she found in the past and I did what I could for her with them. We were definitely friends, and probably somewhere in the best friend category, no matter what the Artificer says about him and me. The Prophet is actually his bro.

And she underwent her Trial. More on that for you when you're ready.

Don't give me that look. Be a big boy and wait your turn.

God's honest truth was, it hurt my soul a little to see her becoming a bit more jaded. Not a lot; don't get me wrong, she was still the strongest Messenger I've ever known, and brave, and like a ray of sunshine in a Dark Cave. But I could see the cracks forming in her heart that anyone got when they faced great evil day in and day out.

That's why I tried to give her so many breaks. More and more often, she would sleep on the futon I got for her, since she had outright refused to use a real Western bed; said it wasn't good for her back. I've heard it both ways, but didn't want to argue. And we laughed, trained, ate, and generally got very comfortable with each other. Even though to her, it was like we only met up once every few days. But to me, I saw her all the time — not that I'm complaining, of course.

My Monk had just come back from a particularly brutal battle in which she managed to restore Rivière Turquoise to its former glory. This time, I wanted to surprise her with something a little fancier. Don't ask me how, but I got my hands on some damn good sushi, and a bottle of sake. I knew she didn't believe in imbibing alcohol while she was on mission because it dulled the senses and ability to react, which I can't argue with, but I also knew this one was going to mean she needed to rest up and recuperate more than usual. I was grateful to steal more time with her whenever I could. Oh, I wasn't going to do anything to force that, but I sure as hell wasn't going to fight against it, either; I would just appreciate every moment we had together.

Remind me to tell you the story about the crystal pumpkin patch sometime.

She was leaning pretty heavily on her staff when she came in. I felt my stomach drop. Was she going to make it? I hurried out from behind my desk and helped her along.

"I am fine," she hissed through her teeth.

"Liar."

"I do not lie! I… I will be fine. That is the truth."

"Yeah, well… can you tell me what hurts? Your leg?" A reluctant nod as we entered my sparkly, sparkly room. Like, seriously, if you ever saw it you wouldn't be able to get over it, man. "Alright, we're officially giving you a vacation."

"I do not… want…" But a heavier wince made her bite her lips and nod. "Yes. I do not want to… fail at our mission, so I will… do as you say."

"Thank you. And hey, it's not gonna be so bad. Do you… do you wanna eat? Maybe you're not in the mood to eat."

"I must," she told me with a half-snort. I was sure she was smiling, even though I couldn't see. "If I am to heal, I must have nutrition, yes?"

So we ate. I made sure the sake was hot, both to soothe her aches and because like, it's supposed to be hot. Cold sakes are a different thing. Anyway, she told me all about her fight to help bring her buddy, the Butterfly Matriarch, in and dispel all the creepy crawlies. Fun stuff, but I'm trying to avoid that story-within-a-story thing so I'll just say she's kind of amazing. In case you haven't figured that out already.

"Ohhh, that was perfect," she sighed as she relaxed back against her chair.

"Thanks. I ordered it myself."

"So modest. You still wished for me to have this wonderful meal. I feel… appreciated. Cared for." We shared a smile, even though neither of us could see the other's mouth. We just knew. "And a little affected by the cups."

Trying to tease, I said, "Oh, you got drunk? Off just that?"

"Not 'drunk'," she huffed playfully. "I said 'affected'."

"How affected, then? Do you wanna take a nap before we get you that hot bath?"

"No. I just want to continue to speak with you, and to relax. We can do both of these together." I could see her glance at me, then away. "My arms are very sore."

"Yeah, I bet they are."

Another tiny hesitation. "I might want some help washing my back."

"Oh, right — I have a back scrubber. It's just mine, so I didn't wanna assume you would want to use it after me. Some people are funny about sharing stuff like that."

~ o ~

"WOW."

"Listen, I know you are probably all suave and cool with the ladies, Mr. Forever Alone Ninja, but I definitely didn't have any game. And hanging around alone in a shop for years on end doesn't polish that social skill, either."

"Right, but even I know when someone asks for help with washing their back, they don't mean they just want you to get them a brush."

"Yeah, yeah…"

"No, no, it's kind of cute."

"Excuse me?"

"You act so all-wise and all-knowing all the time that it's nice to hear you being very human."

"I do not act like that."

"You totally do."

"No. I'm just serious about my job."

"Then why are you always sharing stories about your eternal wisdom?"

"Not once have I said 'eternal wisdom'. I just like to contemplate the complexities of the universe, and try to unravel a few of them. I think every well-rounded mind does the same."

"Well, I don't."

"Did I stutter?"

~ o ~

Anyway, if you're through interrupting… yes, she did blink stupidly at me as if waiting for me to catch up. You might be rude, but you're not wrong.

"You… want me to…?"

"I apologise," she breathed with a low bow, her balaclava brushing the table just in front of her plate. "This was too forward of me."

"No, no way! I only… I didn't want to make any… yeah, I'm not good at this kind of thing."

"At washing another's back?"

"No, at…" I stopped when she started to giggle. "You're mocking me. Great. I really am the world's biggest idiot."

"You are not. But I think it is sweet that you do not want to… corrupt me, perhaps. You are so wise and your heart is so pure."

Trying to make myself keep talking before her praise really caught up to me and the stammering began, I blurted out, "Yours, too. I mean, you really are the best person I've ever known in my life. And I've known persons."

We both laughed a little at that last part, starting to relax. She rose from the table with some difficulty, and I was quick to put my arm around her, and hers around my neck, helping to support her as she made her way into the bathroom.

"In our temple," she began to tell me as I turned on the tap to fill the tub with hot water, dumping some bubbles in distractedly, "there is no modesty. Our order is only women, and there is nothing to fear. The males of our clan are much the same in their temple, though they are not warriors in the same way we are."

"Matriarchal society? That's pretty neato."

"We also… will take lovers, at times. Some from the other temple, some from the same temple. Some from both. All is equal to us."

The way she spoke as she began to unwind the bindings around her forearms and calves was very careful, contemplative. I could see her watching me for reactions, as if hoping I wouldn't freak out and say she came from a bunch of weirdos.

"That sounds like an amazing place," I reassured her. And I meant that from the bottom of my heart.

"Yes. One day, I may take you there if it is possible. They frown on visitors inside the temple, but I could show you the grounds."

Why did that sound like a dream come true? I mean, even though taking a tour of a hidden monk temple where they trained the world's best badasses would be cool regardless, going with her… "Yeah. Maybe once all this settles down, we can do that. Sounds like one of the best places ever."

"I have always felt this way. If not for my calling, I would love to finish my days there, making our order the greatest it can be."

"Must be nice." When I saw her reach for the lapel of her gi, I turned away and put my hand over my eyes; never can be too careful.

"You are shy."

Called out. "Well, nah. It just… it's no big deal where you're from but it is where I'm from. Especially for complicated reasons I won't go into. So I'm just gonna… not."

"I respect that," she told me deferentially. There was a quiet splash, a few more noises of shifting around in water. "I am covered. You added soap to this bath?"

When I turned back and saw that she was, indeed, up to her shoulders in suds, I let out a sigh of relief. Laugh if you will, but I was already all twitchy just from the situation as it was; I didn't think I could handle more than that. "Well, it's a special soap."

"What makes it special?"

"The way it looks and smells," I answered honestly. "I thought about bath-bombing you, but I don't have any on hand, and I already made a special trip for the sushi."

She looked over her shoulder. Of course she still had the balaclava on; even in the bath. Weird but it seemed to be a thing. "You would cause my bath to explode?"

"Oh… no, it's… nevermind." I pulled up a tiny stool and perched it behind her, picking up the soap and a washcloth and dipping it into the water. Would music be too much? I did have a jukebox… no, I decided it was too much. "Hope I'm not getting too irritating."

"Irritating? In what way?"

"Demanding you hang back and rest. I know you know it's important and don't need me telling you; I'm really not trying to parent you or anything."

Her head shook very slightly as she reached up to begin undoing her head-cone-things. That surprised me; since she left the veil on, I thought those would stay in place, too. "It is not a bother. Sometimes…" She hesitated, both with words and actions. "Sometimes I do become focused on my task and I forget to rest, especially when the task is so great."

"Oh, I don't think it's so great," I tried to joke. She only looked puzzled; I had to stop doing that. "I mean, it's rough that we have to put you through this. Crucial for our survival, but rough."

"Yes, I understand this very well. I know you would not wish to put anyone in danger if it were not important."

All I wanted was to keep my mind focused on the task at hand, and on our conversation. Not on how strong and graceful her back was, her shoulders, her slender neck… honestly, that "broke the mold" joke is stupid. I usually hate it. But with Monk? Yeah. There aren't any others like her in at least five space-time continuums — and that's just how she looks.

"Keeper?"

"Hm?"

"I said that your hands are very gentle. Was this the wrong thing to say?"

"Sorry," I laughed nervously. "Normally I'm more eloquent than this. I blame TV."

"Tee-vee?"

"Nevermind." Ugh, I said I was going to stop doing that! All she was doing was being her usual self and I was tripping all over myself like a noob. "Thanks, I'm… trying to help as best I can. It's not just a job, it's an adventure."

At least that dated reference just sounded like a normal phrase.

"This is not so adventurous," she said with a soft chuckle, her eyes smiling at me. Smizing; I got Monk smizing, I was stepping on cloud nine. "But I would have it no other way."

"Yeah, you don't want to have to jump over spike pits on your downtime, too."

"Not this. I meant…" She turned carefully in the water — I could tell it was out of respect for me and how shy I was, trying not to make me see anything I wasn't ready for. Honestly an angel. "It is an honour to share this quiet peace. I sense the sweetness of your soul, and the pains that have brought you to this place and time. Even though I have met your brothers, I do not feel this connection I feel with you."

~ o ~

"You have brothers?"

"Don't worry about that."

"I'm gonna worry about it."

"See, that's the problem with you. Even when I give you what you've been clamoring for, this extremely private story, you still complain that I'm not giving you every last niggling detail. You must be a riot at parties."

"…"

"Now stop interrupting."

~ o ~

Actually, you know what? You need to learn that actions have consequences. Even unintended actions. In this case, nagging and interrupting and generally being a bad listener aren't even unintended, so we're skipping the rest of the bath. No - don't make that face at me, you spoiled shinobi. I had a rhythm going and you threw me off, so I'm just going to advance to the next checkpoint. Maybe if you were a better audience I'd teach you how to do that in your mission. It's actually super easy.

Nope, too late now. You played yourself.

Once she was clean and I was glad I had my hood up to hide my glowing red face, she had changed into a spare robe and I tossed her outfit in the laundry. Like, that was the least I could do. We sat in front of the fireplace — hey, there's a fireplace — and relaxed in silence for a little while. When I got anxious, I put on some music from the jukebox; might as well.

"Ohhh, this is very interesting," she told me as she sipped from the water glass I also got her. Yeah, I'm a real charmer, pulling out all the stops. "I have not heard music like this before… I am not sure how to feel about it."

"Yeah, it's called hair metal."

"It is made from metal and hair?" When I was just silent, she laughed. "I am sorry. I have sensed that you are from a very different world from mine, and I am not familiar with your customs. But I have seen how you try to accommodate my ignorance."

"No, no, not ignorance. Just… okay, yeah, that is the right word. But it's only because you've never even had the chance to see my world. I'd give you a crash course, but I feel like it would be a lot of random stuff you just don't need, especially when you're trying to focus on the mission and all."

Monk crossed her legs comfortably. When the hem pulled up past her foot, I had a random thought: that bare ankle would really get me going if I was from a bygone period of history… but then I realized that I was in a bygone period of history from my own perspective.

Yes, there's your big spoiler: I'm from an advanced civilization. You should be able to figure that out by looking around this shop.

"And after my mission?"

"What?"

"When I am finished battling the Primal Fear and any other forces of darkness; when I restore peace. May I return to hear about your world?"

I don't know why this caught me by surprise. Honestly, it shouldn't have; we got along pretty well, but I still was shook. "You'd want to come back?"

"Of course. Are we not becoming friends?"

"Yeah! I mean, of course, I could consider us pretty good friends by now. I just didn't want to assume… I mean, it could be a work-friends deal."

"Work-friends?"

"You know, we're comrades-in-arms. Doesn't have to mean we want to hang out after the war is over… but I would, for sure," I was quick to reassure her. I didn't want to even leave one second in which she thought I was done when this was done.

"Ahh, yes, I understand this." She bowed her head slightly. "Thank you for considering my feelings. Even if…"

My heart froze as I waited for her to respond. Finally, I said, "Even if…?"

"Even if you do not understand them. I thought I was making them clear. But I know it is perhaps not what you expected — especially from a woman. Our masters teach us that not everyone's minds are as open as those of our order-"

"I'm gonna stop you there. Where I'm from, most people are open like that. A few are still stuck in the bigoted past of our own region, sure, but… you're not scaring me off. In fact, I…"

Now it seemed to be Monk's turn to hold her breath. I felt bad seeing her lean toward me a little and whisper, "Yes?"

"Sorry. I've actually never felt like this about anyone before. Didn't think I could. So I just… normally I know what to say, but I never developed this skill."

"Do you?" She looked away slightly. I mean, the opening of her hood did; I could tell even less what she was thinking or feeling with that hood up. Makes me sympathize with even you. "I had told myself that my heart was foolish. You were not from our world, your women did not accept feelings from women, or… you only felt friendship for me. I would have understood."

"Oh, same, same," I reassured her quickly. "We really- sheeze, this is some sitcom BS."

"Hm?"

Leaning over, I took one of her hands. Hard as it was to push through my hangups and self-esteem issues when it came to this kind of thing, no way was I going to leave it up to Monk to make every move. This was about both of us; it should be both of us moving forward. I might look lazy sitting behind my counter all day every day, but no. I'm not lazy. I don't believe in laziness at all.

"If you're sure… then yes. I'm right there with you."

Her breath caught, and her other hand came up to hold onto both of ours. Her hands were somehow both soft and rough; a result of her being so gentle but training so hard. I kinda loved that.

"Then we are here together."

"I guess so. I don't know where 'here' is gonna be, but I'm… I am absolutely ready to find out if you are."

Monk laughed at me a little as we both stood up. "This is a simple journey, Keeper. I have traveled it before, though the destination was a parting. Perhaps with you… we will not part."

"So, a lot of guys in your past?" I guessed. She shook her head. "Girls?"

No comment. Instead, all she did was push our hoods together and…

~ o ~

"What, no interruption?"

"Are you kidding? You made it pretty clear I was interrupting too much before."

"Wow. He CAN be taught."

"But I do have to confess, I'm… surprised about a couple of things."

"Go on?"

"Well, first of all… you know."

"What?"

"…"

"I mean, does it really matter? Whichever of the two things that are immediately coming to mind. I don't think either of them matter in the long run."

"I suppose it doesn't. Especially since we're supposed to be worrying about defeating evil, not morality."

"Morality. Right."

"But I hope you two are happy together."

"Yes, well… that's another story for another time. Not this one in this time."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's fine. I haven't even explained the rest of what happened. But you should probably get going; there's a lot of violent jerks out there to take down."

"Yes, I do want to stop the Demon King. But take care of yourself, alright?"

"Always do."

"And I'll be back for what happened later."

"Oh, I know. You never seem to get enough of these stories, no matter what I do to discourage you from asking me to tell them. So I'm sure I'll see you again soon."

"I'm sure you will."

~ o ~

Okay. He's gone. I wasn't about to tell that little pervy ninja all the sordid details; it would distract him too much from the mission. But you? I guess I could let you hear the rest. Obviously you're still here, so you must have an insatiable curiosity.

No, not the ninja. You. Can't you tell I'm talking to you now?

All the Monk did was push our hoods together and ghost her lips over mine. Such a simple start to something so powerful. My experiences were very limited but I knew enough to know this was bigger than anything else I had experienced before.

That was without my poor brain trying to figure out how in the hell I got Monk interested in me. Monk. We didn't even know each other's names! I know that in the end, a name can only tell you so much about a person, but it still seems like some kind of prerequisite for a meaningful relationship.

"I have been too forward."

"No, no," I was very quick to reassure her as my hand moved up to rest on her shoulder. "Just forward enough. One of us has to do something or we'll never get anywhere."

We stood awkwardly for a long moment, trying to figure out where to go from there. We shared another kiss, a little longer, a little more firm. Her lips were as soft as the pressure was strong, and I was living for that contrast. Our hands explored each other's bodies through those blue robes that served a function we both felt was becoming increasingly unimportant in this current moment.

"How… will we proceed?"

"Huh?"

Voice coming over a little shy, she continued quietly, "I… think you have figured out by now that you cannot see my face. My clan will not allow it. And neither will yours, is it not true?"

"It's… discouraged, yeah." My fingers ghosted over lips I could not see in the darkness under her hood. "And I really wish that wasn't the same, because I bet you're the most beautiful woman on the planet. Maybe a few planets."

At least I could make her laugh. But the laughter turned sad towards the end. I knew she was fighting certain feelings and needs warring within herself, and I wanted nothing more than to push a button and solve that war for her. No human as phenomenal as her should have to endure such inner conflict. But the world is a crappy place sometimes.

"We… cannot. But perhaps if there were no lights…"

She had a good point. That was about the only way we could probably move forward. So I reached both hands over my head… and clapped twice, plunging my room into utter darkness save for the dim flicker of the fire in the fireplace.

"What- what is this magic?"

"The Clapper. It's an ancient artifact from another reality; pretty mundane stuff there. But if you ordered one, they would give you a second one for free - you just had to pay separate processing and handling."

"Oh I see. I should not be impressed, and so I am not." The playfulness in her voice sent a tingle down my spine. "Have you trained in darkness to sharpen your senses?"

"Yeah. It's been a while, but…"

Maybe I imagined it, but there was a slight lilt in her voice as her hand slid down my forearm to take mine. "I will lead you."

She led me. Even though she had only been in my room a handful of times, she pulled me through the darkened room over to my bed as if this were her room and I was the guest. I don't know about you, but that kind of confidence does things for me. Butterfly-stomach things.

"Can your clapper extinguish the fire? There is still some light."

Knowing it was corny as hell, I leaned in to whisper, "Nothing can extinguish my fire." At least it worked; she kissed me again with no waiting, hands clasping at my back and shoulders.

The best part was, we both forgot to care about anything else as the passion roared, our need to be as close as we could be overpowering our caution and duty to preserve our secrets. Or modesty for that matter. The firelight was low enough that I still couldn't see her face; just outlines of shapes. But I knew if I could see more I would think her no less beautiful than I already did.

Even with our hormones cranked to eleven, there was a brief intermission once we were bare to each other and our bodies pressed flush.

"Oh? O-oh."

"Monk-"

"I… I see. You truly are from another world."

"Sorry, I know I might not be what you expected. Say the word and we can put those robes back on, or I can go check to see if your gi is dry."

I more felt than saw her head shaking as she kissed her way down my chest. "Do you think I cannot rise to such a simple challenge as this? How you underestimate me."

"No, never. I'm just trying not to overestimate me."

"You do not," she breathed kindly against my hip before kissing it. And that was it. No messy overreactions, no long talks needed. We connected and it was pretty great.

Acceptance can mean everything sometimes.

Not to get too detailed, and I'm still not going to get as detailed as you might wish I would, but neither of us is known for slacking off exactly. We were fit and we were determined, and it took a couple of hours and a dozen different positions before we were both satisfied completely. Even then, we still lay panting on our backs with some of our limbs entwined, not wanting to be too far from each other.

"Well… that was a thing."

"It was a very good thing. I… I am relieved that I did not do anything… which did not please you."

"Huh? Oh, it's all good. I'm not even usually that interested in, uh, in this. But you're different. You… make me want so much more."

Monk rolled to curl her form around me, and I tell you what, I almost started it all off again. I wanted to, and felt like I could have, which is pretty rare for me, to be honest. She just felt that phenomenal. "I am different?"

"N-not in a bad way. Not at all."

"Yes. Well, I feel the same for you; I am… delighted at our differences. Exploring this with you was very enlightening, and… and I have very much enjoyed every revelation."

Man, when was the last time I smiled this much? I don't know. Probably never. "Right back at you." Experimenting with a very unfamiliar action, I kissed her temple, and she hummed her appreciation. So that went well, I guess.

"You have given me so much. Today, you have given me something twice."

"Oh, so that was twice. Cool. I wondered if… well, you made beautiful noises and all, but it didn't have to mean-"

"It did mean this," she reassured me, and we both laughed a little. "I have another question."

"Shoot."

"It is really alright for me to rest? I feel restless, as if I must confront the evil right now. But you have assured me that time will not pass here. If… this is really true…"

I turned to face her. In the dark. Why? Don't ask me, it was a natural reaction. "Yeah, it is. Why, what's up?"

"Then I would choose to stay with you for another day."

"Why?" Another automatic reaction; I tried to fix that. "I mean, u-uh, yeah. Yeah, definitely. There's no one to come into the shop since you're the current Messenger, so I don't really have to go to work. And… there's nowhere else I'd rather be than this bed, with you."

Listen. It might have been a line, but some of that stuff just comes out naturally when you catch the big L-word. And I was pretty sure I was terminal.

"You cannot mean this." She hesitated, then pressed that goddamn hot yoga body right up against me even harder. "But if you do, only after passing one night together, then I will stay."

"You'll stay," I agreed, unable to believe my ears. "A-and, uh… don't worry, we'll robe up again when we have to move."

"Thank you. I want to see your face, and I have known your desire to see mine is strong. If not for the ways of my clan…"

I nodded. "Yeah, I get it. And it's not as hard and fast for mine; more like a suggestion to keep things clean and easy. But it only feels right that we both respect it so it's not, y'know, one-sided."

"Yes, I understand this feeling. But if you wanted to show me, I would feel no anger."

"Noted." That teasing hand between my thighs made me hiss, "Wow, you are- this is more than I expected."

"You are more than I expected. And you are ready for another… sparring session?"

"I, uh… I really don't think we should call it that." Feeling bold, I moved my hand to the corresponding area on her body, and I probably enjoyed her gasp of surprise a little too much. Oh well. "Seems like we're in the same boat."

I could just barely hear a laugh — because she was busy rolling over on top of me, kneeling, her hips over my hips. Then to my surprise, she started raising one of my legs up to drape over her shoulder, shifting herself sideways until she was positioned above my thigh still resting on the bed. And if that doesn't paint a good enough word picture for you, well, I'm not going to try again.

"You are familiar with… the Splitting Bamboo?"

"I… I, uh…" I had read the Kama Sutra, yes. Did I remember every position? No. I just never imagined I would need to know them for any reason, at all. Not until this phenomenal Monk entered my life and did her best to turn it upside-down.

"You will become familiar with it. Tonight."

Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy…

  EPILOGUE

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what? That we're playing Twenty Questions? Oh — right, because we're not doing that."

"That you were sending me off to fight your ex-girlfriend."

"You know what? This, right here. This is the reason you're not even my favorite ninja from the village. Rock Lesieur would have been way less of a pain in the tail…"

"…"

"Fine. Yes, the Queen of Quills is the Monk. Or at least… I'm certain of it now."

"You weren't before?"

"Just had a fairly strong feeling she was."

"Shopkeeper, I will search for a way to get her out of that swamp."

"Marsh."

"What?"

"It's a marsh, not a swamp."

"What's the difference?"

"Swamps have more trees. In fact, they should have a lot of trees, while marshes usually just have shrubbery, et cetera. And fungi, as you probably picked up on."

"Oh. Wow, learn something new every day."

"Don't try to sound smart now that you just had your ignorance gap filled."

"…okay, I'm going."

"Wait."

"What?"

"Thanks. For offering. I don't really believe there is a way to save her now that she's been so far gone for so long, but… maybe the fact that her form is…"

"…"

"Nevermind. I'm not getting my hopes up. Just go do what you do best."

"I'll try. See you soon."

"Fingers crossed."

~ o ~

Listen, I know I'm a little harsh on the kid. But he needs it if he's ever going to be a big strong Blue Robe.

A little bow on top of this story — just for you, not for him. The last thing a guy like that who already has a swelled head needs is yet more swelling. Therefore, he doesn't get to know the full details of this ending.

We did the thing. Every last scrap of evil we could find on Messenger Island had been eradicated. And of course, the issue was, there was no time while we were busy trying not to wind up as scurubu-chow for my old flame and I to reconnect and decide how we felt about everything. Crazy how near-apocalypses can kill the mood like that.

While everybody was patting each other on the back, and old Phantom was trying to catch up on all he missed thanks to the efforts of the Artificer and the Prophet's conversational skills, I managed to steal Monk away to my room — where Ninja still couldn't follow us. Don't worry, he and Iron Hood were chatting about collectible figurines or some crap; they were occupied. Nobody was a total wallflower in this we-defeated-Demon King-finally celebration.

"Keeper of my Heart!" she breathed as soon as the door was closed, throwing her arms around me. That familiar weight, the firm muscle beneath her soft, well-worn gi, breathed new life into me that I hadn't even noticed was absent when she was absent. It was like a rebirth.

"Shhh, shhh," I soothed her when I heard the tears begin. Someone so strong and she was breaking for me… or maybe she was strong enough to break around another person. "I got you, Monkey. Oh geeze, I missed you so much…"

By the time we could actually talk again, I had brewed us some non-Astral tea and we were sitting in my new chairs. Oh yeah, I got new chairs; they had slight cushions to the seats. I decided there was no reason to sit on rigid wood when you could add a dash of comfort. At the same time, I didn't want to add too much comfort, or they would be… you aren't listening. You stopped listening and at this point, I'm almost entirely certain you are skimming through this paragraph to see where the next interesting development comes about. Fine, I guess I won't mince words, since you don't appreciate them anyway. Unless you did legitimately read this far, then all is forgiven, naturally.

"Have you told the others?"

"Huh? Told them what?"

She dipped her head the tiniest bit in chagrin. Shoot me, but that was the cutest thing ever. "Of who we are to each other."

"Are? I mean, I haven't seen you in… it really has been a long time. Even here. So I've just been mourning on my own time, when I haven't been hand-holding that cloud-stepping goofball out there."

"He is not so bad," she laughed softly, her balaclava rustling slightly as she looked down into her cup. "After all… he made it possible for you and I…"

She had me there. I leaned forward on my forearms to whisper, "I would babysit for his kids for the rest of my life if that was what it took. And I hate kids."

"Ah, yes, I remember you mentioning this to me. No matter." She took a contemplative sip before setting the cup down on the table. "Keeper, I want to tell them."

"Tell them what?" She just blinked. "Oh, about that. Why? Do we really need to complicate things by-"

"I am proud to be close to you. For us to have paired our hearts together for all time. Are you not proud of the very same?"

Well, when she put it like that… "That's not what this is. Of course I wouldn't mind having the hottest Monk in the world on my arm, but I kind of also… like… it's silly."

"Tell me."

"I like having you all to myself. My little secret — me being your little secret. But…" I sighed, turning my own teacup. "You're right. It's been fun, but we lost too much time. I don't want to waste more trying to be cagey and sneak around, when we can just come out to everybody as here-and-queer."

"We are coming somewhere queer?"

"Hey, we tried that once, and it was uh… different," I half-joked. But then, of course, I did the legit explaining. "But this time, what I meant was, uh, that we aren't a 'traditional couple' according to some people. They might look at us funny. But I would never let that stop me, and I know in your culture it's not even a thing, anyway."

The corners of her eyes crinkled in vague bemusement. And love. It still struck me temporarily dumb to see so much affection in those deep, contemplative eyes of hers.

"I know you would not. For you are far braver than most of those who wear the blue robe think. I know that if your ninja had failed to save me, you would have done it yourself."

"Oh yeah? And how do you know that? You act like I'm just such a useless gay that-"

Her fingers were suddenly covering my mouth, which she found so easily despite the presence of my hood. Closer and closer, she slid as she pressed me down into my chair, and I was so mesmerized by her eyes…

…that I almost missed a magical new detail. The faintest hint out of the corner of my eye of beautiful lips, ones I still had yet to see until that second, forming words that spawned brand new butterflies.

"Not useless. Never useless to me, Keeper of my Heart."

Then she was kissing me, and I couldn't worry that I had seen more than I should have, or that she was going to be mad, or that her clan was going to throw her out, or any of that. All I could think was that she was beautiful, she was strong, she was wise, she was… everything. Whatever crazy notion made her think I was worthy of her, it would be really stupid to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

Because against all the odds, I had my Monk back. That was the gift that kept on giving.

Which is the end of this story. There are other stories, about her donning the blue robes for good, and then there was this thing with an alternate dimension because their Corrupted Future was trying to spread, and those two worlds… but I'm putting a pin in those. Not even you could handle most of them, anyway, much less my hapless Ninja friend. Maybe someday, you'll be ready.

And not just for the stories.

Just promise me, when it's your turn… don't be so oblivious you can't figure out the scroll is a map. I mean, seriously, who doesn't open a scroll when carrying it for days on end? Some people are just born clueless. Don't be those people.

Be like my Monk. Flawless. Yeah, do that.

THE END

[myalchod]

In 2016, my last job put me on a project that involved not only some fairly insane hours and eventually entirely too much travel but also forbade me from talking about it. I'd already been working too hard, but this was a whole new level of it. The important part? This absolute confluence of shite basically switched my creative brain off -- shorted it out. I slogged through things, but I had grand plans for a sequel to one of the fics I'd written for that fandom, and even if I had it outlined, every time I opened the document it was impossible to put words to a page. (I wrote other things -- some of which I'm still quite proud of -- but I couldn't get my thoughts together for longer work.)

I left that job in late 2018, and started my current one right away. It was -- and still is -- so much better than before. A lot of things changed in the intervening years. But I look at the gap in my AO3 posting -- nothing between early 2017 and late 2022 -- and I think back, and yeah, I was depressed. Not the entire time, by any means, but until I left my last job, absolutely. It drained me dry, emotionally, and then sucked still more out of me. And the thing is, you don't just bounce back from that. I remember taking a lunch break a few weeks into the new job -- I was working from home at the time -- and deciding to cook breakfast for lunch, and then texting my sister about how sad it was that such a small thing made me happy, and how I hadn't even realised just how deep into that funk I was. Depression is insidious like that, especially when it's the slow pervasive kind.

And every so often, I'd open up that WIP file and stare at it, and put it away. It was like reopening an old wound. I just couldn't. I wanted to get down how the story ended, but it wouldn't work. I wrote a little here and there, but nothing serious. Some of it might've been not finding a fandom that grabbed me, but I don't think that was all of it. I think, like any overstrained muscle, that my brain just needed to rest.

So here I am, not even four months into 2023, with almost 45k of new stuff on AO3. I've written over 30k of other stuff since November of last year in various WIP files -- some entirely self-indulgent, but others that I actually intend to do something with. And yes, the adrenaline rush of a new shiny fandom (and the wonderful people in it) have certainly helped -- there definitely wouldn't be nearly as much without them. That's not the point. The point is, it took five and a half years for me to really start writing again at length. Depression and exhaustion are real. Mine was easy to solve, in the grand scheme of things, by getting out of the situation I was in, but it still took time and patience and self-care to rebuild afterwards.

Don't beat yourself up. Be aware of what's going on. And if you need it, get help. There's no shame in any of that -- we're all human.

hey guys so apparently this is a thing a lot of people don't realise but like. if you have had writer's block/ art block for like. six months. a year. two years. that's maybe not a block. that's maybe depression. and you should maybe look into treating the source of the problem instead of just beating yourself up for not being able to write/draw. be kind to yourself and know that your struggle to create isn't based in laziness or a lack of skill or talent.

[king-finnigan]

- The Walls of Kaer Morhen - Part 2 -

Also on AO3 Part 1

_._

“What happened to the west wing?” he asks at dinner, a few days later. He’s roamed in there once or twice over the past week, and every time, he couldn’t help but notice the dilapidated state of it – the stones of the walls chipped and scarred, the windows broken in several places, some doors even shattered to bits – right before Vesemir had found him and shepherded him out of it soon afterwards.

Vesemir always finds him, somehow.

The dinner table grows silent, and Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he asked the wrong question.

“The sacking,” Geralt replies eventually. “I’ve told you about that before.”

He frowns, then nods. He remembers it well, the night Geralt told him what happened to most of the Kaer Morhen Witchers: killed- slaughtered by an angry mob in their own home, their blood painting the walls of Kaer Morhen. He remembers the way Geralt’s face had seemed to age a lifetime in the light of the dying fire, and he remembers holding him close afterwards, trying in vain to sooth the greatest loss Geralt’s ever had to endure.

“Right,” he says. “You did tell me about that, about what happened and…” his eyes drift to Vesemir, who’s also fallen quiet, staring daggers into his untouched plate of food “and that Vesemir was the only one to survive.”

The kitchen is quiet, the silence almost palpable.

“Aren’t you going to ask, little bard?” Lambert eventually says, venom in his voice, and the tension in the room sets Jaskier’s nerves on end. “Aren’t you going to ask how he managed to survive? You’re smart, surely you’ve realized how odd it is that an entire keep of Witchers couldn’t make it, but somehow, he could.”

Jaskier clears his throat, looking down at his lap. “It’s uh… it’s really none of my business-“

“Tell him, Vesemir,” Lambert spits out, “tell the little bard how you ran while the others were being slaughtered, tell him how hid like a fucking coward until you were the only one left standing.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Tell him!” he barks out.

“That’s enough!” Eskel snaps, and Jaskier looks up to see that he’s bared his teeth in a snarl at Lambert, who’s growling back. Geralt has his jaws clamped together, his hands fists on the table as he glares at Lambert.

Vesemir stands up. “Excuse me,” he mutters, walking out of the kitchen.

Jaskier curses, scrambling out of his chair, following Vesemir into the main hall, intent on apologizing to him for the scene he caused – no matter how much he didn’t intend to. But when he steps foot into the hall and looks around, Vesemir is nowhere to be found.

---

He pushes open the door, sneezing when it sends a small cloud of dust into the air, waving his free hand in front of his face, his other occupied with the blanket and the book.

He’s decided to explore the keep, finding different reading nooks in different rooms. After all, he doesn’t want to spend the entire winter cooped up in the library – hell, if he wanted that, he would’ve just gone to Oxenfurt.

And maybe it has something to do with that one time he was walking through the library, and out of the corner, he’d spotted someone sitting in one of the chairs at the end of the aisle. He’d stopped in his tracks, taking a few steps back, only to find the chair very much empty.

Or maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with that. Maybe he’s just getting tired of the library. It doesn’t matter.

He looks around the room. At first glance, it doesn’t seem like much, with a few beds pushed against the walls and a curtain at the far end, but Jaskier knows not to judge too quickly, by now, and closes the door behind him, walking towards the curtain.

He lays down his blanket and book on the floor next to one of the beds, and pushes the fabric to the side, grinning when he finds an alcove with a bench behind it. It’s the perfect little reading nook, and Jaskier can already picture himself lounging there in the winter sun, surrounded by pillows, his book in his lap as he dozes.

He turns back to fetch his things, but finds his blanket gone.

He frowns. Strange. He walks over to the side of the cot where he left his stuff, lowering himself on his knees next to it.

He finds the blanket underneath the bed, and he frowns again, reaching under to pull it towards him. He must’ve accidentally kicked it when he walked towards the alcove, he supposes. It’s now covered in dust, though, which is less than ideal but it’s nothing a good shake can’t fix.

So, he shakes it out and folds it again, laying it next to the book once more before walking out of the room in search of pillows, smiling to himself as he hears the familiar clanging of swords in the courtyard.

His quest is forgotten, though, as he walks into the main hall, finding Eskel standing there, staring at one of the tapestries. Jaskier goes to stand next to him, taking in the scene stitched on the black fabric in vibrant thread.

It’s a Witcher fighting a wraith, his hand on the ground as a purple circle glows around the monster.

“The first Yrden,” Eskel explains to him.

Jaskier hums thoughtfully, eyes trailing over the details in the tapestry as he waits for Eskel to speak again.

“You know,” the Witcher eventually mutters, “I used to be able to sit here for hours as a kid, watching the older Witchers work on these tapestries. It was mesmerizing.”

“I bet,” Jaskier mumbles back.

They stand there in silence for a while, until Jaskier moves on to the other tapestries – the next few ones depicting the birth of every sign.

He startles when the front door slams open, Lambert grinning wildly as he walks inside, pausing momentarily to stomp the snow off his boots. “First snow’s here!” he announces cheerily and, quite frankly, a bit unnecessarily.

“Does that mean you can’t train outside anymore?” Jaskier asks, and Lambert shakes his head, grinning, still.

“No! As a matter of fact, it’s now that we start training! Nothing’s better than watching Geralt slip in the snow, I’ll tell you that.”

“Actually, there’s nothing better than putting snow in the back of your shirt,” Geralt retorts as he also walks into the hall, pushing the front door shut behind him.

“That’s just cheating.”

“Hmm. I don’t think it is,” Eskel replies in Geralt’s stead, following Lambert to the kitchen as they continue to bicker.

Geralt chuckles softly, walking over to Jaskier, standing beside him as they look at the first Quen, the Witcher on it fighting off a griffin. “How are you doing?” he asks.

Jaskier smiles softly. “I’m doing wonderfully.” He feels Geralt hesitate and turns his head to look at him. “What is it, dear heart?”

“Do, uhm… do you like it? Here, I mean. Kaer Morhen. Because I know you haven’t been sleeping well, and… if you want to leave… I understand. We still can; the snow isn’t too thick yet-“

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts his ramblings, brushing the back of their hands together for just a second, ignoring the sparks that dance across his skin as he does so. “I love it here. The keep is beautiful and your family is delightful and… I really do love it here.” He chuckles softly, turning back to the tapestry. “Gods, sometimes I find myself wishing I might never leave this place.”

He looks at Geralt again, meeting soft amber eyes and slightly upturned lips. “You know,” he says, voice low, “my teachers used to say that no one ever truly leaves the walls of Kaer Morhen, as long as it’s their home.”

“That’s endearing.”

Geralt snorts. “It’s ominous, is what it is.” He jerks his head towards the kitchen door, Eskel and Lambert’s voices drifting towards them. “Come on, it’s nearly time for dinner.”

---

He wakes up in the middle of the night, unable to move.

His breath immediately speeds up and he squeezes his eyes shut, fear coursing through his veins as he desperately tries to lift his hands, wiggle his toes. A part of him urges him to open his eyes, to assess the situation, but a larger part of him screams not to, because he might see the one-armed man again – though reasonably, he knows that if the man is there, it doesn’t really matter if Jaskier refuses to look at him or not.

The chair in the corner creaks. Jaskier sobs.

Wheezy breathing joins his own gasping and shaking one, footsteps slowly falling on the floor, making their way to the side of Jaskier’s bed.

He sobs again, chest convulsing as tears run down his cheeks, pathetic little whimpers escaping his throat as fear takes a hold of him.

“Shh.” He sobs again, louder this time, as he hears the one-armed man right next to him. “It’s alright, little bard.” The voice is reedy and soft, words barely understandable.

He whimpers, desperately gulping in stuttering breath after stuttering breath, his throat seizing up, blind fear making him unable to even scream.

“I won’t hurt you, little bard,” the reedy voice next to him says. “It’s just been a while since I saw a new face. Especially one as pretty as yours.”

Sword-calloused fingers slide across his cheek, wiping his tears away.

Jaskier screams.

The door slams open but Jaskier keeps his eyes squeezed shut, even as he hears quick footsteps padding towards his bed, even as he feels Geralt’s arms pull his upper body up, into the Witcher’s chest.

“Hey,” Geralt whispers to him, “hey, it’s alright, Jask, it’s alright, I’m here.”

He sobs, still, bitter tears of pure, unadulterated fear streaming down his cheeks, the memories of the hand on his skin too fresh to ignore.

Geralt continues to hold him like that, one hand rubbing soothing circles into his back, the other holding him close as Jaskier cries, his arms and legs useless and limp.

“Did you see the man again?” Geralt asks eventually, and Jaskier manages to shake his head.

“I-“ he slurs, tongue heavy and loose in his mouth “-heard him. Felt him.”

He can practically hear the frown in Geralt’s voice. “Felt him?”

“Touched me.”

The hand on his back stills momentarily, before it continues its soothing circles. “It’s alright, Jask. I’m here, now. No one can hurt you.”

“Can… can I…” he swallows around his thick tongue “sleep with… you?”

He feels Geralt nod against the top of his head, before he shifts, picking Jaskier up the way he did last time. Jaskier lets his head lol against Geralt’s shoulder, able to peek over it as the Witcher carries him out of his room.

Right before they turn the corner, Jaskier spots the black silhouette of a large man with only one arm next to his bed, amber eyes catching the moonlight falling in through the windows.

He doesn’t have enough energy to scream.

---

“Whose room am I sleeping in?” he asks over breakfast, the next day.

Vesemir frowns, staring off in the distance, lost in thought. “Hmm. Suppose that was Wulgrim of Rosberg’s room.”

Lambert snickers into his porridge. “Wheezy Wulgrim,” he mutters, eliciting a chuckle from both Eskel and Geralt.

Jaskier frowns. “Wheezy Wulgrim?”

Vesemir nods solemnly, stirring his still uneaten bowl of porridge. “He had an… unfortunate encounter with a griffin. The beast managed to take his entire left arm and lung. He survived, but he could never walk the Path again.”

Lambert snorts. “Gods, I remember him parading around Kaer Morhen all day, pointing at everything and everyone with his one arm, commanding us around. ‘Go clean the kitchen’,” he imitates in a familiar, reedy voice that makes the hairs at the back of Jaskier’s neck stand up, “’stop playing around and do something useful’.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, brow furrowed with worry. “Are you alright?”

He nods quickly, swallowing back the porridge that’s threatening to rise again. “I’m fine. Excuse me for a moment.”

He stands up abruptly, practically fleeing from the kitchen, into the main hall. He takes random doors and turns until his lungs are burning in his chest, until his knees are cracking painfully, and he takes one last door, slamming it shut behind him.

He’s back at the room he found yesterday, the windows of the alcove showing the beautiful sight of the mountains in the distance, his book still on the ground next to the cot. He walks towards it, bending over to pick it up, pulling his blanket from under the bed, shaking the dust off and folding it, putting it down again.

He turns, walking to the alcove, kneeling on the wooden bench in front of him, taking in the sight of the pale, blue sky and the snowy mountaintops littered with pine forests. It’s definitely a sight he could get used to, and it helps calm his frayed nerves after what happened last night, even though it is a bit chilly in here.

He sighs, turning back around to fetch his book and blanket, mentally preparing himself for an afternoon of relaxing and forgetting all about goddamn wheezy Wulgrim and his missing fucking arm.

Only to freeze when he sees a small hand peeking out from under the cot, dragging the blanket underneath it slowly.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his lungs, before speeding up to small gasps, eyes widening as his heartbeat thunders in his ears, fear coursing through his veins as his hands clamp around the edge of the bench, nails digging into the wood, arms trembling.

And he watches. Watches as that little hand drags the blanket underneath the cot, watches as it disappears into the shadows, watches as… nothing happens after that.

His muscles unfreeze, as if a spell’s suddenly been broken, and he staggers to the cot on shaky legs, knees cracking painfully as he lets himself drop. He braces one trembling hand on the mattress, the other digging into his thigh as slowly – ever so slowly – he lowers his head down to look under the bed.

There’s nothing there. Nothing but the crumpled blanket and flakes of dust.

With a shaking hand, he reaches under the cot, retrieving the blanket and standing up again. He barely manages to shake the dust off the blanket, fold it loosely and drop it back down on the floor next to his book, his movements jerky and forced.

And then, he takes a step back. And another. And another. Until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bench and he sits down heavily, pulling his feet up to hug his legs to his chest.

He sits there. And waits.

Seconds turn into minutes and still, nothing happens, nothing moving in the room besides Jaskier’s chest and the flakes of dust floating through the air lazily.

He’s about to give up, about to shrug it off as a figment of his overworked imagination, about to walk away and pretend he didn’t see anything, when something moves in the shadows under the cot.

He watches, once again, as a child’s hand emerges from the shadows, grabbing the blanket in a tiny fist and dragging it under the bed slowly.

He swallows thickly. “It’s-“ he begins, his voice weak and wavering, and he wets his lips, trying again: “It’s not nice to take things that aren’t yours.”

The hand lets go of the blanket, slowly retracting under the bed. Suddenly Jaskier feels a bit guilty. After all, the child – because it definitely is a child – is just taking the blanket when they think he’s not looking, nothing more. They’re probably just cold.

He knows there’s two ways he can go from here: he can take the blanket and his book and walk out of this room, never to return, or…

Or he can stay and see what happens.

He makes a decision right there and then.

He sighs deeply, trying to push the fear out of his lungs. “It’s alright, though. Just this once. You can have the blanket.”

He waits, again, and for several long minutes, nothing happens.

He sighs again, pushing himself up and turning around, settling on his knees on the wooden bench, looking out of the window at the beautiful sight without really seeing anything.

“I’m not looking,” he calls over his shoulder. “If that’s what you’re scared of. I’m not looking.”

He waits again, the clock in his head ticking steadily as the minutes pass, his feet slowly growing numb from his own weight.

And then, he hears it: the soft slide of fabric on the stones, dragging through the dust. He takes a few deep, calming breaths, willing himself not to panic, pushing the fear that’s threatening to consume him down. And he waits.

The soft rustling of the blanket, and his heartbeat picks up.

Tiny, little footsteps on the stone floor, and his breath stutters in his lungs.

The very vague shape of someone standing behind him appearing in the glass of the window in front of him, and his eyes widen.

His hands are trembling where they’re lying on his thighs and ever so slowly, he starts turning his head, giving the person behind him plenty of opportunity to flee or disappear or – and he really doesn’t want to think about that – attack him.

But they don’t. They stand there as he slowly turns his head to look over his shoulder, heart racing in his throat.

It’s a child. Jaskier slowly turns around completely to look at them properly, to make sure he doesn’t startle the little kid.

He can’t be older than four – if that, even – his black curls framing his round face adorably, shoulders hunched up to his ears as he looks at Jaskier with big, brown eyes, the dusty blanket pulled around him like a shield.

“Hi,” he says softly, making sure not to scare the boy. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Hi,” the boy whispers, and Jaskier has to resist the urge not to coo at him, fear-frozen heart melting at the sight of the child.

“What’s your name?”

“Elias.”

“Nice to meet you, Elias.”

“Are you a mage?”

He cocks his head, curiosity stirring in him. “No, I’m not. I’m a bard.”

“What’s a bard?” Elias asks in that adorable little voice of his, brown eyes looking at Jaskier with curiosity.

He smiles softly. “I make music. I have a lute in my room- that’s an instrument. If you want I can bring it here, later, and show it to you.”

Elias nods eagerly, greedily, brown eyes wide as if he’s drinking up every bit of kindness Jaskier has to offer. “I’m going to be a Witcher,” he offers shyly.

“Oh, I bet you are,” Jaskier says, “you look like you’re strong enough to be one already.” It makes Elias giggle, and Jaskier has to resist the urge to gather him in his arms and protect him from all the evil in the world.

But he can’t help but wonder what the boy is doing here. Did he sneak inside when the Witchers weren’t looking? How’d he even make his way up the mountain? And how has he been surviving? Surely someone would notice food going missing, right?

He shakes the questions away. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that he’s got a little boy right in front of him, all alone in a near-abandoned wing of a dilapidated keep.

“Elias?” he asks. “Are you hungry? I can get some food for you if you want.”

The boy shakes his head, curls bouncing around his face as he rubs his eyes with one tiny fist, yawning widely. “No,” he mutters eventually. “I’m tired, mister Jaskier.”

He smiles softly, fondness spreading in his chest, warm and fuzzy, and he lowers himself to the ground, stretching out his arms. Elias takes his silent invitation, crawling into his lap, burying his chubby face in Jaskier’s shoulder, thumb making its way to his mouth.

“Let’s get you to bed, shall we?” Jaskier mutters as he stands again, carrying the toddler to the cot he’d been hiding under, gently lowering him down on the mattress.

He tugs at the blanket a bit, rearranging it so the boy’s tucked in, nice and snug under the soft fabric, blinking up at Jaskier sleepily.

“Goodnight, my little Elias,” he whispers, tucking a few wayward curls behind the boy’s ear.

“Goodnight, mister Jaskier,” little Elias mumbles around his thumb, brown eyes drifting closed, slipping into sleep.

Jaskier can’t help but smile at the sight, and takes a few steps back, lowering himself on the wooden bench, eyes trained on the strange little boy in that old bed, sleeping peacefully in the near-abandoned Witcher keep. Gods, how he wonders what brought this little child all the way up here, what horrors he was fleeing from that caused him to take the dangerous passes up to the keep, hiding and fending for himself like no child should have to.

Jaskier sighs, leaning his head against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest.

He’ll let the boy sleep, for now, and in a few hours, he’ll try to convince him to have something to eat in the kitchen. He’ll prepare a room for him, somewhere warm and safe where he doesn’t have to sleep in a dusty, cold room with an even dustier borrowed blanket. He’ll protect the little one against all the evil in the world – with his life, if he has to – to make sure he’ll never have to face what drove him here in the first place again.

Yes. He’ll do that, and so much more, for his little Elias.

He doesn’t notice that his eyes are starting to drift shut.

---

He wakes up with a start a few hours later, disoriented and confused, and he rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he looks around the room.

Right, yes, now he remembers: the room filled with cots and with a lovely reading nook, his blanket dusty as it kept getting dragged under the bed by a little hand-

Elias.

He sits up straight, sleep completely chased away, and notices the dusty blanket in a heap on the cot Elias was asleep on. The boy is nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier curses silently, sliding off the bench, crawling to the bed on his knees, peeking underneath it, finding only dust and cobwebs. “Elias?”

He looks under the other beds as well, and when he doesn’t find the boy there, he starts pushing open the chests at the foot of each cot, heart racing in his throat the longer he goes without a sign of the boy.

“Elias?” he calls frantically. “Elias? It’s alright, you can come out, now, no one’s going to hurt you. Elias!”

The door swings open and he looks up, equal parts startled as hopeful, sagging a bit when he sees Geralt.

“You missed dinner,” Geralt says in lieu of greeting.

Jaskier huffs, letting the lid of the chest he was looking into drop back down. “Yeah, well, as you can see, I’m a bit busy.”

“I was worr- What are you doing?” Geralt asks, as Jaskier drops down to his hands and knees, looking under the cots again.

“Well, my dear Witcher,” he mutters, “you’ve got an unexpected visitor.” He sits up straight when the silence continues for a few seconds, finding Geralt frowning at him, still in the doorway. “A little boy,” he explains, “can’t be more than five, goes by the name of Elias. He was here earlier, but now he’s gone.”

Geralt blinks, shaking his head minutely. “A… a little boy?”

He huffs impatiently, pushing himself to his feet and walking to the door briskly. “Yes, and he’s out there on his own, and we need to find him.”

But before he can push his way past Geralt, into the hall, the Witcher’s strong hand wraps around his arm, keeping him in place. “Jaskier…”

“What?”

“We would’ve… noticed. If there was someone else in the keep.”

He clenches his jaws together, rolling his eyes. “Well, yes, I suppose, but he was right there!” He points to the dusty blanket, lying on the cot in a heap. “I tucked him in!”

“Jaskier…” Geralt says again, something sad and resigned in his voice, and Jaskier’s eyebrows knit together, tears springing to his eyes.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly, “don’t you fucking dare tell me that that little boy I saw- held in my arms, wasn’t real. Don’t you fucking dare tell me I’m crazy.”

Geralt’s hand tenses slightly around his arm, thumb rubbing soft lines into his doublet. “I believe you. I believe you, Jaskier, I really do…”

“This is the part where you say ‘but’, isn’t it?”

“But…” Jaskier’s chest cracks open like a rotten egg, tears spilling down his cheeks, and Geralt sighs. “I… It’s…”

He shakes his head, taking a step back, trying in vain to tear his arm from Geralt’s grip. “Just… save it, Geralt. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Do you know what I smell, right now?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier frowns at him, shaking his head. “I smell you and Kaer Morhen. I smell lemon and ginger, and I smell stone and dust and leather.”

“Where are you going with this, Geralt?”

“Every human has their own, unique scent that lingers in a room days after they’ve been there.” He pauses, staring at Jaskier intently. “I smell no one in this room but you.”

He clamps his jaw shut again, looking away as tears start to spill over once more, sliding down his cheeks in fat droplets, chest aching aching aching and his mind suddenly scattered as he feels his reality come crumbling down around him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly, reassuringly, the sound of it only making Jaskier hurt more, “I believe you. When you say that you saw a boy and held him in your arms, I believe you. But…”

“He was never really there,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m losing my mind, aren’t I?”

Geralt sighs, pulling him closer, and Jaskier buries his face in the Witcher’s chest, trying in vain to keep his sobs in.

“You’re not,” Geralt whispers. “You’re just… you’re just tired, probably. You haven’t been sleeping well.”

We both know that’s a load of horseshit, he wants to say, but he nods against Geralt’s chest instead. “Yeah,” he mutters, “it’s probably that.”

Geralt sighs again. “How about we get you some dinner, and get you to bed. Get you a good night’s rest.”

He shakes his head. “I’m… I’m not hungry. Just…” scattered “tired.”

“Alright,” Geralt says, pushing him away slightly to turn him towards the door, gently laying his arm around his shoulder, leading him into the hallway. “Then we’ll just get you to bed. Alright?”

“Hmm,” he agrees, feet dragging a bit as he walks. As they pass one of the dark windows, he hears the familiar clanging of swords in the courtyard. “Geralt?” he asks. “Lambert and Eskel are in the kitchen, aren’t they?”

Geralt frowns at him but nods. “Yeah, they are. Why?”

“No reason.”

[meryton-etc]

Rest on Your Oar (and See) Commentary Track

It’s been two years, nearly, since I published Rest on Your Oar (and See). According to AO3, it is my 6th most popular fic by hits, and my 4th most kudos’ed. By Popular demand (twitter poll) here is some commentary about politics and references in the text! It may be THE MOST PRETENTIOUS THING i've ever written

Read this with the fic (here) open beside you, I guess? I don't know how to do this kind of thing

Content Warnings: Discussions of the holocaust / Shoah, mass death on the Mediterranean and English Channel, depression, suicidality, parental abuse

Rest on Your Oar began life in my green notebook, which also contains fan favourites such as every Silmarillion fic I’ve ever posted, and ‘An Ebb, a Wave, a Soft Crash.’ I write most things longhand first, and then type up the second draft. If something strikes me as having potential i’ll polish the second draft into a third, but not always. 

Rest on Your Oar wasn’t so much something that I wrote as much as something that created itself. It felt like it was in my hands already as I began to put it on the page, although that’s not to say I didn’t put a large amount of work into it. The longhand version follows the same structure as the published one, although it’s about half as long and it’s not as good. I don’t spend much time thinking about law in draft one, which is funny, because I think that’s the most important element of the entire thing.

If there’s one thing this fic is about about, it’s Modernity, and more specifically the space that law currently fills in our lives (one that might once have been filled by something else [God]). It is also about Europe, History-with-capital-H, [both of which are really just Modernity again] abuse, queerness, and depression. Modernity was when the disenchantment started: the scientific method and bureaucratisation came in - both forms of systematisation - as a result racism became codified by science instead of Religion, the individual conscience became king, and the King lost his head. And more!! 

Why yes, I have read Angels in America, thank you for asking.

This commentary will explain some of my thinking on this, as well as things that I would change, now. As I said, it’s been nearly two years, and they’ve been personally eventful. This is especially true of the focus on Europe.

I should have been clearer: the [ongoing] colonialism that has endured for the last six centuries and the current focus on borders, borders, borders make this place, at this moment, an Evil one. At this moment, we would rather maintain an absurdly expensive and brutal system of social murder, rather than deal with problems we ourselves have caused. If you’re looking for a cause to throw €5 to over the next few months - and God knows you probably aren’t, given the cost of living these days - consider organisations that come under the banner of the Calais Appeal (you can find it on instagram). Over 300 people have died in Northern Europe (France and Belgium mostly) trying to get into the UK. In 2021, according to the UN, 3,231 people lost their lives crossing the Mediterranean sea. These are people with beating hearts, inner lives, families and friends that love them dearly.It is international law that you can claim asylum in any country you want. The EU and the UK are breaking international law. There are NO LEGAL ROUTES into this place unless you are already a member of a privileged minority. The EU knows that this is the case and persists in these brutal policies regardless.

A final note before starting - Edgeworth is deeply depressed during this fic, and surprise! I was deeply depressed when I was writing it. Depression is very difficult to measure when it gets that bad, because your perceptions of everything, including time, are skewed and sometimes unreliable. I know now that I was deep into it, and this comes through occasionally in the writing and the language used. I want to say that I appreciate every comment - some of the loveliest, most gracious, best-written comments I have ever received are on this fic - and would like to let people know that I’m doing better now. In case you were wondering!

-

The title comes from an Eileen Ní Chuilleanáin (pronounced Eye-leen Nee Quill-en-awn) poem, “The Second Voyage.” It’s about Odsseus deciding that he hates the sea and must leave it, and then realising that he can’t, and must go back. I love Ní Chuilleanáin so much - she writes with an acute eye for detail. Can’t recommend enough. Anyway, you should read the poem alongside the piece, and bear in mind the ending. Is it happy? 

Is fanfiction literature? I’m going to ruffle a few feathers here and say that I’ve been reading fic for a good deal more than half my life, and I think the answer is usually not, or at least it’s not usually good literature. I’ve published more than 33 fics, which is quite a few, and even then, I think there are maybe three that I could possibly, possibly, with a lot of work, spend a few months editing and send off to a magazine. I write in the fanfiction genre and mostly, for me, generally, that precludes analysis or deep themes. Some people treat it differently. I approached Rest on your Oar differently. That’s why the references to the Holocaust and the Second World War are in here. If something is about the Law, and about Europe, then it is for me very important that we mention where the law in Europe can lead. However, generally I think it is absolutely inappropriate and wrong to trivialise the Holocaust by setting a fanfiction there. Like the new trend of novels that treat Auschwitz as a tragic backdrop in which characters can self-actualise, such fics show an absolute misunderstanding of what happened, and what was done. It was important for me to acknowledge, in my fic about a kind-of German lawyer battling with the legacies of his lawyer father(figure), that it was Europe’s celebrated legal and infrastructural machinery that made the murder of roughly 7,000,000 people (of whom 6,000,000 were Jewish) possible.

 

Anyway.

He’ll disembark at Bordeaux. A big enough city that the police won’t blink twice at an anonymous body in the treacherous river. He won’t upset anyone – he won’t make anyone he knows discover – it’ll be OK once he gets off the train

The fic starts with Edgeworth on the Paris-Hendaye high-speed rail service, in the midst of a full-blown break with reality.

By poetic licence, the carriage is empty. A last-minute ticket for the TGV on this line, in the evening, in first class (of course) would cost you about €173.00, if not more. Provided you could find one. Jesus!! You can get to Greece (by plane) for that!! 

Why the Basque country? Firstly, I lived near there for a few months and absolutely adored it. The Sea, the cliffs, the people (the people!!) the towns, winding roads, villages, houses all facing the same direction, Saint Sebastian, the language, the rain, the beaches that attract tourists and the constant wind that disappoints them, and again, above all, from everywhere, the Sea, the Sea, the Sea. I use the water as a metaphor in my writing, which is really original and unique of me. Why the Basque country? It’s old, and not German at all, easy to get to, and the seaside towns are very underpopulated during the Winter. A lot of empty houses, empty apartment blocks, and rain from the Atlantic.

The platform at Biarritz is drab and rain-soaked.

You ever get the impulse to stay on the train you’re on, and get off somewhere nicer? I don’t want to get off at Marne-la-Vallée/Chessy. So rainy and cold. And for what! Disneyland!?!? I’d rather be getting off in Avignon [ ;-) ]. This is not what Edgeworth feels, except for it is. I don’t know! He’s in the middle of a breakdown! Those aren’t coherent thoughts he’s having! I wanted to express here how tar-ry depression can be. All of your brain feels heavier, and whatever thoughts you are having are unclear and move like viscous. I imagine, for quick-on-the-draw person like Edgeworth, who may have spent most of his childhood very alert to his guardian’s moods and potential violences, that state is particularly alien. Does he want to die, or does he want to live? It can be surprising, for those who have not been there, how unclear that demarcation can be.

Corrupt.

Also I don’t forgive him the corruption until he decides that he’s going to fix it. It’s very illegal and absolutely morally repugnant, what Lana did to him. It’s absolutely the kind of thing that could mess you up for life, and I imagine would be fertile grounds for a civil case as well as a criminal one. But he’s still in a position of authority. Prisons are evil places in real life, and in Ace Attorney they seem to be mediaeval dungeons with Victorian hard-labour standards. One imagines Genet thriving in the environment. It’s on the prosecutor to think long and hard about what the truth of the matter is. Can we achieve true justice on Earth? Debatable. But Edgeworth’s approach sure isn’t helping!!!

And yet, I think it’s pretty obvious that he does, even at his worst, care about Justice.

At least there isn’t anyone they could call. Not one. The thought is freeing. He used to have Von Karma listed, but his office number, not his personal line.

Not having an emergency contact - it’s very difficult to live that way. You don’t realise how much you need one - pretty much for every job application, pretty much for every club you want to join, and certainly for doctors, dentists, and any other place where you may need insurance. For more on this, read the very beautiful How to Be Alone by Lane Moore.

Von Karma had been total

I hate it when people use political theories to describe interpersonal relationships, and vice versa, because it contributes to petty bourgeois philosophy about government spending and the worst excesses of liberal twitter, but here I present my take on parental abuse. Apologies, as ever, to Hannah Arendt.

He stumbles up the street, to the bright neon promise of an open hotel, its windows reflected in the puddles on the ground.

Anyway, I spent an enjoyable three hours looking for a fancy hotel that Edgeworth might check into. I can’t remember the one I picked but it was very white-plaster light-wood beams, healthy food, open all year round. I think to be truly in-character Edgeworth would go with the Hôtel Palace, which is just as baroque and expensive as you can imagine, but he’s not in character here, as also shown by his eschewing of the SUIT. 

Where does Edgeworth buy his fancy and boring clothes? There is a shopping centre in Gare Montparnasse, where the Paris-Hendaye service originates. So Levi’s for t-shirts, the Kooples, and so on. Some aspects of this fic are so unbelievably thought out, and some are completely symbolic and not realistic in any way. Don’t think too hard about it. 

To skip forward - here is where place Edgeworth visits in Biarritz (Le Rocher de la Vierge):

Places Miles and Franziska were brought as children for educational reasons

And the little village he settles in is one of my favourite places in the entire universe, that is, Guéthary, a little further down the Basque coast.

How gorgeous?!?!? Many a happy cigarette smoked on this harbour. Also a comedically dramatic tumble from a bicycle, ripping the knee of some nice yellow jeans.

For people who aren’t aware, there is ongoing conversation in the Basque country over the topic of independence. The Basque region encompasses some of France’s South-Western coast and also a large amount of Northern Spain. It skewed Republican (good) in the Spanish Civil War (a war so terrible that any amount of reflection upon it will have you pretty much despondent) and as a result suffered heavily when the fascists won. Picasso’s painting Guernica is based on the German bombing of the Basque cultural and market town of the same name. 

Up until fairly recently, this was a conflict, with armed group ETA on one side (pro-independence) and the Spanish police and the Guardia Civil [guilty of war crimes for sure, but no charges] on the other. The EU will not tell you this because they like to pretend there hasn’t been war since 1945. When they say this, they mean “literally tanks sent between France and Germany.” (I’m not anti-EU in principle but I am a mostly unemployed leftist so I have things to critique. To be clear this is not a Brexit support blog).

Philadelphia Story had been his favourite. His father had ruffled his hair and laughed when Miles said so. He said, why am I not surprised. My clever little boy.

Katherine Hepburn forever. Gregory Edgeworth in no doubt as to who his son is.

Larry didn’t like it so much – “Mulan’s for girls” he’d said, and Phoenix had looked down at his hands and agreed, albeit far more quietly than usual.

Miles Edgeworth runs up against male socialisation and it hurts. Also Phoenix lives with his aunt - why? Not for this fic to explore.

Past empty campsites, fields full of luxury white cuboids waiting for May.

Anyway I myself was a campsite worker, poisoning the air of the beautiful small town with my shouted English. Shame on me! I know.

But here, on this cliff - he wasn’t expecting this, either – he thought he’d seen the town’s war memorial – but here’s another one, stones turning their faces to the sea, and it’s blunter – it’s -

If your mother did a master’s thesis on French historical memory of the second world war, please hit me up! We can commiserate together. The effects of this thesis on me are manifold, but one is that I MUST find the war memorial in any town I go to and see who EXACTLY is memorialised. Obviously we have the First World War dead, which is as close to neutral remembrance as you can get in this sphere - and it’s important to look at the length of these lists in small villages and reflect!!!! And then more rarely, and always a much shorter list, you’ll have the lists of the Second World War dead. Usually resistants, but sometimes civilians as well, and generally it won’t say whether they were shot on the street or deported. 

So in Bidart (this memorial is in Bidart) that is not the case. It’s very stark, hence the flashback. My favourite war memorial is in Biarritz because it goes into a lot of detail about deportees &tc.

And speaking of memorials!!! 

This is the memorial to the murdered Jews of Europe on Hannah Arendt Strasse:

And this is the separate memorial across the road to the murdered members of the LGBTQ+ community

Both of these memorials are extremely powerful; Von Karma here weaponises this power to threaten and oppress. Power and aura, for art in everyday life, can be used for both affirmative and negative ends. Memorials to atrocities of this scale are complicated places, and while I think Berlin has done a phenomenal job at limiting the potential for misuse, it is still there. The memorial does not tell you what to think.

Similarly, you have to think about coming into an understanding of your own identity in a world where the visible, public and celebrated elements are monuments to oppression, illness, institutional hatred and . What does it mean to understand your sexuality, religion or gender through displays of public contrition and grief, or as sites of public debate before you understand it as what it means for you and your heart? 

To close out this section, consider the words of Primo Levi:

It happened, and therefore it could happen again; this is the core of what we have to say.

This is why we must reflect on the Law, and on current European fascism, and on current European migration policy. I hope at least that there will be memorials to the people we have lost due to the above.

-

On his mother’s birthday, it rains.

Who is Miles Edgeworth’s mother???? Assumedly just as dead as his father, but why the complete absence from the text? Misogyny, obviously, but why else??? When you think about it it’s a horrifically sad story. Edgeworth wanting to die (more actively than passively at this stage) on her birthday is a detail I added to make it worse!! One imagines she’s buried or memorialised in his hometown. Did they go to her grave? Did Gregory miss her out loud? 

She would have been 60. All the terrible people in the world who reached that milestone.

This is a reference to the fact that Henry Kissinger is !!! Still !!!! Alive ?!?!?!?!?

The ocean revolting against itself and the pure rage of its power

The sea is a neutral force. A neutrality that is still very powerful.

His first thought is I like that bicycle, with the pink streamers on the handlebars.

Edgeworth is starting to recognise his inner child. This will be, in the end, what saves his life, and possibly what saves us all. I once had a therapist that called herself an “early childhood development professional, only one that deals with adults.” She was the best therapist I ever had!! Miles Edgeworth needs to start feeling and healing!! And so do I, and dear reader, probably so do you! Also this scene was written two years before I met this person, but falling off a cliff is a real thing that can happen. I had a coworker that fell off TWO separate cliffs. Excessive? She certainly thought so!

A Portuguese nurse asks if he’s alright as he comes in (what a question) and he tells her no.

Because mental illness is actually quite common and I imagine Edgeworth is underplaying his symptoms, they don’t keep him in for observation like I imagine they probably should. In my country the healthcare system is so broken that they don’t have the money to do things like that, but in France it’s generally efficient and well-funded. What’s going on here? Maybe he doesn’t have his EHIC card or something. Anyway, prozac made me much worse! He should be on sertraline. And then, after all of that - all that agony and humiliation - he’s still just as bad as he was before, worse maybe.

He is fourteen and lying on his back. The parquet rubs cold against his legs

There is no worse age to be in the entire world alive than 14. Is the suicidality already latent in young Edgeworth, or is it that he is looking back with poisoned lenses? 

“Hello, detective.”

You can’t escape!!!!!!!! You may desperately want to - the love of your friends and family can be the most painful and heavy thing, the most awkward burden to bear - but you can’t escape it. Thankfully.

Ride your bike down to the sea and relish in the breeze blowing the hair back from your face.

“9 out of 10 days are slightly disappointing

But on the tenth, you see that light beckoning”

Annika Norlin, “Silent Night”

Transcendence is rare, but it happens. It will happen to you. You will come to a place where you will recognise the beauty around you and inside you, and you will know that you were supposed to make it here. You will not want the mire of mental illness anymore; you will know that you are better when you are freer. 

And then it will go, and you will forget the feeling, but not that you had it. As Elizabeth Bishop says: Somebody loves us all.

The wanting of the bad thing is a strange thing to explain. There’s no such thing as true freedom from it. It is always in the back of your head, there’s always another shoe that can drop, and there will be people and things said to you - Never Quite Free by the Mountain Goats, people, don’t ask me to explain more than that.

In the future, Phoenix Wright will run into the same stretch of sea…

See High Season

he shady tactics (not illegal), the withholding of certain pieces of evidence (not illegal), the decisions on what sentence to push for, and for whom, and when to take a case and when to decide against doing so

Be VERY cautious of prosecutors. I myself am absolutely anti-prison. I don’t see any reason for that kind of barbarity in our world. I can see that not everybody feels that way. But always remember: prosecutors in most of today’s systems are on very good friends with the cops. And the cops are never your friends.

Old man, Edgeworth thinks, old man, I am not ashamed

Edgeworth is gay and now he can say “i am gay” out loud to himself. This kind of brutal repression, that either abusive parents or abusive environments instil, is violence. That is, violence as defined by Johan Galtung: the cause of the difference between the potential and the actual, between what could have been and what is. 

Thank you not-Guéthary! We are moving on!

The Cévennes! Beautiful mountains, barely populated, old old old. And I believe a place where the Maquis (part of the French Resistance) tended to congregate. Resistance… potential changes on the horizon for dear M. Edgeworth. The town that I based this town on is Florac, another stunning location. Best avocado of my entire life. I can still remember that salad, all these years later. And a very lovely skirt, silk, in blue-grey!

Oh my GOD I have got to get back there. I forgot how beautiful it was. I wonder how much rent is. I could finally write my masterwork in peace.

The man at the till, tall and dark, smiles at him

When I was there there were no handsome Spanish men selling books but in all fairness I don’t have any use for handsome Spanish men, so maybe there were some I missed? 

Unusual for a Catholic church to be so unadorned

Edgeworth does not Find Religion here. Pity! I think there are some themes in Catholicism that could help him! Not Catholicism itself, but a few of the ideas within it. Not the devotion bit - he’s maybe had too much of that already.

He liked the moomins too, although he got the feeling the other children in the class would have the same reaction to that as they did to Mulan

I must admit to taking the shame of loving the Moomins as a homage to Philip Pullman, who wrote sweetly about the same thing in an essay which I cannot find (here’s a different one), but nobody picked up on it in the comments and so now I think it’s just plagiarism??? Help!?!

He has a Spanish accent; more Southern than Northern

Javi García Cortes is from Grenada

Von Karma had slapped him, once, hard, across the face

Von Karma physically assaulting him like this is deeply humiliating, and acts as a threat to Franziska as well, though I don’t think he would do the same to her.

The chasm it will open has been a spectre, his life since he was nine years old. The dark at the centre of the spider’s web.

So the “dark at the centre of the spider’s web” is a serious image that I am using seriously, but I was listening to an improv podcast by Paul F Tomkins where “Hans Christian Anderson” is being interviewed, and HE USES THE SAME IMAGE!! But it’s so funny! Truly one of my favourite jokes ever. This is a coincidence, but it’s ruined this paragraph for me.

He was an omnipresent threat of power and violence, and he shaped Edgeworth, gave him purpose and an appreciation for Handel and Bach.

If someone gives you art, knowledge, understanding and education, feeds you - you’re a real person at least partly in their image, and - it’s unbearable, that the person that was supposed to love you and nurture you not only didn’t care enough to do that, but also hurt you, maybe on purpose and maybe by accident. Apologies would never be enough, and Miles Edgeworth does not even have that. I mean, really put yourself in his shoes: you’ve found out that this man who was responsible for your growth and development and your choice of career actually hated you and wanted to kill you and it wasn’t even for anything he thought you did. (And then it turns out your trusted co-workers were responsible for you sending hundreds of people to prison). And then also you’re in the middle of a nervous breakdown and you can’t stop thinking about the last time you were happy. Which was when you were nine years old.

lying on the shore beside Javi García Cortes, who had just kissed him in full view of the road, the best kiss of his life

I love Javi so much.AO3 user Eggybaguette posted this absolutely incredible comment, which is such a good analysis and you’re so smart for this if you’re reading this, like genuinely you are so intelligent. “[Edgeworth] seeing himself, an anonymous body in a river in the beginning, and then letting himself be recognized and experience intimacy in a river with Javi,” as they point out, is an important character progression. It’s also important in terms of borders - rivers and seas are often sites of division. Here Edgeworth is allowing himself to broaden the horizons of what he thinks his body is for. This is also true of the scene where he goes sea-swimming.

He doesn’t get out of bed except to use the bathroom for three days straight

Oh God I forgot how horrible I am to this poor man in this section. Healing isn’t linear!

He loves this movement. He loves the clarinet.

Ah, Mozart’s Piano Concerto no.23 in A Major (K488). Truly I don’t know where this man got his genius from but he understood how to express light in music! The fête de la musique that Edgeworth is attending is an annual event that has musicians play in towns across France. It’s really great! I don’t know how good an orchestra from a tiny rural town would be, but let’s pretend it’s a good one for this.

And it was not The Law that stood in his way.

IS THIS A WHISPER OF REDEMPTION? I have been a sucker for a redemption arc since I recognised a kindred spirit in Zuko from Avatar, and to be honest I am so obsessed with Ace Attorney deciding that was something Edgeworth would probably undergo, but totally off-screen. So what changed? What was the “true meaning of being a prosector?” Is the system broken beyond repair, or can it be fixed? Choose carefully, because if something can be fixed, you might find you have an obligation to fix it… not that Edgeworth is there yet in his emotional journey.

The next morning, he’s feeling pretty bad, but he gets up anyway

HE IS ABLE TO GET UP IN THE MORNING AND FEED HIMSELF!!!!!!! Just as triumphant a moment as running down to the sea imo. This is the hard work of living. 

the teachings he had to impart made a certain amount of sense. They twisted the world around, so that they confirmed your worst fears, and the more you got the more you needed

More Wanting the Bad Thing.

Sometimes the two of them, miserable on the sofa together. Miles went to a lady to talk about it, sometimes, and the way he couldn’t really make friends

It was partly inherited all along :( The thing is sometimes something happens which explains it all, and sometimes it doesn’t, and often it is a combination. Gregory Edgeworth here being an exemplary father, meaning that when he noticed his son was more sad than the usual child he went and tried to sort it out.

Oh God, had nobody – the little boy who would sleep in single bed strewn with books and signal samurai pillowcases – had nobody thought, Manfred Von Karma will damage this child

Where are the child protection systems in Ace Attorney. Mr Phoenix sir I know you care very deeply for Trucy but you can’t just take a child back to your house without some kind of documentation. Von Karma should not have been able to randomly take a child out of his community to a different continent. As John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats says, though, “Take the character seriously.” So if this was the state of the issue - what the Hell would that feel like? Not good! Edgeworth is feeling the grief of realising that childhood and its moral simplicities are over, the fact that he has been forever damaged by his upbringing, and that he will never get to be nurtured by people who loved him. And also there are fifteen years of pain that he has not let himself feel, that are all now demanding their day in court. 

Well. Miles has always cared about justice, fairness, truth (whatever those words really mean for adult lives, there is something very clear and beautiful about a child’s perception of the concepts). Edgeworth is in a position to help with that.

Try and build a life that you would be proud to show to your childhood self. It doesn’t have to be the life that they wanted.

Phoenix cried for the whole thing, pretty much

Phoenix is deep in grief! 

as the river cuts a gash across the continent more political than physical.

Goodbye, Cévennes! I will miss you dearly!! 

But there will be time enough to return. Go on, go on, let the magnets and the engineers carry you forward.

Perhaps there’s something important good and connective about trains, as well? Maybe there is space to redeem ourselves? Maybe if we leave our own interests behind and join in common cause?

I attended the centenary of the 1918 Armistice on a footbridge across the Rhine on the France-Germany border. Then there were lots of jokes about how it was about time for Alsace-Lorraine to go back to Germany, and also tears of relief that such a war hasn’t happened since 1945. If there are no wars between France and Germany for so long then surely more is possible.

Borders are weird places.

“The architecture here is, like, really weird,” Trucy says, eating her solero and looking, unimpressed, at one of the Europe’s greatest achievements. “Is it supposed to look like a spaceship?”

Trucy is right. It is weird. I love it so much. I think Edgeworth is absolutely involved in the European Court of Human Rights. It’s a bit for show, a bit actually effective, and mostly a massive symbol for… something.

While he’s there the law will change, and there will be dancing in the streets.

The Law has enormous power. In the right hands, it promotes human justice, and allows for the truth to be codified. In more mundane light, too, it orders things you hardly think about. A number of years ago, it was revealed that a mix-up on my birth certificate means that I have two available names. It took a while to actually work out what this meant; for a while I thought that I was legally registered under a name that wasn’t mine. It was upsetting! And then for trans people, getting the right name of their birth certs and personal IDs is a concrete affirmation. According to the state and its laws, this is who you are. 

Sharp Objects says: I have returned to my childhood, the scene of the crime. This refers to real crime and also a more abstract one. 

Anyway I have no way to end this. Let me know if you have any questions?

The Prodigal

The brown enormous odor he lived by was too close, with its breathing and thick hair, for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung. Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts, the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare-- even to the sow that always ate her young-- till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head. But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts (he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours), the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red the burning puddles seemed to reassure. And then he thought he almost might endure his exile yet another year or more.

But evenings the first star came to warn. The farmer whom he worked for came at dark to shut the cows and horses in the barn beneath their overhanging clouds of hay, with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light, safe and companionable as in the Ark. The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored. The lantern--like the sun, going away-- laid on the mud a pacing aureole. Carrying a bucket along a slimy board, he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight, his shuddering insights, beyond his control, touching him. But it took him a long time finally to make up his mind to go home

-- Elizabeth Bishop

If you liked this, then you’ll LOVE

A Place of Greater Safety by Hilary Mantel

Elizabeth Bishop’s poems, including: Filling Station, At the Fishhouses

The Seasons Quartet by Ali Smith

Angels in America by Tony Kushner

How to be Alone by Lane Moore

The Vichy Syndrome by Henri Russo

Postwar: A History of Europe since 1945 by Tony Judt

If This is a Man and The Truce by Primo Levi 

The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel A. Van Der Kolk

All About Love by bell hooks

Our Lady of the Flowers by Jean Genet

A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness

Less, by Andrew Sean Greer

Sharp Objects, by Gillian Flynn

The Mountain Goats discography, specifically these songs: Heretic Pride **Never Quite Free Cry for Judas

Can't Get You Out of my Head docuseries by Adam Curtis

22, 25 by Rosemary Valerlo-O’Connell

[becauseplot]

:D !!!

"He's learning it's fun." <-as a fan who has to watch the series that is a TERRIFYING way of thinking about it. Btw. But yes I can vouch for the fact that it is very very fun to hurt/kill characters sometimes. The whump subgenre of fanfic exists for a reason (man you have no idea the kind of shit I wanna do to Dagger ehehehehe). Killing off people's character is definitely scary tho. I was actually a little worried about how the players would react but they seemed to take it in good fun so! No hard feelings! Calango getting up and punching his chair just about sums up the overall feeling, yeah.

Yeah Liz had more control in that situation, she took a risk and yes she paid for it, but she had agency. Arthur was entirely helpless. He was scared and tried to fight and immediately got killed for it. "Humanly horrifying" is the perfect way to describe it, I think. Like, getting consumed by a flesh monster (Daniel) and being eaten alive by head-sized spiders (Christopher) are horrific ways to die, but being beaten to death by your "father" is uh. Eyeah. A very personal, real kind of horror that we don't actually see too often in this series. I suppose that's why it's so impactful and won't stop rotating in my brain.

Joui and Arthur should Not be okay lmfao. But, suspension of disbelief. We're here for the mysteries and horrors and combat and worldbuilding and the relationships between the characters, not necessarily the medical realism.

Ohhhhh I didn't even pick up on the fact that this was done so that Rakin wouldn't be left out of too much Plot/Lore stuff. This is one hell of a "filler" episode, I'll give it that.

Yeah the,,,, magic disability cure. I avoided commenting on it bc I don't have a disability nor do I believe myself to be educated/experienced enough on it to form an opinion in that respect, but I can definitely comment on the loss of character building and themes and symbolism and all that. (I certainly skated around explicitly using the word fhjdks.) And yeah, trust me, when Thiago got his hearing healed, my first thought was---well all of what I said earlier, but then my second thought was "ohhhh this town is fucked fucked, isn't it?" Like that is way too good to be true. I wouldn't touch this place with a 12 foot pole no sir.

(Idk if you saw it but I made a post after I watched ep 9 kinda talking about it more. I've already covered a lot of what I said there but the post does indeed exist. I was trying to be more optimistic and /silly than critical and /neg while writing it, so for that reason some of my points are a little muddled and I tend to mince my words. However, it more or less goes over my first impressions.)

LMAOOO CELLBIT IS STRAIGHT UP SLAUGHTERING THE "COSMIC" RULES OF THEIR WORLD SO HE CAN SUBJECT THEM TO MORE HORRORS LATER. GOOD TO KNOW. No but that's actually so interesting. I'm actually kind of glad that I'm mostly unaware of the mechanics he's butchering because I feel like if I did know, I might be tearing my hair out all the time lmfao. What you've told me about the original system is really fascinating tho!! Clearly whatever rulebook he's using is just a base for his RPG, and it shows in how busted the healing is in this series. Taking a wildly uneducated guess here, but I'm assuming that the story would be incredibly different if he stuck more precisely to the rulebooks. To be fair, the fights are very fun. Love watching them shoot the horrors they should do it more often(<-have nearly died in combat 547839 times now.)

Understandable!! Life is Life-ing, good luck out there o7. Also oh god spoiler landmine. And yeah, ao3 tagging 0(-( Also it reminds me of when all Minecraft and Minecarft SMP and MCYT fics were alllllll stuck under the fandom tag "Minecraft" on ao3. I think some of my older DSMP fics are still tagged simply "Minecraft" for that reason. We're spoiled nowadays with our "QSMP | Quackity SMP" and "Hermitcraft SMP" I tell you. Also that's so fucking funny to me: "Oh wow I sure do love osnf I'm gonna go on youtube to see if there's any animatics or analysis videos in English oh what's this 'All Ordem Paranormal Deaths Ranked' whOAH WAIT NO---" ((IN THE THUMBNAIL?? BROOO WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT, THAT'S FOUL LMAO))

(I think I read the nonsense fluff for ep 8? The one about Arthur and Ceasar cooking? If it's not that it's probably in my "to read" tag or I'll go grab it from your blog/ao3. I'll go check rn. Thanks for the food and gl with doing things this week!! <3)

finished ep 10 of osnf (long post under the cut oh lord)

crying sobbing kicking over chairs screaming CELLBIT IS AN EVIL EVIL MAN WHY WOULD HE DO THAT. FOR WHAT REASON. POR CUAL RAZÓN. LO ODIO. <-said with the utmost adoration and respect of a writer but the fury of a fan who just had to endure all of that my hearttttt 0(-(

god fuck i have thoughts and feelings regarding episode 10 of osnf. obviously. i don't even know how to start.

okay. first of all the way that he was able to orchestrate the like 57839 different POVs of the nightmare happening at the same time was actually pretty smooth, all things considered. being able to forcibly mute/deafen the others is a good thing to be able to do yesyes.

second, im losing my mind over how he hides the fact that "it's all a dream" WITHIN the "it's all a dream" trope by having the creatures be manifestations of dreams/guilt in "reality" themselves. idk if i'm making any sense, but like, you get it, right? like, it's the fact that we thought we had already discovered the dream-based deceit in the segment because of what the "Hotelier" told Joui at the start of it, but it turns out that THAT was a red-herring of sorts for the TRUE dream-based deceit, that EVERYTHING was a dream, not just the creatures. god there are fucking layers to this im foaming at the mouth that's soooo good.

i guess that's what makes the "it's all a dream"-style trope present here feel less cliche. because, you know, it is a trope, and it's not really a trope that i'm fond of, but because there's actually more going on, it feels less cheap. what certainly helps is that the fact that it's roleplay, so the reactions from the characters are so much more raw, and there are some irl stakes (character dead = out of the series = can't play anymore). that definitely keeps you on the edge of your seat.

edit: something i forgot to mention—what i dislike abt the “it’s all a dream” trope the most is that it is very easily something that can be so, so cheap. all angst, no stakes or consequences, no lasting impact on the plot on the characters. however, not only is there a “physical” impact via several characters losing SHITLOADS of sanity (something not easily recovered) but we get to see a little more into the psyche of the characters. which i suppose is often the point of the “it’s all a dream” segments, but this dream—one with a lot of references to past major character death and itself contains major character death—rings especially true for the themes of the series: the world they live in is dangerous, and the work they do is lethal. people have and will die. and they do and will feel guilty, reguardless if they are at fault. it’s not a horrifying death dream just for the sake of being a death dream, it feels grounded in their reality, and i love that.

third, man he did not hold back. when Arthur was being beaten to a pulp by not!Brúlio, i was actually in shock, i was screaming. plus, i think the fact that Cellbit rolled a 001 when not!Brúlio attacked actually helped to hide the fact that this was a dream. it made it look like it was bad luck rather than the segment was designed to kill the characters (well, at least until he revealed that the damage was 1d4+1d6, but i'll get to that later).

gosh the narration of how not!Brúlio killed Arthur. holy shit. i don't. i don't even have words, that is DEVASTATING. that is probably one of the worst ways for a person to go. i know it's a dream but if i were Arthur i would be emotionally fucked up beyond belief. beaten to a bloody pulp by the father who once loved you so much, screaming at you for abandoning him and that it's your fault he died a horrible death. and then he drops your body on the ground like you're nothing but a pile of useless meat. god. damn.

and then Liz. ohhhh Liz. i just. i was devastated. her whole struggle with Alex, the man she treated so horribly. yes it's true the real Alex never would have said these things to you, but how do you know he wasn't thinking it? that he didn't want to? that what not!Alex says doesn't hold some truth? christttt. and of course the way she dies: in complete agony. and did she forgive herself? because, unlike with not!Brúlio, the creature turned into that weird wispy black thing just as she died, and i would assume that means she forgave herself (if those rules even apply considering this was all a result of the parasite's deceit (holy hell my brain is melting i am the man with the hand on the conspiracy board)).

fourth: the 1d4+1d6 thing! when he read that out, i was stunned. that is a LOT of damage considering all of the characters have ~10 HP. with an extreme roll, that's basically an insta-kill, or it's easily a two-hit-kill. i thought Arthur was unlucky, but when Liz also went down, i was---well, devastated, at first, because that's Liz, she's my absolute favorite and i love her, but i started going through all five stages of grief at once, and at some point i arrived at "no that can't be right" because Cellbit is a good writer. and to deliberately construct a scenario where it would be VERY hard for a character to survive while still in the middle of the story? yeah. and yknow the fact that there's still 6 other episodes fhdsjk. (then again the series continues regardless if a character dies and i haven't looked at other episodes' thumbnails or anything like that for this exact reason. so. i was going in as blind as i could reasonably be.)

in any case, realizing and connecting all of this and then hearing the "Hotelier" start yelling at Joui right after Liz died explicitly blaming him for it sealed it for me: this is a trick of some sort. this is a dream sequence of some sort. these aren't real deaths. (a smaller part of me was still scared that they were real because i know that Cellbit does not shy away from killing off his players' characters, if op and opq are anything to go by. but i digress.)

and then the characters turned to black goo. and i just about threw my computer. rip Luba who got absolutely targeted by the GM lmfao.

anyway uhhh that's about it regarding the dream sequence! loving luzidius!joui and how he just keeps switching back and forth. ((and it further supports my little side-theory that the mysterious blond woman last seen with Team Kelvin was a luzidious we win these.)) i was surprised to see Liz thinking it was so cool when she's been so suspicious of everything in Santo Berco since she got here, but i think she could definitely be using it as a distraction from what she just went through, and honestly she's just happy to see Joui is okay. (the way she gave on up words and just hugged him, the way she held his face in her hands, the way she dragged him down the hall to show Thiago and Thiago was just telling her to fuck off (/aff) because he was getting dressed, my heartttt i love these three, mentor-mentee dynamics my fucking beloved)

also new outfits! sweet! istg the new outfits are so Cellbit's way of apologizing for putting his friends through that. "hey sorry i killed your character in the most emotionally devastating way possible it will happen again wOAH LOOK AT THESE NEW CLOTHES AREN'T THEY SO COOL YOU SHOULD TRY THEM ON!!!"

i've been having mixed feelings about the sudden setting/genre change since the group arrived in Santo Berco. i really, really loved the urban horror-fantasy vibe that they had going on in op and the first 8 eps of osnf, but evidently, this is good as well. the genre is most definitely still horror yippee. i definitely miss the urban-modern setting, but i think i can get adjusted to this. (i'm just,,, not the biggest fan of the auto-heal crystals im sorry i had to say it they feel too op i know their use is limited to visiting the doctor but knowing they exist lowers the in-world stakes for me im sorry---)

anyway, ep 10! you beautiful monster! i have been typing for an hour! i need to go eat food! k bye!