#you have been given a candle after being trapped in a dark tunnel for so long

[2003hondacivic]

[fvrxdrm]

City of the Living Dead

Chapter 6

"September 28, 2:30 am... It's down to just me and 3 others. No weapons...no ammo...and too many skirmishes have drained us mentally and physically. We're not gonna make it... Officer Phillips once suggested we escape through the sewers. Apparently, there's a secret tunnel under this place left over from its museum days. I brushed her idea off before, but now, it's not sounding all that bad. Yeah, there's no proof there's even a tunnel or that the sewers aren't infested with zombies, but I don't wanna sit here and wait to die, either. It's a long shot, but I'm gonna try to find out what I can about that tunnel... Elliot Edward," you read, "Shit. Rest in peace, buddy." You placed the transcript back to where you found it and proceeded in scanning the room you and Leon were in.

It was an office of some sort with mahogany desks occupying the center, swivel chairs pointing towards every direction, some paperworks piled in a stack and some (or rather most) cluttered all over the tables and floor. It looked like a hurricane together with an earthquake and a tsunami clashed and crashed in the area.

"Leon, w-" your head twisted and turned as you looked for best friend and even called out to him when you found him just staring at something on the ceiling, his trembling lips pinned in between pearly-white teeth, eyebrows furrowed upwards, and eyes looking like a dam was about to breakdown because of too much pressure. You went towards where he was standing and followed his gaze. You gasped. He was looking at stringed triangle banners with letters printed out on each of them

WEL COME LEON

Your face began to mirror Leon's but a pained smile differentiated yours from his as a sudden rush of memory enlightened your brain. "Hey, look, the design's the same as the banner I surprised you with when we were 15," you said, raising an arm to point at the triangular flags.

Leon chuckled softly at what you said and nodded while a sneaky tear flowed down his cheek in a tiny stream. "Yeah."

"Come on, Leon! I worked hard for this." You hauled on your friend's wrist and led him towards his room with a strain as Leon's languor held him back.

"This better be good, Y/N. You fucking woke me up and I'm really close to fucking strangling you." His voice was a little hoarse from having just woken up right before you pulled him off of the couch and he was still lowkey tired because of the three-hour rest he had last night, but as much as he wanted to throw you out of his house and fall into a well-deserved slumber again, he was into surprises and was curious as to what you had in store. So, he went along with it even though he was pretty much a sloth still.

"I promise you'll love it." You chortled.

Leon sighed in defeat before loosening up and letting you pull him towards where you wanted to take him for this so-called surprise with a rub of his crusty eyes.

When a familiar door came into view in front of you, you covered Leon's eyes with one of your hands and twisted the door knob, revealing a bedroom with a banner hovering over Leon's messy bed, before lightly pushing him inside.

"All right, here we are," you spoke as you removed your hand from your face, moving right beside him to watch Leon's face as it shifted from being enraptured to crestfallen real quick. You guffawed in a boisterous way at his reaction and plummeted down to the ground whilst clutching your stomach in a joyful pain.

YOU SUCK LEON

"Really, Y/N? This-this is what you wanted to show me?"

"It's true though, you actually suck!"

"Come on, you know you only won in Street Fighter because I let you," he whined. You stood up from being laid on the floor before clutching onto Leon's shoulder for dear life.

"For 20 times? Really?" You laughed again, "nah, you just suck, bro."

Leon narrowed his eyes at you with lips pressing tightly in a thin line and turned towards you, his feet moving slowly in tandem as he approach you with a spurious anger, his hands closing into fists.

"What?" You asked with a nervous chuckle and feet backing up in rhythm with his laggard advances.

"You think I suck?" His voice imitated a dark tone. Had you not been slightly scared - which you hated to admit - you would've busted a gut at how ridiculous it sounded.

"I mean, yeah, it's already said in the banner, dimwitt."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Well, let's see who sucks now!"

Welp, that's my cue!

You dodged Leon's attack by the skin of your teeth, stumbling on a stupid pencil for a bit, before proceeding to run around the house to avoid Leon's "spider fingers" as you call it and making a tiny bit of a mess. However, your luck has gone away and he eventually caught you when you accidentally tripped over the leg of a chair, throwing you into his bed and tickling each spot that would make you squirm and and laugh.

"I still suck, huh?"

"N-no, fine...y-you don't...s-suck," you cried in between heavy breaths and hysterics. Satisfied with your remark, Leon stopped his fingers from moving and plopped down beside you, taking a moment to catch his breath before he pulled you closer to his body and spooned you. "You still couldn't win yesterday though."

"Yeah, well, I know a million ways to win your heart though."

"Fuck off, Le-le." Leon tsked at the nickname.

"Y/N, that sounds awful as fuck."

"Whatever." You felt his lashes kiss the nape of your neck as he closed his eyes to give them another four hours of rest, your own following afterwards when you heard Leon's muffled voice vibrate against your shirt.

"Hey, you wanna be my date for homecoming?"

"I thought you already asked Lexee to be your date."

"Dante already asked her out, so..."

"Okay, fine, I'll be your date." You squeezed his hand before intertwining your fingers with his and smiling when you felt him kiss your hair.

"Thanks, Y/N. Good night."

"It's 10 in the morning, dumba-"

"Shh... Rock-a-bye baby..."

"You do suck though." You light-heartedly nudged Leon's side and wrinkled your eyes in a grin, chuckling when he returned the gesture with a titter.

"I really don't," he retorted back.

"Sure." You took his hand in yours and gently squeezed it in a comforting way to ease the two of you before placing a feather's kiss on the back of it. "Come on, we still have a job to do."

*****

Leon S. Kennedy, we're putting you on a very special case for your first assignment. Your mission is...to unlock your desk! The key to your success is in the initials of our first names. Input the letters in order of our desks. There are 2 locks- 1 on each side of your desk. Make sure you get them both. Basically, your first task is to remember your fellow officers' names, but you figured that much out, right? Good luck, Leon. By the way, it might take a little work to get Scott to give you a straight answer.

Lieutenant Branagh

Scrawled in a corner between drops of blood on the paper was an additional note the lieutenant had written while he and his fellow officers were isolated and trapped, and it read:

Be glad you're not here, rookie.

"Remember your fellow officers' names..."

"I think that means the initials of my supposedly co-workers' names should be the password to open these locks on my desk." Leon stood up from where he was knelt down on the floor and casted around from desk to desk, unlocking the padlocks on his table and claiming the prize after accomplishing his "first assignment" - a magazine for his beloved Matilda.

You smiled when Leon pulled out the gun he's had since the beginning of his adult years, another retention reminding you of the peaceful days you once had before you started walking right into confusion.

Matilda was a gift Leon's father had given him on his 18th birthday, a few months before he died of cancer. He was happy about it, and knowing how his family had supported his decision on him becoming a cop, his heart fluttered inside and he couldn't be more grateful about it. Leon held onto it everyday, even becoming a bit hesitant about leaving it behind whenever he went to school. And when his father passed away because of said illness, he grasped onto the weapon the same way he did when his dad was still alive, if not more.

"Happy birthday, Leon. Happy birthday, Leon. Happy birthday, happy birthday... Happy birthday, Leon... HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEON!"

Leon's cheeks stretched in an almost painful way as everyone erupted into cheers and confetti fell from the ceiling. Each person was wearing cone-shaped hats and the living room was decorated with different ornaments colored in his favorite hues. His family was there and so were his friends, and oh, how could he almost forget...

It was his 18th birthday!

"So, what do you think?" You spoke from behind him. He turned around to see you smiling like an idiot and tugging on the string of a party you picked up from the floor.

"This," he began. "This is amazing! Wh-"

"Well, son, the candle's almost melting. Wanna make a wish?" Leon's dad emerged from behind the small crowd with a three-layered cake balanced on top of his palms. The icing of the pastry was blue, edible police-related finishing touches garnished it with such perfection he almost didn't want to eat it for the sake of admiring and staring at the cake, and a single candle formed into the number 18 as an emphasis to his recent age was placed on top with a tiny flame dancing around in the air. Leon closed his eyes and wished for the best before blowing the candle, watching as the fire disappeared into a swirling smoke. Everyone rejoiced once again.

When voices had began dying down one by one, Leon's father called his name and picked up a box from underneath the table after placing the cake down where it wouldn't fall down.

"Leon, you're going to be attending the police academy soon and in the next few years you'll be the cop you always wanted. So, as a gift, I give you this gun." He opened the rectangular cardboard box where a gun laid and presented it to his child, Leon's eyes sparkling in delight at his very own weapon. "I know you'll be taking good care of Matilda."

"Matilda?" Leon asked in confusion.

"You know, like, Mathilda from Leon: The Professional," his dad replied. Leon chuckled in response before he carefully took the gun out of its container, still a bit iffy about touching it.

"I'll be taking good care of this, dad."

"I know you will."

"You still have that gun?" You spoke as you gestured towards his firearm.

"Yep, she still looks good as new. I didn't want to break my promise," Leon responded. He turned his gun around to show you just how much he kept it safe like a mother would to a child. Your E/C orbs twinkled in admiration, a feeling in your heart you had kept for a very long time flittering in a joyous manner for the first time since you last saw him.

"Nothing's really changed, huh?"

"I don't want to change anything for now...especially now that you're back here with me."

*****

So, I found this image on google and an idea suddenly popped into my head lmao.

Anyway, WE'RE BACK! I was busy in school blah blah blah. I think yall know that already.

[neverendingstories00]

Past The Point Of No Return (Ch.3)

Summary: Safin takes you on a tour of your new home and offers an interesting proposition.

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: n/a

A/n: Guys, sometime needs to take my labtop away. Safin is 100% going to be the death of me. I cannot stop thinking about this pyscho man PLEASE rearrange my guts. Anyways, school is starting for me tomorrow (today since i’m posting this at like 2:30am). I’ll try and get Ch.4 out asap since that’s where the drama is gonna rise. Also, thank you for all the support and comments! I’m gonna respond to them all tomorrow, I promise. I love ya’ll and enjoy the story!! ❣️❣️

Previous Chapter | Masterlist

Three days had gone by. You refused to leave your room after Safin’s temper tantrum. Three days in isolation weren’t the worst thing in the world even if you had no idea where you were. The room Safin had given you was elegant and bigger than your old flat. It was like if Japanese Zen had met modern times. A living room with endless books and plants connected to a bedroom and large bathroom. You felt like you were in a fancy hotel. Inside of the bathroom was a freestanding club that outlook a rock garden. Of course, you had tried to break the glass or crawl out one of the closet vents, but everything had been locked shut. At one point, you had felt the room had been made just for you (which it probably had been). Safin must have had a lot of time on his hands to be able to construct it. The books that were on the shelves were the same books you owned a home, the candles were all lavender and cherry blossom, and even the small amount of clothes he had offered and gotten your sizing in were accurate to your taste. It was oddly amiable, but alarming that he knew so much about you.

As you finished making your Feng Shi bed, you heard a gentle knock at the door. With years in the military, you had recognized footstep patterns. Safin had light but quick footsteps, his boots always making a clicking noise.  

“Good morning Y/n.” He says, his cold accented voice slightly muffled behind the door. “I wanted to come and apologize for my uncivilized manner a few nights ago. I didn’t realize that you would be in such a sensitive state. I believe adjusting to new surroundings can be quite difficult. The way I acted certainly didn’t help with that. I did not mean to frighten you.”

Rolling your eyes, you didn’t even want to respond. If you could survive on your own in the wilderness for a month, then you could survive in a lavish bedroom in the middle of god no’s where until-

Oh right. There weren’t coming.

“It truly bothers me that you feel the need to isolate yourself in that room.” Safin. Instead of sounding condescending, he seemed genuine and even beseeching. “You haven’t had anything to eat or drink.”

“I’m fine, thank you though.” You coldy reply, seeing it as a facade. Safin was an anarchist, insane and cruel. “You’re a solid actor though, I’ll give you that.”

Safin sighs but doesn’t give in to anger or defeat. “For what I did to you, you have every right to upset at me. I’m upset at myself. I’m sorry for scaring you into isolation, my dear. It was not my intention.”

You refuse to respond, crossing your arms as you hear him let out a loud sigh. Safin looks at the nearest object to throw in frustration but stops himself for her.

“Y/n, I need you to understand that under no circumstance, that I will ever hurt you. You are a resident, not a prisoner. I want to show you my..” He freezes. It’s not a home, it’s a lair. But for y/n’s sake, it was there home. “I mean, our home. It will be short, and I will get you something to eat. After that, I will not bother you if you accompany me for just one hour.”

Two sides of you were battling with each other. The younger and more stubborn part of you wants to say a snarky remark and tell him to kindly fuck off. But the wiser and more calm side of you says that your starving and need to get out. You don’t sympathize with his actions and hate him more than anything in the world. The man threatened to hurt your friends and family if you didn’t obey his commands. But If he was going to hurt you, then why hasn’t he killed you yet? What was the point of keeping you there, knowing that you could possibly kill him with anything? Safin has stalked your whole life, from your clothing sizes to your military history.

You freeze as your fingers fiddle with each other. Letting the villain win always bothered you. But he offered you food and freedom for an hour. He had better kept to his promise. Looking at the door, you break the silence. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

He responds, “Take your time.”

Walking over the closet, you look at the outfits organized by monotone colors. Everything seemed the same as you searched for something that wasn’t oversized on you. Eventually, you came down to wearing a black turtleneck, light grayish blue kimono jacket, and olive peg pants with black boots. The clothes were oddly comfortable and looked more expensive than your shitty flat. You hated wearing tight and revealing clothes, so it was doable. Looking in the mirror before you leave, you see your eyes. They’re tired from crying and sleepless nights. Your body had no energy as your stomach rumbled and throat thirsted for water. The last person you wanted to see was Safin, but you truly had no choice.

Opening the door, you see him standing in front of it with a straight posture and hands behind his back. A subtle smile appeared on his face, seeing you walk out.

“You look lovely, y/n.” He compliments as you walk side by side. He thought you could pull anything off and still looking amazing. You looked at him and nod, a silent response of “thank you”.

As you walk down the hallway, Safin noticed y/n limping more than walking. He made sure Serrano and his men had there asses yelled at. They had done everything they weren’t supposed to do; treat you like an animal, hurt, and embarrass her. No wonder y/n hated him, he thought she was going to be a prisoner or some toy for Safin to fiddle around with. As much as Safin yearned for her beauty, he saw her talent and intelligence. She would be useful in many ways.

In an attempt to be a gentleman, he held his arm out for her for support. Y/n, being the woman she was, silently and polarity declined this offer. Safin found it darling that she was so stubborn, refusing the help of others even if she needed it. Seeing you limp and silently groan made Safin’s stone cold heart drop. He wouldn’t be a gentleman if he didn’t help this sweet, little y/n. In a devilish move, Safin tucked his arm under her hand, linking them both. Her clutched fist dangled in his tight hold, wanting to resist. Seeing her [y/s/c] burn up, Safin softly smiled at her. She eventually gave him as her fist unclenched, softly leaning onto him.

The hallways were long and large, lit by hidden lights. From what you could tell, it seemed like an abandoned Russian military site that had been reconstructed by Safin. It was all concrete and void of any color or life. The Architecture was Raw, brutalist, extraordinary. Taking you up a dark hallway, Safin showed you a bright hallway, full of mustard yellow art. Leading you under a dark tunnel, it revealed a large, empty room. In the middle of the room was a large low black table with cushions, and that was it. On the sides were rock gardens full of shrubs and bamboo. You could hear a running river disconnect the gardens from the concrete gray floor. A few guards stared at you for linking arms with Safin. Seeing them whisper made you look down. Safin had noticed and looked at the men, who had fear in there eyes as they stood straight.

Safin explained that his room was where he and Serrano (or other co-workers in his words) would discuss their ordeals. He saw the light in y/n’s slowly disappear, seeing her thoughts run to something else. There wasn’t really much to show considering that Safin was the only man who inhabited the submarine pen. The soldiers and Serrano resided on another part of the island. He didn’t want to bore y/n but wanted to make sure she was adjusted with her new home.

“Are you enjoying everything, my dear?” He asked, Y/n looked up and nodded in response. She looked exhausted and upset, trying to hide it. Her once glowy [y/s/c] skin was turning lifeless and grey. Safin could see that you were miserable and depressed. He knew being trapped in the submarine pen wasn’t ideal, he had been doing it for years and was ever so alone. Having the company of a woman was something he desired more than anything. Over the years his man had brought him women, but they refused to lay with because of his scars. Safin hated seeing the once joyful and bright light he saw in you.

No words came out of your mouth. You once again nod in response, forcing a faked and sad smile. Safin heart breaks seeing you so silent and upset. His grasp tightens on your arm, to squeeze some reassurance into your dying soul.

“My dear, please speak to me.” He gently cooed, looking into her [y/e/c] orbs.

“I’m fine, just please continue…” You sigh in frustration.

Not knowing what to say, Safin simply continues. It had been years since he had touched or even been close to a woman. Having you here with him was a dream come true. He hated having you sleep all by yourself that was in the opposite quarters of him. All he could imagine was y/n’s soft cries into her pillow from giving up on life. He knew what would hopefully cheer you up. Walking up a spiral staircase, Safin opened the door for you to exit. Upon exiting, you were greeted with a beautiful view. Safin allowed you to walk to the edge to admire the breathtaking view. Not one cloud was in the bright, blue sky. The top of the submarine pen was covered in the island’s rich plants. You truly were in the middle of nowhere, you could have been in the Medaterrian or off the coast of Africa. The Island was so beautiful on the outside, yet so depressing and ugly on the inside. The sun shined onto your skin as you felt the gentle breeze through your hair.

You stand on the edge, seeing that the only island in the distance was you. You were surrounded by miles of water, along with the world’s most feared Anarchist. “It’s so..”

“Breathtaking.” He breathed, standing right behind you. You turn around, somewhat scared by how close he was. Your [y/e/c] met with his milky orbs. His face was grey and dark, his sleek black hair, and dark navy clothes were so dark except for his eyes. He had an usual and exotic face. But his eyes were beautiful and mesmerizing. “Just like you, my dear.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. What had been a nice moment turned into Safin trying to subtly flirt, or so that’s what you thought. “Can you please call me y/n?”

A small frown appeared on Safin’s arms. He’s confused about why you don’t enjoy his attention. “Why not, my sweet?”

“Because I’m not your partner,” You clarify. The way those words rolled over his lips made you squirm and your cheeks burn.

“Whatever you say, my little dove.” He smiles, holding you close. A disgusted “ugh” escapes from your mouth. The time you had outside makes you feel somewhat better. Feeling the sun and wind against your skin felt so normal in your little fucked up world.

Safin tried to pull you closer to him, but you pull away. Even if he was trying to be a “gentlemen’, he was still an anarchist who wanted to kill millions and overthrow the government. All you knew was that you weren’t going to fall in love with him, ever. You shrug him off, looking away from him.

“How did you find this place?” You ask to break the silence.

“Me and Serrano discovered this place when I had left Spectre,” He explains, looking around the gardens before back at y/n. “It was an abandoned communist Submarine Pen. Nobody inhabited it, so I simply took it as my own. I was based in Okinawa before I denounced, so I took slight inspiration from the gardens.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Denounced Spectre?”

“One of my targets resurfaced, a young woman. A woman who I spared...who I loved,” Safin stated, “I had let them go and let them live a comfortable life. She promised herself to me, but loved another man...and birthed his child when she was mine. Spectre wanted her alive, I wanted her and her whole family dead. When they didn’t let me kill all of them, I killed every agent I could. All of them.”

Chills had been sent down your spine. When Safin didn’t get his way, he used violence. You never knew Spectre’s downfall, but all along it had been his man. No wonder Bond was able to take them down; it was all because Safin had practically murdered half of them in a rage since he couldn’t kill his ex-lover’s family. Your thoughts began to race. If you didn’t do as Safin pleased, would he truly kill you? Who could have ever loved someone such as Safin? Too many questions came to your mind.

  “So, that’s what you do.” You noted, raising your eyebrows. “Kidnap women and force them to fall in love with you?”

Safin’s face scrunches up with anger, “No, she was different. She was a whore. I never hurt her. I spoiled her and loved her. She betrayed me. But you...” He looks at you with his expressions softening. “Are different. Out of all the women I have encountered, you y/n...are different.”

“That’s all you men come up?” You snort, staring right into his eyes. “Say that were different and then only use us for our bodies? You’re different, Safin. If you don’t get what you please, you act out. You use violence and kill.”

Safin looked at y/n, seeing the smirk on her face. She knew how obsessed he was with her, the anarchist obsessed with the cyrptographer. Safin had no intention of killing you and couldn’t bring himself to kill the woman he was madly in love with. Instead of becoming upset, he saw through you. All y/n was doing was poking the bear, refusing to give into Safin. Safin knew her antics all too well.

“Your hands are not clean either, y/n,” He debated. “Three hundred and thirteen men is a large kill count for such a young woman…”

In your short time in the military, you had achieved one of the highest kill counts in your ranking. Everyone knew you as the girl who never missed. From surviving alone in Serbia and crawling out of building rubble in Iraq, you were respected and feared. But that had been in the past when you still were young and had sanity. Now you were older, wiser, and even more broken. The military had changed your life drastically.

Safin truly knew how to dig under your skin and make you upset. He wanted to see you weak and feel stronger. You refused to let him. A small voice in your head kept telling you, “ Don't play his game. Play yours.”

 “ Safin, you’re the most accomplished stalker I’ve ever met” You chuckle. He’s oddly smiling like nothing was wrong.

“A beautiful bird cannot freely fly in a cage.” The anarchist response, a small smile on his face.  He relinked your arms as you walked back inside of the submarine pen.

Safin saw y/n, once acting up again. Seeing her make small “hmphs” and look away softly made Safin chuckle. He kept telling himself that with time, she would fall in love with him. Y/n was a young and stubborn woman who didn’t go down without a fight. Once Safin had her, he wasn’t going to let her go. Y/n was all Safin’s now. All the anarchist ever desired was to have company in his lonely lair. Not only someone to love but someone he could talk to and even work with. Y/n was the woman of his dreams who he had yearned for. She had to fall in love with him. She didn’t have another choice.

Safin let her slide away but still kept their arms linked. A part of him wanted to carry her to there next location, but he knew that she would probably punch him. In his spare time, Safin spent hours preparing the submarine pen for Y/n’s arrival. The bedroom was designed to fulfill her needs, but that wasn’t the only place that was meant for her.

“Close your eyes,” He says as you arrive at a large door.

You look at him and raise an eyebrow, immediately protesting. “Your going to trap me in a room where I cannot escape, aren’t you?”

“You are a guest, not a prisoner.” Safin reminded. You roll your eyes, deciding to go alone. Closing your eyes, Safin’s opens the door and leads you in. Taking small steps into the room, you can bear water running and birds chirping. A light that wasn’t artificial was projecting onto your skin. Opening your eyes, you couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

You were inside of a large glass atrium that had an open ceiling, showing the sun and cherry blossom tears. Their sakura petals fell into the garden, a few landing on your clothes and hair. Like all of the other gardens in the submarine pen, it was inspired after a Japanese Zen Garden but with color. There were Cherries, Bamboo, Camellias, Lavender, and a range of other flowers. Out of all of the places in your cold and unwelcoming home, this place had shined the brightest. It brought a true smile onto your face. Letting go of Safin, you walk down into the shrubs and are greeted with a small pond and a chabudai with a teapot and two cups.

“Would you like to have some tea?” Safin offers. You turn around and nod, a smile still on his face. Your not smiling at him, but the beauty of the garden. Before, the flat you had lived in was too small to host a garden (you also lived in the heart of Chelsea). As a substitute, your garden was a bunch of homemade terrariums and flowers. It felt like ethereal heaven.

The two of you sit down in the garden. Safin loves to see you so memorized with all of the plants. He had been in your apartment a few times when you weren’t there. He didn’t know how you managed to live in such a contained space. He had noticed all of the flowers and candles you had kept around and tried to replicate it best. He wasn’t doing something for himself, but his y/n.

“ Your smile is like the flowers in the spring.” He compliments. You look at him as you admire the diverse range of flowers that surround you. “It’s divine.”

“Oh..” You say as you feel your cheeks burn. This man was not going to stop until he got what he wanted. Safin went from kidnapping you to giving you a beautiful garden, along with subtle flirting. You weren’t really into dating much and never were hit on, even if you were a young woman. “Um, thank you..?”

He pours you a cup of Chai tea, and the two of you sit there, drinking in silence. Safin refuses to take his eyes off of you, admiring your every breath you take. Seeing you look at the flowers, fiddle with the cup, and small strands of hair fall into your face as you push them behind your ear. Everything about you was so magical to Safin. No matter what, Safin was going to make y/n fall in love with him. The two of you had enjoyed your tea in peace. Out of all of the madness, being in the gardens brought you peace.

Safin had let you enjoy the moment until he asked the question that he had been pondering about. “Do you love me?”

You nearly spit your tea out. Safin had been subtly flirting with you, but hearing him say the world love made you nearly choke. His face looked surprised, waiting for an answer. You had barely been around this man for a week, and he was already claiming he loved then. Then again, he did stalk you.

“I..um..no?” You spit, furrowing your thick eyebrows. The question had caught you completely off-guard.

Safin smiles, nodding at the response. Although upset at your answer, he knows that you will eventually have to give into him. Safin always got what he wanted, no matter the cost. “Fair enough, you will come around with time.”

The younger and more stubborn part of you would have loved to throw the tea into his hideous face and beat him. But it wasn’t so simple. Safin was a dangerous and mysterious man. The reason Europe was probably going to go into a civil war was because of him. M16 was probably going to have it’s a downfall because his blood became tainted on your hands. Not only were your friends were at risk, but so was your family. Safin had made a threat that if you didn’t comply, then he would...hurt them for you to love you. You couldn’t love a man that would hurt your family and drag them into your mess.

So you did the selfless act. You, a young woman, sacrificed yourself to Safin so your family could be safe from him. You would comply but at a price. No matter the cost, you wouldn’t give Safin exactly what he wanted.

Y/n was giving him the silent treatment again. Her face scrunched up as she looked away, annoyed.

“More like a thousand years.”

“Listen to me, my dear. I will strike a deal. Every night, I will ask you at dinner if you love me. Tell me no as much as you want. I don’t care how long it takes for you to come to your senses.” Safin proposes his plan. He sees y/n’s sudden interest with his “idea.”

“And when I do?”

“The next day will be your wedding day.”

Your jaw almost drops to the ground. Safin was an insane man; you already knew that. He was delusional enough to think that you were going to love him, but marry? That was a whole other level.

“You told Q in Athens you wanted to fall in love before you married, so I have given you however long you need.” He reassures. “But I know it will happen.”

You look at him with pure hate in your eyes. Words could barely process in your mind. You clench your teacup so tightly that you don’t even care if it begins to burn your palms. Safin had a smile on his face. He stood up and walked over to you, helping you up.

“I can get up myself, thank you very much,” You grumble as you walk ahead of him. Safin catches up and walks right beside you, seeing your anger. He pulls you closer than he did last time, tightly holding onto you. He knew that you weren’t going to protest if your family and friends were on the line. As you walk back to the bedroom, you feel relieved since being with Safin is emotionally exhausting. You mentally declare that he is one of the most insane men you had ever come across.

He stops in front of the door. A pissy “goodbye” leaves your mouth before Safin takes your hand, spinning you around. Your faces are even closer now. He smells like an expensive cologne with his haunting, big green eyes. The scars on his face aren’t burns, but horrid cuts that mutated his whole face. His hands were cold and rough from all of the scars. Safin doesn’t speak at all and just looks at your face in a creepy manner.

You feel his fingers brush against your skin as he puts a camellia behind your hair.  Safin backs away, a smile on his face as he adores you. Out of all of the gloom in his life, y/n was ever so bright. She had been caught off guard when he placed the flower in her hair. His beautiful bride to be.

“I thought it would go well with your hair,’ He purrs as his fingers stroke it. “Anything would look lovely on you.”

Holding back at eye-roll, a soft sigh escapes your lips. “Thanks…”

“I hope you enjoyed our time together. The garden is for you and only you. Feel free to wander as you please. After all, this is our home now.” He slowly backs away, seeing your eyes watch him disappear down the fall. “I will be pack to pick you up for dinner at seven. Goodbye, my sweet y/n.”

Once he disappeared, you retreat back to your room and slam the door. You see yourself in the mirror with a bright flower in your hair. The hair you had combed had been touched by Safin, making you cringe. As much as you hated him, this new place was your home. This would be your life from now on, whether you liked it or not. Your family and friends’ lives were on the line. It wasn’t such a horrible life. The submarine pen was void of all life but lavish. If being in love with Safin meant your mother and sister would be safe, then so it be. You couldn’t believe you, a simple cryptographer, was the Anarchist’s, true love. Sighing in the mirror, you ask yourself a question that will never be answered.

What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

[sloppy-butcher]

Angel of Music

The Wraith (Philip Ojomo) x Survivor!Reader 

ok so

I’m probably very late to this, like 3 years late, but whatever just hear me out

My smooth brain has been going crazy lately for Phantom of the Opera and i just realized how similar Wraith’s “Angel of Music” cosmetic is to the drama (i mean, i known it is inspired by it but like). 

so now with this glorious revelation, me and the monkeys in my head have come up with the brilliant idea to write a Phantom of the Opera inspired Wraith fic. gods speed you funky lil dudes. 

note;; this is going to be very OOC for him. I’m am going to model wraith to be more like the phantom he is dressed as, thus expect a more devilish, seductive creature rather than the tree-man we already know. also, he can talk now. maybe sing

literally no one asked for this

word count: 4110

TW: Death and blood. Stalking and obsession. Musicals 

This place is an undeniable and indisputable nightmare. An eternal night that twists and corrupts all with shadows and despair. From the repetitive game of cat and mouse that almost always ended in death to the ever-present feeling of eternal damnation, there is absolutely nothing inherently good about the Fog. There wasn’t even light. As if stuck in the haze of an ecstasy-trip, time bleeds into itself seeming to stretch on forever yet also never move an inch. A true paradox.

And to make matters somehow even worse, you had started to hear voices in your head.

It first spoke to you on one of your regular trips into the woods. Scavenging for tools and items that could be used in trials, you hummed to yourself. Oblivious to the world around you, lost to the music playing in your head. It was easier to forget the horrors of the night and give in to the melody of some old song than to ponder on dangers yet to come. You found personal peace in singing, drowning out all your earthly worries by the power of your own imagination. The fog swirled and swelled with the rise and fall of your song and out in the darkness the voice made its presence known. ‘Sing louder.’ You obliged willingly.

Initially, you had chalked it up to your heightened sense of purpose and inner monologue being superimposed so as to form its own being. You would command yourself in third person, detaching and driving your body as your thoughts spoke. Intuition personified. This theory made sense; endless panic often causes those to develop the most peculiar of coping mechanisms. In passing conversations with the other trapped souls you realized that they too had their quirks; one had a rubber band that he snapped on his wrist whenever scared, another rubbed dirty into her palms to stop them from sweating and so on. Unfortunately, you had developed the most bizarre habit out of everyone else. You only started to question the voice’s true intention when its orders became more sinister.

‘Leave him.’ It spoke over your shoulder referring to your teammate dying on hook, an open exit gate before you. ‘Run away.’ It commanded to your half-way through healing another when you spotted the killer fast approaching. All these new and selfish instructions, although ensuring your survival, left you feeling hollow inside. You escaped but at what cost? The lives of your friends. If it really was your true self talking to you then, by default, did that mean you were as evil as the voice was? No! You plead. You were a good person. By God you were human, and the weight of all the death and suffering inflicted by your obedience to the voice began to crush your conscience. You couldn’t even look the others in the eyes anymore.

You couldn’t just ignore the voice either. When it spoke there seemed to be an almost physical force behind it, driving it and giving it momentum. Sometimes it even felt as if someone was standing right behind you reaching out and instructing you with their hand as they whispered in your ear. There was also the fact that you drew strange comfort from the voice. In this desert place, so drained of softness and angry with hate, you depended on what little gentleness the voice offered you.  

It even occurred to you that maybe, the voice wasn’t even yours - as in it belonged to someone else entirely. An unknown watcher, a ghost or phantom, who somehow had a deep connection to you, a one-way mode of communication. A large part of you wanted desperately to believe that who were just overreacting and that it was all just in your head. Regardless, you just couldn’t shake the feeling.

For what felt like days now the voice had been uncharacteristically silent. You noticed it in your first ever trial with the killer that could go invisible with the toll of his bell. There was no guidance, no consoling vector to take your hand and help you through your problems. You had been left alone like a new-born chick, blindly searching for the love and warmth of a guardian. Feeling completely lost, the panic that sat on your chest was overwhelming in that trial. But oddly enough, no matter what you did wrong, how many times you blew up a generator or accidentally revealed your position, the killer never disturbed you. You didn’t even see him until the end where, standing in the exit gate looking in on the realm, you spotted the figure. Bright eyes gleamed back, a bloody weapon in his hands. He allowed you a moment longer to gawk at him before ringing his bell and disappearing into the night.

Even after escaping the voice didn’t return. Your ears yearned for the sound of it, hungry for its filling noise. You sat alone at the campfire, eyes staring unblinking into the mesmerizing flames. It was so lonely, the panic and unrest mixing into a dangerous concoction in your head. There was nothing good anymore. Why do you keep on trying? Perhaps it would be better if you just gave in already. You almost jumped out of your skin when, as if manifested by your desperate cry, the voice called.

‘Come.’ It sounded from the treeline, darkness bending and beckoning you into it. It didn’t feel real. Perhaps you were imagining it. ‘Come,’ It said again sensing your hesitation. You looked around at the other survivors none of which appeared to notice the disturbance. You faced the forest again, it opened to you like the mouth of a great fish. Your feet itched to run to it. There was a powerful pull and before long you followed it.

The woods were freezing, broken branches grabbing out as you passed them. Through all these adversaries, pushing past doubts and warranted skepticism, you kept your eyes focused ahead. Even with all the warning flags the voice had given you, the pure desperation you had to find anything even remotely kind lit the fire of will under your feet. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? You were dead either way. The trees swayed and whined as a tired wind blew through their crumbling leaves, oddly not even making a noise. As the voice continued to call, luring you away from the safety of other people and fire, you spotted something ahead of you. There just through the fog, like a lighthouse over a raging sea, was a light. It bobbed and sway and wondered away from you through the trees. It was hypnotizing to watch the light flicker deeper into the trees, your feet not needing motivation to follow.

The light and voice mingled in your head, overwhelming every sense until it felt like you were walking through a dream. Your pace was sluggish and sloppy, you couldn’t feel the ground anymore. Just as it seemed you’d never catch up to the light, it suddenly stopped, blinked a few times then popped out of existence. You went to its last location, looking around for any possible signs of anything to help you but instead found yourself completely surrounded by an all impressive mist. It danced through the trees creating unbreakable walls of wood and water. It felt wrong to be here, your head spin around for an exit which came to you in the form of an out-of-place stone archway.

The bright yellow of the stone contrasted brilliantly against the somber atmosphere it lived in. Your mind wasn’t your own as you unknowingly went to it. Beyond the mouth of madness lay a beast in wait, purring as he felt your impending arrival. Eagerness overtook him and slowly the wooden door creaked open to welcome you inside. The tunnel that lay behind was one lit by old candles tinting the world with a much-appreciated golden light. It stretched on for miles, leading down into the earth where, at the bottom drifting up to you like a breeze in a cave, the voice beckoned.

‘Come.’ You stepped inside. ‘Come to me.’ If, by some strange miracle, you could have stopped yourself for a brief moment from descending the tunnel, you might have noticed the voice’s odd word choice. You might have even noticed the person on the other end licking his lips and smiling. Walking as if through honey, you unhurriedly made your way to the yearning voice. Before long the warm light that had bathed you drew back its loving embrace and faded back to absolute darkness.

At the edge of the last candles reach was a room - so large and empty of light that it appeared to have no roof, no walls, no end. You couldn’t help but feel like you had walked into the lair, the most secret and quiet place, of a monster. You couldn't shake the feeling that you had passed the point of no return. The artificial night swallowed you whole; your eyes strained in the pitch black, your ears burning from the total silence save for your own beating heart. The shadows inspected you, looking you up and down while you were none the wiser. His eyes also ate you up, so pleased to have you alone that he let the moment slip into an uncomfortable length.

You wanted to speak, make your claim against whatever had brought you here. You could sense something out there just outside of your already limited view. But the silence held you tight in its suffocating grasp. You dared not even breath. You had to wait for him to make the first move.

“Bravo.” The voice called from somewhere behind you, startling you to the point of drawing a gasp. “Bravo! Bravissimo!” Someone started to clap. You could hear him stepping around you, his voice echoing endlessly around the room, impossibly loud and booming. Although there was something deeply unsettling about the voice, the only thing you could take from it was odd comfort. It was real. A person. A guardian Angel! You spun around on your heels desperate to see the source of your guidance however he managed to remain hidden in shadow. You swear you could hear him grin at your confusion.

“You listen well, my dear.” There was no denying it, it was the voice. Although only now, when it spoke so openly, did you notice that it was inherently male. So relieved with the news that you weren’t going completely mad with disembodied voices, you glazed over the other implications this reveal came with. If it wasn’t yourself than just who have you been talking to all this time? And, the more pressing matter, just who were you stuck with in the room.

The stranger claps again and moves around in the black, shuffling from one side of the room to the other and at times seeming to even be above you, looking down. “I am beyond impressed my dear.” The stranger smiled, unbeknownst to you getting closer with very advance. “Do you know where you are?” No reply. Honestly you had no clue. You had never been in this place before - it felt so detached, so different when compared to all the other realms you had grown accustomed to in the Fog.

“Hell.” The voice answered, purring like a cat with a trapped mouse, teasing it - relishing off its fear. “The deepest pit. And, what’s more, you came here all on your own free-will.” He moved again not content to stay in one spot for too long, trying to view you from every possible angle before he made his last move.

“Won’t you sing for me. My Angel of music. You know the one I mean.” His words hit you like a ton of bricks. A song? As you wracked your brain for whatever he could be referring to, a faint idea began to materialize right in the tip of your tongue. Words of a melody that you swear you had never heard before but still feel familiar with in your heart. The voice, it sang to you. How could you forget!  

“Every night I was there. Whispering my song to you in hopes that one day, you could join in with me.” That was true. Each time you dared to drift off to sleep, the voice would appear. He sang to you, gently and softly, talking into your ear to lull you safely away - only to wake hours later with no memory of the night before. Perhaps that is why you were always so attached to the voice, why its absence impacted you so deeply. There was a build of pressure behind you and suddenly he was there. The stranger towered over you without even looking, his chest pressed tight to your back. Exploring hands went down your arms and slowly brought them up like the two of you were about to start a dance. His head hung low to your ear, his breathing touching your exposed neck. He sucked in and exhaled meaningfully, taking in your smell and touch and your reaction to his closeness.

“Sing.” God, his voice was so smooth, demanding and rich. A sonorous tone that had never been shown to you before this. It shocked you to your core. He sighed again, one hand moving to caress your neck with the other holding your own hand. “Sing my Angel.” Up till now you were passive, sitting ideally in a dream-state as you let the stranger do as he wished. But now you wanted answers.

“Let me see you.” No answer came from the man be it verbal or physical. He remained completely unphased and unchanging.

“Sing.” He commanded again, no anger or annoyance in his tone only patience and hunger. He yearned for you to sing with him, to join in with his symphony. For too long has he gone silent, his soul dying along with his music. The bells no longer tolling and his music fading out like a lit match in the rain. When he found you, fallen like an angel right out of Heaven, humming alone to yourself, he felt the fire of passion ignite within him. You were perfect to him and now, you couldn’t resist him. You were defenseless, night having accustomed you to its unfurling beauty to the point that you were addicted to it – needed it, just as he did. There was no way either of you could go back now. You breathed into him, your nose filling with the smell of pine and smoke, and hesitantly after closing your eyes, you began to sing the words now burning hot in your head.

“Say you’ll share with me,” It wasn’t really singing, rather just breathless talking – a whisper that only the keenest of ears could hear. Regardless of what you sounded like; the stranger cherished every word that left your mouth. He started to shake, his hands holding on to you for support.

“One love, one lifetime.” He joined you now, singing as you did in a volume that only you could truly appreciate. His raspy, low-pitched voice mingling wonderfully with yours, sounding almost desperate to get the words out. Lips grazed your ear sending shivers down your spine.

“Say the word,” His hands tightened their grip as if to empathize his lyrics. “And I will follow you.”

“Say you love me.” Your combined voices bounced around the darkness stirring whatever creatures lay in hiding, your harmony compelling and immensely sorrowful. While a part of you faded into the song’s words, swaying and melting with the stranger content for once, something crawled into your head. The song was ending, and while you wished to stay forever in this blissful embrace, you demanded to know the face behind the voice. Your moment was coming.

“That’s all I ask of -” Slipping out his grasp at the moments climax, you spin around to finally lay your eyes on the stranger. He froze under your gaze, surprised by your sudden action. Looking up at an incredibly tall man, you felt your knees threaten to give out. Staring back were the glowing eyes of a killer, the very one that had, not long ago, tormented your friends. You couldn’t help but gasp and step away from him, breaking his hold on you. You inspected him as best you could in your lack of light, squinting your eyes as hard as you could but nothing in the darkness made itself known to you save for his unmistakable eyes. The stranger noticed your efforts and, fuming at your defiance to play along with him, raised a hand.

“You wish to disobey me? Fine!” The ground shook under foot, his shouting voice ricocheting off the rooms stone walls and sending the world into disarray. “Look at me Angel! In all my glory!” He snapped his fingers.

Suddenly your senses were overwhelmed by blinding white light. You flinched, shutting your eyes to the dramatic change in the room. When next you opened then you found the room to be hazed in familiar yellow candlelight. As if by magic, all candles had all be simultaneously lit. Your attention darted around like a trapped bird before resting on the man standing in front of you, his arms open and expression unreadable. Bathed in new light you could see him in immaculate detail.

Yes, it was the invisible killer, no doubt about it. But something was off about him. He looked different somehow; maybe it was his prim suit, navy fabric decorated with golden lace that fit his slender body snugly giving him a sense of proper and divinity. Behind him hung an extraordinary cape that fluttered in a non-existent breeze. On his face sat a white mask, crooked and dirtied from years of neglect which, in all honesty, covered little to none of his truly disfigured and burnt flesh.

Unparalleled fear began to rise in your chest. He was so tall, powerful and strange that it terrified you to be standing next to him. You stepped backwards, edging closer to the exit. The stranger’s eyes flickered. How could you fear him? He had never hurt you, Angel. All he has ever wanted was to be by your side, to never be lonely in the dark again. He has given you no reason to distrust him, he has never shown you his monstrous side. Yet still you shrunk away from his touch, choosing rather silent suffering than a lifetime of music with him. He felt something break inside him.

You saw his hand twitch, his off-center head bobbing as his labored breathing intensified. He took a small step forward and you replied by taking a large one back. He halted and so did you. Next to the broken thing that rattled around in his bones, he heard something else. A beating heart, weak and faint but somehow still alive. It moved and leaped, reaching out for you to take it and hold. Just standing in your company he heard music start to swell in his ears. You had listened to him once before, maybe he could get you to again.

The stranger's head dropped; through the lumpy cape you saw his shoulders deflate. What was he doing? Playing possum so as to catch you off guard? Whatever it was, you didn’t let the tension ease out your legs. You waited for his next move, ready to run if he tried anything suspicious. You didn't expect the sound of his voice to suddenly start singing again.

“Say you’ll share with me,” He sang his solo, his voice that of an airy murmur as if afraid to sing alone. Every word he sang clung to your ears, kissing your heart and mind with a complex sorrow. Your guard started to halter.

“One love. One lifetime.” He paused, swallowing the lump building in his throat warning to overflow and render him speechless.

“Lead me,” He raised a cautious eye to find you still waiting, offering him the chance to try coax you closer. A fist clutched his chest in an attempt to sooth his aching heart. “Save me from my solitude.” He was certain he was crying but he couldn’t feel the tears; you had his undivided attention.

“Say you want me here...” He faltered here, hand itching to reach out and grab you. “Beside you.”  The stranger could barely form audible words anymore, so slurred and choked up that you unknowingly leaned forward to try hear him better. 

“Anywhere you go,” He tried again, begging you to close the distance and join him. It was heartbreaking, this phantom, this person and the way he sang to you, each syllable dripping with an ocean of unimaginable pain and beastly hopelessness. It was infectious really; you could feel his sadness take over your heart shaking it in an iron grasp. Miserable eyes glared you down as you took the smallest step forward. “Let me go too.”

He didn’t continue - he couldn’t. The horrors of the whispering darkness and this god-awful place left him near-drained. Everything pushed down on him, suffocating him until he thought he was going to pass out. He could only keep his eyes on you. Blurry from tears he held onto your figure like your were a buoy in a raging sea, his only safety, his air. The stranger heaved from trying to maintain his composure. Finally the curtain fell and you gave in. 

Your foot falls were the only sounds that broke the silence in the room. You approached him with little to no conflict in your mind. Yes - he was scary. Yes - he was a monster. But the way he looked at you now, the way he sang and spoke; no killer would beg to be loved the way he did. It was like he was afraid of the dark, of being alone, of being condemned to an existence of pitiful silence. You craned your neck to look up at him, sucking back the wreckage still wavering just outside his control. 

“Pitiful creature of darkness,” The words tumbled out of your mouth, through teeth unfazed by their possible repercussion. You were speaking from your heart. A small hand connects with his unmasked cheek taking in the feeling of old, burnt skin and years of mud. He leans into your warm embracing having forgotten what it was like. “You are not alone.” 

Even on tip-toes you still were short of his lips. It was only when he gave in and leaned down that you were able to kiss him. Eyes closed, shoulders tensing, you melted into the kiss. His lips were rough, chapped, but gentle. He didn’t give anymore pressure until you asked for him, dragging you tongue along his bottom lip asking for entrance. He opened to you gratefully. Inside his mouth housed monstrous sharp teeth and an excited tongue and moved inside your mouth, tasting ever inch of you. He was greedy, demanding everything of yours. When you had nothing more to give, he relented and let you go.

You sank back on your heels gasping for breath. You noticed he was smiling, an odd sight of such a distorted and sad face. 

“My Angel. My Muse.” You felt him move on top of you, a hand sneaking behind your back making to bend over so as not be pressed uncomfortably against his chest. “I have many names of which to call you. I am eager to use them all.” He laughed, the sound rattling your whole body with its bass leaving you quivering. “But you, can call me Philip.” He tilted his head in a mock bow, his free hand grabbing the edge of his cape and fanning it out in respect. You offered you own  meek nod. His smile only widened at your compliance. 

“Come now,” Philip said standing up to his full height, his hand still securing your back. “Let me take you away. Away from all this numb light and into the darkness where no one will find us.” He raised his arm and cape and quickly brought it down around you, sweeping it around the both of your until he had you cocooned. 

The world fell into black again and all you could sense was him; his breathing, his reinforced arms cradling you. You could also hear a faint thumping when you put your ear to his chest - his heart. Once diseased and weak now pumped with vigor and delight. He had you in his grasp and he was never letting you go. You were his everything; his Angel of music.

[jawsandbones]

I’ll Go First - Part Nine of Ten

Rating: E

Summary: An unexpected leader, unlikely allies. Bound by the Breach, Alexi Trevelyan is trying to hold it all together. Thankfully, he doesn’t stand alone.

Pairing: Cullen x Male Trevelyan

AO3 Link: Click Here

Chapter Nine: You Remain

“This is the only place I could think of where we wouldn’t be disturbed,” Alexi says as he cups his hand around the candle. The wick springs to life, and slowly, do all the other torches in the underground library. It isn’t the tidiest of spaces, but it is quiet and comfortable enough. Alexi leans his staff up against one of the shelves, his hand drifting in air until it finds the back of the nearest chair. He pulls his robes around him before he sits, tugs briefly at the scarf around his neck before deciding it can stay. He does the same at the threads of his gloves, more fidgeting than anything else. Cullen pulls at the clasps of his sword belt, leans it as well. He clears his throat as he pulls out the chair at the other side. He doesn’t sit, simply tightens his grasp on the back of the chair.

Ever since they left the camps, Alexi has pulled in his echo tightly. It helped him navigate the tunnels to this room, but now that they’re here, he extinguishes it completely. There’s a measure of calm in the darkness, an assuring quality to the emptiness of it. He could almost pretend he’s alone. Then he might not be so afraid to say what he should. He gathers up an inhale, and once they start, the words come tumbling out of his mouth in a hurry, “I shouldn’t have avoided you for so long. That was cowardly of me-”

“No,” Cullen cuts him off instantly, “I’ll go first.” Alexi’s ears prick at the sound of clasps being undone, of Cullen draping his cloak over the back of the chair. The pulling of straps, his breastplate being leaned up against a wall. There’s the scraping of chair legs against the floor as he drags it out, the muted settling of sitting. Cullen runs a hand through his hair as he sighs. Melted snow is pooling water around his boots. “I’m the one who’s been the coward.”

“Cullen,” and his heart aches at how painfully soft Alexi’s voice is, “you don’t –”

“Alexi,” and he doesn’t know the sadly fond smile Cullen wears as he looks up at him, “I owe you these words. They’ve been a debt, and my fear of the cost has only let it grow.” Alexi turns away from his voice. He plays with one of the overlarge buttons on one of his open sweaters, pulling free a thread. “I should have been the one to tell you everything.”

“Yes, but you’re here now, and I’m listening,” Alexi tells him quietly. Cullen’s hands clasp together tightly, the tip of his fingers bruising into his skin. Knuckles white and he breathes shallow, stays still. He’s afraid to move, even a twitch, unsure of how to form the shape of his words. The anxious knot in Cullen’s belly continues to twist. His mouth is full of cotton, his throat lined with sand. He takes a deep breath.

He reaches into the pocket of his tunic, pulls out an assortment of crumpled papers. Most are the same type of parchment, but some are different – others ripped pages, something scrawled on a napkin. “I’ve been trying to think of what to say for some time now. I’ve carried these with me, thinking at least I’d be ready when the time came,” Cullen says. The chair moves slightly as he leans forward, half stands, places the stack of parchment before Alexi. Hearing it land, Alexi reaches out, and takes what is offered. “Now the time is finally here and it’s all wrong.”

“Then start at the very beginning and tell me all of it,” Alexi says.

“That could take a while,” Cullen says, as he settles back into the chair. Alexi has his head bowed, pointed in the direction of the desk. His hair is damp from the snow, curls hanging low by his cheeks. Delicate, long fingers, still move over the stack of parchment. Many stray threads have come loose from his gloves, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. They’re well worn, well loved. Different colored thread marks where they have been repaired, tell of repairs to come. He plants touch against every single page, over the words Cullen has so hastily scrawled, scratched out.

“We have time,” he says.

“Do we?” Cullen laughs, a nervous twinge to it. “I have no doubt Leliana will want us marching to the Arbor Wilds first thing in the morning, so I’ll need to arrange that. She’s probably looking for me right now.”

“Cullen,” Alexi says softly, “we have time.”

“Right,” he says. Cullen’s hands are clenched into fists, pressing into his thighs. As Alexi’s hands move back to his lap, so too does the stack of papers, clenched tightly, precious cargo. “I can remember always wanting to be a Templar. Some of the other children in the village did as well, but they grew out of it. I used to pester the Templars stationed in our village every day to teach me basic swordsmanship. I’d practice what they taught me every night in our barn, on a straw dummy and with a stick. I’d recite lines from the Chant while I did it, because they told me that I needed to memorize the entirety of it. I remember it driving my mother wild.”

Cullen runs a hand through his hair, the motion of it pausing briefly at the nape of his neck and says, “I don’t think she wanted me to join.” His hand slips from his neck, and his arm half hangs off the rest. He remembers sitting at the small table after dark, the single candle right by the very edge. She holds his hand in hers, palm upwards. She speaks in an impassioned whisper, telling him to be more careful as she plucks the splinters from his skin. As she tucks him into bed, her stern look fades, becomes softer. She rubs a finger against his cheek, bends over and presses the kiss to his forehead. She says something, before she leaves, taking the candle with her.

“A visiting Knight-Captain was visiting Honnleath and happened to catch me practicing. He offered to take me for proper training, and then I could join the ranks. I would be one of the oldest there. Most second sons of meaningful names are given to the Order early. It’s an honor to be selected, but once your child is given to the Templars, you never see them again. You’re meant to forget where you came from,” Cullen says.

“It’s mostly the same for mages,” Alexi says with a wry smile, “mostly. I’m sure you know that.”

“Yes, I… just as mages had all their personal items confiscated, so did us Templar recruits. My sister had given me a letter she said was written by the whole family. Before I left, she made me swear I wouldn’t read it before I was settled into the barracks. Of course, I never got the chance. I always regretted never being able to read it, but then, I always was very good at following orders. That obedience is all that matters to the Templars,” he says.

“I did everything that was asked of me. I trained, I studied, I learned everything they wanted me to learn and I learned it well,” Cullen says. “Never once did I think to question what was being taught, or to question any orders given. I was a good Templar on that merit alone, but that wasn’t official until I had my vigil and was given my first injection of lyrium.”

“I was so eager,” Cullen says, and his words sound hollow, even to him, “They had finally given me my draught, and a position. I didn’t care about rank or fame. I just wanted to be there. It’s different, of course, living in a Circle compared to studying one. Living so closely to the mages, well, of course I saw them differently than subjects to be monitored. Most of the younger Templars did as well, especially with the mages our age. They were our friends.”

“I realize now some may have been interacting with us simply because we were Templars,” he says, “but I know most were genuine. There was one – he was an orphan, from Denerim. I was assigned to watch over him, as was a more experienced mage. He used to come find me and show me each new spell he learned. The mage, she – she was extraordinary. I had,” he clears his throat, “great affection for her.”  

The largest jacket, the one which covers all others, is made up of bands of color, and the large hood hangs at Alexi’s back. The sweater just beneath it is solid black, the buttons made of wood. His fidgeting has successfully loosened the button, and he spins it around. The last sweater is kind cream, nestled soft and warm against Alexi’s skin. At Cullen’s words, a slow smile has spread across his face. His dimples needed only the slightest provocation. “What happened to her?” Alexi asks.

“She, ah, died. Shortly before the Blight, a blood-mage escaped the Circle, and murdered her as he fled. I did not handle it as well as I should have. My feelings were made clear to my superiors and my effectiveness as a Templar was questioned. My next dosage of lyrium was withheld as punishment. I believed that to be torture,” Cullen says.

“A few Templars and mages were sent to fight at Ostagar. Not many returned, but those who did – it was clear the battle did not go well. Things changed shortly after. One mage, Uldred, had turned to blood magic and twisted mages to his side. His sudden uprising caused fear and panic. For many of the mages who had become abominations, they did not have a choice. Either Uldred or the fear of it changed them. There was never any control to it. It was madness. Kinloch Hold fell from the inside in a matter of minutes.

“There were only a handful from either side left. Most of the Templars who survived barricaded themselves at the entrance, to keep any abominations from leaving the tower. Some mages took refuge in their quarters, near the entrance. But there were a few stranded in different places in the Tower, myself included. Bell, the orphan, he, uh – become an abomination. The demon trapped me near the top of the tower, by Uldred. I was the Templar they could release their frustrations upon.

“I don’t know how long I was there. I can remember everything that was done to me. Everything,” Cullen says. He’s looking at a fixed spot, boring a hole into the spine of a long untouched textbook. “They resurrected her, and killed her, over and over again. I watched my friends die a thousand times. They would break every bone, and then heal it, just to break it again. When the Hero of Ferelden found me, I was sure it was a trap. A chance at hope and escape, only to be taken away. Even when the barrier keeping me trapped fell, I didn’t believe it.

“It’s only when the Warden and surviving mages started to leave Uldred’s chamber did I dare to leave. I – when I finally made it to the entrance, to the other Templars, I – I had watched the only mages I had known turn into abominations and kill the Templars around them. There could have been blood mages among the survivors, hoping to escape scrutiny. I thought that if we simply let these mages go, there would be a second massacre. The Right of Annulment. I pushed for it with all I had.” Cullen’s gaze drops to the floor. “The Warden spoke on behalf of the mages, and to this day, I am grateful that they listened to them and not me. Not on that particular day however. For the first time since being recruited, I openly questioned the order of a superior. For my insubordination, they sent me away.”

Cullen plants his elbow against the armrest. His hand moves against his forehead, back and forth, a soothing motion as the tears roll down his cheeks, are slowed by the stubble. “I was sent to a Templar sanctuary to ‘level out’, as was so kindly put. The sanctuary was more a barracks than anything else. I wasn’t to speak of Kinloch Hold. That was a Templar failure and Templars never fail. I knew how to be obedient, so they sent me to someone I would have no issue being obedient to.”

“Kirkwall was an adjustment, but I was glad to be in a place where I knew no one and no one knew me. I threw myself into my work. I still wanted to be a good Templar. I wanted to prove that I was a good Templar. I followed every single one of my Knight-Commanders orders, and I was proactive in looking for blood mages and apostates. In other words, I was Meredith’s loyal and bloodthirsty lapdog. Hawke once told me that I grew a conscience of convenience, when it suited me. She wasn’t wrong. It was only when the city was burning around us for a second time that I disobeyed my superior Templar for the second and last time.

“I knew, just after Hawke put Meredith down, that I needed to stop taking lyrium. I was already beginning to forget small things and I – I couldn’t afford to forget the things that I had done. I had seen the changes in older Templars, how their faith and lyrium were the only things they had left. They don’t tell you, what you become. A husk, moved only by obedience, addiction and zealotry. I didn’t – I couldn’t–” His hand is now pressed tight against his face, his eyes, still but for a slight trembling.

“I was next in command under Meredith, and so the leadership of Templars in Kirkwall fell to me. I worked with guard-Captain Aveline to bring some order to the city and to change some things for the better. When Cassandra came looking for Hawke, I was surprised she would ask me for the Inquisition. I also couldn’t say yes faster,” Cullen says. “I was a good Templar, not so much a good person. The Inquisition was what I needed to change, but I haven’t changed very much, have I?”

“When we were discussing options for the Breach, it was staggeringly natural to fall back into relying on Templars, to have doubt in the motives of the mages. Even with a hostile force on our doorstep, I – Alexi, I don’t think I have any faith left. My prayers are empty, and I see the danger in everything from, from mages to �� to friendship. I wanted to be around you, with you, and I, I rather… swept up all the dirt and threw a blanket over it to hide it.” Alexi listens to Cullen’s low laughter which drowns quickly. “That was unfair of me. Unfair to you. I lied to you. I wanted – I wanted you to think good of me but I – I’ve done what I’ve always done and convinced myself I was doing the right thing, without questioning,” he says.

“I’m not telling you this to – for you to forgive me. I said all those things Samson told you. I earned every bit of Hawke’s hate and then some. I made – I made mages tranquil, killed without question at Harrowings, and I abused my position of power to make them afraid, so that they wouldn’t dare use their magic against me. The Templars made me an excellent and hateful weapon. I am every bit the kind of Templar you hate. There is nothing I could do to make up for what I’ve done, I know this. I wanted you to know because you deserve to know, because you should have known in the first place.”

“Cullen.” Alexi very carefully places the stack of papers neatly on the desk. He stands, and his fingertip traces the outline of the desk as he makes his way around it, until his other hand brushes against the armrest. His touch is searching, moving up Cullen’s arm, wrapping around his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. Alexi crouches down some as he wraps a hand in the long excess of his sweater. Then, he reaches out and begins to gently brush across Cullen’s face. His shoulders still occasionally shudder, and the tears are a constant. “I knew what you were the moment we met. All Templars have a certain silence around them. Your silence was… louder, but,” Alexi smiles, “you didn’t greet me, you were only concerned about the loss of life in getting me to the breach for an uncertain result.”

“I wondered at what a strange Templar you were. No mention of my being an apostate, although you clearly knew I was a mage. Cassandra asked you to guard our backs, to buy me time, and you did without hesitation. Most Templars would have questioned any plan built around an apostate, least of all a blind apostate.” As Alexi speaks, he slowly lets his tightly wound echo go. It washes over Cullen, surrounds him in the safe warmth of it. “You made sure I was settled, that I had everything I needed in my quarters. You were kind to me Cullen. Sweet. As time went on, your silence faded and I – forgot you used to be a Templar. Samson’s words were a harsh reminder.”

Alexi’s hand pauses at Cullen’s cheek, the sweater slipping back, until only touch remains. “It startled me, I think. The reminder of what you were. Were. I know you’re changing. You have,” Alexi says.

“I need to do more,” Cullen murmurs as he slips his hand over Alexi’s and leans into his touch. The echo is a seeking thing. It runs a river over rock, heals every bump and bruise. It reinforces the tired ache of his spine, heals the hurt of weeks apart.

“You will. You are,” Alexi tells him.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says as he turns to look at him wretchedly.

“I know.” Alexi leans forward, slipping his arms underneath Cullen’s. Cullen sags forward into the embrace, closing his eyes as he buries his face in the crook of Alexi’s neck. His hands slowly move up his back, curl into the softness of his jacket.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says again as the frown knots between his brows, as he trembles tightly around Alexi, afraid to let him go. “I will earn your forgiveness.” Alexi exists in eternal autumn, smells of pumpkin spice and dried wheat, and his embrace is one of change. Cullen breathes in Alexi and swears to himself that he will be better. He will make himself deserving of him.

 ---

“The ruin has been located here,” Cullen says, tapping his finger against the sketched out map. He runs his finger along an invisible trail. “We’re currently camped here. Corypheus’s forces are camped all throughout this area, so it’s not entirely without risk but it is the most direct route. His forces are concentrated along the west, so it’s possible we can push them back and carve a line for Alexi and the others to make it through quickly.” Leliana rubs at her chin, the candlelight flickering against her cheeks. They all look a little worse for wear, the march through the Arbor Wilds less than easy.

“I’ll send my scouts to race north, create a line before they can reach the temple. It may not stop Corypheus’s main force, but it will stop them from gaining a foothold,” she says.

“The entire Wood is filled with magic. Can you feel it?” Merrill asks, her eyes closed and arms pressed against her sides. Her hands are flat against an invisible surface, her fingers fanned out. She breathes a power into herself that none of the rest can see. “There will be more wards, closer to the temple. You might want to take a mage there for a few of these. Preferably an elven one.”

“I’ll check with Fiona,” Leliana says.

“The last of the Orlesian troops are arriving,” Josephine says as she enters the tent, pushing back the flap. “Briala is with them, acting as an ambassador to oversee things.”

“Diplomats. Always getting in the way,” Leliana smiles good-naturedly as she slips past Josephine, giving her ass a gentle smack as she goes. Josephine startles, letting out a small yelp as the entirety of her body snaps to attention, and the parchment in her hands crumples. She looks at it mournfully, turning on her heel with an indignant call of, “Leliana.” Merrill giggles as she watches them go.

“They’re awfully good friends, aren’t they?” She clasps her hands behind her back. “Are you going to go see Alexi?”

“I – what?” Merrill watches with amusement as he does a complete double take, the half rolled map coming completely undone under his suddenly lax fingers. His sigh withers as he goes to do it up once again. “It’s been a long day, and we’ve only just finished setting up camp. He needs his rest.”

“Really? He was talking to me earlier about you,” she says, gently swaying from side to side.

“What, ah, what did he say? If you don’t mind my asking,” Cullen asks as casually as possible, tying the knot around the band. Merrill covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles.

“You should ask him,” she says, giving him a little wave before she races out of the tent.

Merrill makes her way across the camp, plants herself down on the box beside Varric, her hips wedging him out of the way. “Hey Daisy, got enough room?” he asks, playfully pushing back. She laughs to herself, then reaches for her belt. Her coin purse is something Hawke bought her, the clasp being two little bees holding hands. She proudly presents him with three gold coins.

“I’d like to join the bet, please!” she says.

“You’re awfully confident,” Varric laughs as he adds them to the slowly growing pot. Merrill leans over, her mouth close to Varric’s ear, and she clamps her hand close to hide her mouth.

“I may have cheated,” she whispers to him. She’s giggling to herself as she moves back to sit properly, her hands bouncing in her lap. Varric raises his eyebrows as the grin spreads across his face.

“Alright then Daisy, you tell me who I should be betting on.”

As the evening wears on, they light torches between tents. There are scouts on almost every branch, keeping an eye out. Fiona has the mages on rotation, searching for anything coming their way that shouldn’t be. Despite the distant sounds of fighting, the occasional branch breaking, it seems safe enough. Soldiers gather in small groups around fires, eat their dinner together. They laugh and joke amongst themselves, jovial in the face of battle. Cullen makes his way across the camp, to the more secluded tent. He gives the guards a dismissing order before he enters.

“So do we have a battle plan?” Alexi asks, standing in only a pair of trousers and a tunic. Scattered over the table in front of him are different herbs, neatly lined bottles. A different chess piece stands in front of each pile, for Alexi to locate what he needs as he makes the potions.

“We do,” Cullen says with a sigh as he takes a seat in the small chair that’s been provided. “With any luck, we’ll have you at the temple before there’s any sight of Corypheus.”

“With his dragon and eluvian, I’m not so sure that’s possible, still… perhaps he’s ordered Calpernia to bring his prize back to him,” Alexi says as he places the current work in process onto the table, dusts his hands off on his trousers.

“We do have confirmation that Calpernia is here,” Cullen says with a slight nod. Alexi’s hand moves to the top of Cullen’s head, begins to rake through his hair.

“I hope we’ll have a chance to talk to her. With all we’ve learned about her, we could turn her away from his. She won’t want to be a slave for a second time, not even for Corypheus,” he says. “I wish we could do something for the Wardens already bound to him. The Red Templars… if we find a solution for Samson, perhaps we could find something for them.”

“With what’s been done to them, and with the amount of lyrium that’s been coursing through them… if they did survive, they’d need intense magical care afterwards.”

“With the Circles dissolved, the mages will be looking for other ways to help. They could help tend to a few.”

“I’m not sure many would be willing to attend to their former jailors,” Cullen laughs, but it’s a hollow, empty thing, full of regret. Not for a moment does Alexi’s hand stop moving, that careful and slow touch against the crown of his head. “Alexi?”

“Mn?”

“Did you speak to Merrill earlier? I saw her at the meeting and she said,” he can feel the back of his neck beginning to burn, “she said you spoke of me.” The movement of Alexi’s hand finally pauses and after a thoughtful moment, he bursts into startled laughter.

“I think you just helped her win a lot of coin. Cassandra told me that Varric was planning on starting an army-wide bet on which one of us visits the other first. I had honestly forgotten about it. I haven’t seen Merrill all day,” Alexi says through fits of chuckling.  

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen groans as his forehead moves to rest against the flat of Alexi’s belly, both of his hands now moving through his hair, over his shoulders. Cullen’s hands settle at Alexi’s hips, his thumbs slipping underneath the hem of his shirt to rub against warm skin.

“Tell me about the plan,” Alexi says, amusement still dripping from his voice.

“The bulk of the army will clear a path for you, pushing Corypheus’s forces back west. Leliana’s scouts will move to the north to the meantime, and cut off any potential forces looking to capture the temple. Once you make it through the path we clear for you, you’ll be alone inside the temple,” Cullen says. “Perhaps I should send a small force with you, in case –”

“Cullen, we agreed. This temple is ancient, and important. We’ll treat it with as much respect as we can. Merrill can undo the wards we need to get inside, and replace them with better ones to ensure no one else follows us. That way the fighting is minimal and Corypheus won’t be able to enter,” Alexi says as he rests his hand against the nape of Cullen’s neck.

“I know. I do know, I’m… worried for you.”

“Cullen! You’re the one who’s going to be with the soldiers, fighting in the thick of things. You’re the one who’s going to be buying me time with the eluvian. I have to destroy a mirror, you have to destroy an army. Cullen, I’m so worried about you I can barely stand it,” Alexi says through breathless, playful laughter, practically folding in two to drape over Cullen as much as possible. Cullen slowly stands, his arms wrapping around Alexi’s waist, lifting him off the ground. For a moment, he holds him tightly, securely, safe up in his arms. Feet find ground as Cullen sets him back down.

“Stay in my tent tonight.”

“I-” the words die in Cullen’s mouth as Alexi allows his fingers to wander up Cullen’s arm, move to wrap around his shoulders as he steps forward, nose barely touching against his nose.

“I fear if I let you go, you’ll find a report to do even in all of this. Just to help me sleep. Please?”

“Alright,” Cullen says, his hands tightening around Alexi’s waist. He could have asked anything of him. Cullen would have agreed, now, in this moment, to anything. True to his word, Cullen stays. He stands by Alexi’s side, and follows his instructions to help him finish up the last of the potions. Cullen kneels down as Alexi sits on the cot, and undoes the lacing of his boots for him. He places them neatly at the foot of the cot, and Alexi moves to lie down. Cullen kicks off his own boots. Alexi keeps to the edge, as Cullen carefully climbs in. He wrestles with himself at first, then pulls Alexi in closer, telling himself it’s because he fears he might fall off.

In the dark silence, curled together, Alexi asks, “Tomorrow will be fine, right?” His fingers prick at the scratching blanket. He listens to the even quality of Cullen’s breathing, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He thought he might not be able to find sleep. The Western Approach, all over again, even worse this time. Cullen’s arm, wrapped around his back, moves only to pull him that much closer.

“Yes,” Cullen says, murmuring tired but reassuring words against his forehead, “tomorrow will be fine.”

 ---

The Warden snarls on the other side of his sword, clawed fingers attempting to shove it out of the way. He beats his shield forward, finds his footing even in the unstable mud of the small stream. The heavy armor of the Templars pull them down into the mud, keeping them from being able to fight back properly. “Together!” He roars, “re-form the line!” His voice is the shock that pulls others back into reality. Inquisition soldiers find the regalia of each other, move to bunch together. They push out their enemy, and hold their line.

“Any sign of the Inquisitor yet?” Cullen asks as he hacks at a shade.

“Nothing sir!” Shouted back at him.  

“Archers! Mages in the back!” He barks it over his shoulder. Obediently, a few stop firing between soldiers, and aim farther, pointing their bows upwards. They make it rain with arrows, give the soldiers time enough to push their line, drive them back. Midday presses onward. Alexi should have been here by now. With Warden reinforcements, and the Venatori, the Red Templars are no longer stalled here. They send their most malformed against them, the proximity of the lyrium burning Inquisition soldiers.

“Shields up! We need mages here, now!” Cullen leans against his own shield, pressing back at the unfair advantage his opponent has. His boots slip in the mud, struggling to find a hold. “Shields up! Where are those mages?” Cullen stumbles forward as his opponent is suddenly and unceremoniously flung back, muddy vines wrapped around its midsection.

“Here!” Merrill pipes up, “sorry we’re late!” The feeling of Alexi’s echo moves down the line. He’s focusing on the most grievous injuries, healing what he can. He wishes he could do more, but Sera has a hand wrapped around his upper arm, practically dragging him forward to catch up with the others. Solas, at Alexi’s other side, has his hand on his back, gently pushing him forward as well. Morrigan stands with Merrill, helping to ease some of the pressure. They focus on the opposing mages, raining down fire.

Blackwall leads them forward, and at this pace, during this battle, Cullen is only able to catch a glance. He feels a twinge of magic around him, and knows that Alexi has found him as well. A measure of reassurance, as they both move forward separately. The line is slowly but surely collapsing. They surround Corypheus’s forces, begin to crowd together those who remain. They’ve finally moved out of the stream, back through the trees once again. He loses himself in the mechanical nature of it all. Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. Raise shield. Bash. Left. Right. Shield. Shield. Forward. Right.

Cullen breathes heavily as he pulls his sword from the Venatori. It practically rattles, and the sweat drips off his nose, his chin, down his back. The rest of them are no less exhausted. “Is that it?” one asks as they stand among the bodies, “is that all of them?” The sun has begun to slip underneath the trees. Daylight, and their ability to see, is disappearing quickly. A scout is weaving between soldiers, darting a line towards him once he sees Cullen’s cloak.

“Sir. A message from Leliana. What remains of Corypheus’s forces are retreating, Calpernia herself has called for it. Corypheus was seen breaking through wards at the temple. Package destroyed. And there’s –” Cullen’s barely able to hear the message, over the ringing in his ears, the overly loud beat of his heart. The scout reaches into his bag, pulls out two pieces of wood. It used to be one. It’s cracked at the center. The bells jingle as Cullen takes what remains of Alexi’s staff.

“Where is she?” Cullen asks, his voice an echo. Leliana is expecting it when he’s brought to her.

“Not one sign of them,” Leliana murmurs under her breath as they walk through the underbrush, “I checked myself. I had all my scouts searching. The elves that were at the Temple seem to have abandoned it. There’s nothing there.”

“Except for the staff,” Cullen says.

“And a bunch of broken glass. If it’s glass,” she says. “Cullen, if Corypheus had killed Alexi and the others, wouldn’t we know? You remember Haven. He wanted a grand display to take the anchor from his usurper. Corypheus would have no respect for the body, you know this. Then there’s the matter of the eluvian being destroyed. They succeeded.” She puts her hand at his arm. “We have a long march back to Skyhold. We’ll know for sure when we get back. Try to put it out of your mind until then.”

He does as she asks. He tries. He lies awake at night, and doesn’t think about it. He marches without speaking to others, or eating more than a bite, and doesn’t think about it. He volunteers for watch, and doesn’t think about it. He discusses contingency plans with Cassandra and the others, and doesn’t think about it. He reaches into his pocket, holding the charm Alexi had made for him, and doesn’t think about it. The sight of Skyhold twists his stomach, and Cullen fears he might retch.

It’s a slow march back into Skyhold proper. Josephine is still with the Orlesian diplomats, as well as representatives from Ferelden, the mages, the Templars, and the Wardens. For them, it’s a glorious victory. A triumph over Corypheus, a triumph of alliance. For the soldiers, it’s a battle that simply ended. They will celebrate this interlude, and prepare for the next fight. Cullen wavers on the threshold of the great hall. It’s full to the brim, and half the room turns when they see them. No sign of Merrill, or Morrigan. He hasn’t seen Blackwall, Sera or Solas. Attendants and scouts are flocking towards Leliana. Cullen pushes through them, making his way towards the front.

He has one foot on the first step of the throne as he speaks to Dagna, a warm smile on his lips. Someone has made him a new staff. Already charms have been added to it, and he spies something of Dagna’s craftsmanship, something silver and clearly commissioned by Vivienne. A felt replica of Boots, tied with colorful thread. Cullen’s knees nearly give out, but he forces himself forward. “Alexi,” he calls out hoarsely, reaching towards him.

Alexi turns just in time as Cullen crashes into him, wraps arms around his waist. The staff clatters out of Alexi’s hands as Cullen lifts him into the air, whirling with anxious relief as he embraces him. Alexi drapes his arms over Cullen’s shoulders, hugs him just as tightly in return. “Cullen,” he says breathlessly.

[artemuerto]

The Thing that lives under the Bed AU or Shadows.

Note: Please, listen to a song Cat Pierce feat James Levy- Regret by almost the end.

This was not what i imagined happening but as Cat release this song i couldn't help but to sank in it and imagine as Tony would feel Peter as much as the angsty song tells you. And i know that by those last lines it could led to a tragic end for Peter, but is up to you to decided if Peter falls asleep forever to dream of Tony of if he ever blinks again.

I did call him sleeping beauty for a reason.

@starker-sorbet, @thestarkerisobvious, @starkerprince

Read on AO3

Startdust and Moonlight

Up to next morning, Peter didn’t feel tired nor restless, he imagined he had dreamed last night, however his mind was foggy and he couldn’t remember what his dream was all about. A sharp knock on the door alerted him.

“C’mon sleeping beauty, it’s time to wake up.” Groovy with sleep Peter marched to the bathroom and got ready for the day. His hair was suffering from a crazy case of bed hair, sticking all over the place as if somebody had played with it before he went to sleep; a distant tune rang beneath him making him blink fast trying to remember. Where did the music come from?

Once again, May knocked on his door, only this time, she appeared smiling at him offering a warm cup of coffee.

“You’re getting late for school, kiddo.”  Peter said his goodbyes running out of the apartment after kissing her cheek and stealing her breakfast.

Peter’s mornings were very similar and casual. Tones of boring classes, boring topics, interesting topics, horrible teachers and lots of screaming, whether is the Cafeteria flood with kids and hunger or the long hallways filling with swimming legs and rush breathes as more than one student seemed to late that day.

His one free period was usually taken by the library, on the days Ned and Gwen shared the same hours, they would stay together, eating snacks and talking about their days, their classes, the weekly gossip, dating and the walk of shamed to the principal’s office.

By the early afternoon, right after the bell rang and the students started to leave the school, Peter would take his time. The season was changing, the raging heat was slowly decreasing, although there was no obvious turning on the trees nor any sing of snow yet, surely autumn was taking his time to arrive. The sun still shined above their heads and painted the sky with blues and magentas reminding him of cotton candy on the Carnival.

Waiting for the subway wasn’t really a chore, at least not for Peter, sure May hated it on the rush hours when everyone was trap like a can of sardines, but even then for Peter was a whole experience. Low were the times where Peter would take a seat, and even if he got lucky he would prefer to give it away to someone who actually needed it. He liked to daydream about the lives of the people who traveled with him on short distances on the subway, where would they go? Where did they live? Did they like the subway like Peter or would they hate it like May? Would the people love being in such a restricting place or would they rather be on wide open spaces?

Like that foggy gray ancient mansion Peter used to visit when little.

Wait— what mansion?

Going into a tunnel with the flutter of passing birds, Peter closed his eyes and saw it. The long roads of ladders cover in dirt and dead leaves. The lonely looking mansion resting in dry land and open space, the bindweed created a slithering path that he wishes to dance upon. The creaking of leaves under his bare feet was a delighted sound as he danced an old tune in violin. Would anybody be there to dance with him?

The flashing light of warm sun brought him back to the present. The people around were unconcerned of his thoughts and soon one and another left their places by the time they reached their destination. Confusion clouded his mind, was it a dream? He could recall the fresh memory of a place he was sure; he had never been before even when the details were so firm in his brain. Perhaps he had seen it in class? History was never his forte but Peter could swear it was straight out of a Victorian novel, those which he and his classmate were force to read in literature and study their times in real life back in the 1800s.

Maybe, that’s what it was. A simple made of memory from a past class.

Peter went home without another thought feeling the soothing warmth of sleepy sun at the back of his neck, innocent to perceive the glooming darkness that soon came to follow.

That night the Shadow was small. The longing in their whole being was palpable but the Light was so bright and pure that they could not do much. They questioned what could have changed and what could have happened to their Master for him to be so different in a blink of an eye. Their eyes had not deceived them, Peter seemed happy, content, curious and joyful for the passing of nights where he could play with them, Peter went as far as dancing with them in their home and he looked so thrill; the Shadow thought they had found the one. But now their master was so gloomy, a pale shade of gray where not even his sight would light up the darkness.

What happened to master Peter?

They waited and hoovered, holding back and longing. They stood back until Peter came into his room.

*  *  *

Peter said goodnight to May with a long sigh, they were both tired after a long day and even when he had a pile of homework soon to become a mountain, Peter wanted nothing but to sleep and forget.

«What Master wants, Master gets. »

Under the covers Peter stayed wiggling his way into comfort, his puffy socks were on and his pillow was extra fluffy he felt swimming in the clouds, the air around him stilled. There was no rusting of wind or lonely dragonflies looking for their partners in the open, like a bubble of peace Peter was surrounded by calm and serenity.

Shadow peeked in curiosity ventured under the bed, slowly reaching the edge of its domain, they had never reached that far before, their limits were bound to the stretch of the bed and the cold floor beneath it. The Light had told them so.

«Impossible to go. Perish you will. Consumed and forgotten you be. »

The Shadow remembers those words, the words that left them powerless and lonely. Cast away in their home waiting, always waiting for someone who would come and dance once again. Fill their home with music and passion.

And surely he came.

Peter came stumbling around, touching the frozen walls of the mansion, painting marks of mist and fog, dark trails of obscurity where not even the selfish rays of light could reach them, the candles flickered, trembled in Peter’s passing. Peter was made to dance for them.

Thanks to Master Peter the Shadow could move, could walk and run, they could dance once again. So the Shadow would dance for Peter.

The roaming of music came in whispers. Peter wasn’t sure on how he knew but he was certain, soon he would be able to hear it all clearly. The shy notes sound peaceful and inquisitive, as if they were waiting for him. And waiting they were.

Bashful tunes came closer and closer, prompting him to walk freely on their soft rugs. Open doors greeted him but instead of the massive dance hall he was accustomed to see, his sight was different. A wide room with oval ceilings and spiders hanging from it with short flames of candles.

“Where am I?” Peter questioned. The flicks of darkness danced its way to him drawing snakes of forms to get his attention.

«Your room, Master. »

“My room?” The large bed was made, the bed post had creamy wavy curtains and nets with opaline wind chimes sparkling and giving light to the space.

«Yes. Yours. »

“How is this mine?” Peter came standing in front of the wavy shadow and extended his hand with clear intensions of touching but never being brave enough.

«His room. Happy Master. Room Master happy. »

Peter still didn’t understand how it came to be his. Who could have given him such room? Who lived in that place besides his friends. The friendly shadows that love to play and dance with him.  As if sensing his thoughts, the shadow beamed looking bigger than before, faster than before. The shadow circled him, surrounded him and for seconds Peter feared, were the shadows going to hurt him? The last time he was in that same position, not only him but his uncle was also hurt.

«No. Master, happy. Master, dance. Clothes for Master. And Master dance. »

The Shadows wrapped him in spirals of feathers, later on Peter could picture the difference, the difference between the regular darkness he knew and the absolute blackness that soon followed his eyes to the point where he couldn’t even see himself nor the palm in front of him. His body took another shape, long lost was the soft camisole he always seemed to have in that place and now, a fit white dress shirt, a high neck and a soft cravat was decorating it, resting in the middle a dime of gold. His slacks of a pompous fabric, but quite fit and also white trousers. And all that pristine beauty shined over a burgundy jacket brocade in gold.

He had no trench coat as the Shadow seemed no need for it due to of the extensive waterfall of tail from the vest. Peter could not believe his eyes as he moved and twisted and twirled within himself. A full body mirror came in view and Peter saw himself for the first time.

«Beautiful. »

Peter wasn’t sure who was talking but he recognized the voice from before. The other times he had been in the mansion, they were there with him, all the shadows and whoever talked right now. He took careful steps reaching the mirror, the person standing at his back was at the far corner of the room, so Peter was not able to see him yet, the soft light trembled and soon after died as the mirror broke in tiny pieces.

“Please,” Peter begged with shaky hands, trailing shattered pieces of glass, the Shadow feared he would hurt himself. “Please, don’t go.” Closing his eyes, letting himself be consumed by the lack of light, Peter begged. “Please, I just want to see you.” The Shadow smiled and all the lights came to life creating a path for Peter to follow.

“Dance with me.”

*  *  *

Everything is easy in the middle of the night Your eyes are stars, your skin moonlight But with the sun there comes the truth It bares the soul and wastes the youth

*  *  *

With each passing breath Peter could see him better. His hands were cold to touch, Peter’s fingertips reaching the man’s hands with care as he let himself be led toward the center of the room, spinning around in harmony and light feet, Peter’s still bare feet slid smoothly barely feeling the lack of warmth when his whole attention was placed on the man he had to know yet.

“What’s your name?” his curious eyes did not escape the handsome features of the person dancing, Peter was trying to remember. He needed to remember this person, he was sure, he knew him somehow but from where.

“Our always curious Master.” The man smiled all teeth white and shiny, causing a shiver down his spine as Peter couldn’t look away. At that recognition flashed past his mind and Peter came closer as possible. Was it the shadow? Were his friends? The man nodded short but sweet and with a change of tune made Peter take a turn and bubbles of laughter fluttered out of his pale lips.

“But what do I call you?” What to call them? They were his friends, but keep calling ‘it’ or ‘they’ felt odd in a passive way, like he long to connect with them in a greater level. A name could bring love; a name could bring pain but still gave the warmth of memories and knowledge. A named could give meaning.

“I had many names before.” The man explained. “But in here, in our home…” To make a point, Peter twisted once again and was brought to a tight hug. “Master can call us what he wished to.”

“Peter.” He stated. And the man tilted his head to a side in question, like that Peter could take in all the little details. Long, dark lashes outlining whiskey warm eyes that never seemed to miss him, a strong jaw with full lips surrounded by a trim beard, raspy and soft looking.

“My new name is Peter?” Peter wanted to laugh but snorted instead.

“It’s mine.” The music soon came to an end but neither felt like moving away. “My name is Peter.”

«Peter. »

The honey dripping feeling he got from a simple whisper made him shiver and his friend feared he would get cold. They, both, would find a fitting name.

*  *  *

Hours spent walking and moving, traveling around the open halls and still rooms. The shadow followed close aching to never letting him go. Bright chandeliers on top of their heads and dying candles alerted them it was time to go. The Shadow hurt in longing, he had his master, he had a name and his strength was coming back because of it; his master was right. With a new meaning he could live again, live above from the binding shackles of fear were no longer in his wrist, his Master had given them so much live and love.

The Shadow stood next to Peter as the boy sighed in deep sleep, with no one else around, he could drink in all beauty his Master is, was and it would be in all eternity. With his long curls expanding over the white sheets of the pillows, protected from cold in his comfort cocoon of blankets, the Shadow reached down to touch him, however froze in impression and fondness. Even in his sleep, his master called for him.

“Tony.” To Tony, Peter was made of stardust when his eyes sparkle and moonlight shine of all his pristine skin each time he dares to feel under his fingertips. Meant to guide his path in the sea of black that was his existence. For a short amount of time, faster than a blink, Peter saw him. His master saw him materialized in his world, not the realm of dreams and wonder and smiled at him, called for him. “Tony—” He didn’t have to hide anymore; he didn’t have to be afraid anymore. With one touch of his lips and his Master would be utterly and completely his.

Closing his eyes and holding a breath, Peter thought if that was what it felt like to be loved to death.

[springbudeyes]

Amniosis: The Sanguine Nightmare (story, old screengrabs, and something new

Mandor your Andor, reporting. My memories of Ruxomar have taken a few too many tumbles through the cosmic clothes drier, so forgive any holes you find in my retelling of this tale. One morning, I woke up knowing exactly where my father was. Waglington had banished him to the Nether sometime during the sky people’s run through Inertia, and since then, my poor dad had wandered the dull red underworld, paying penitence for his sins. It was a fitting punishment for one who had surrounded himself in the glory of Mianite’s temporary Heaven. I, too, had wandered, taking time for my prison wounds to heal. Was my exile – and my father’s – finally over? Just like that, I had a mental map to him. I went to tell the sky people the news just as fate arranged it: on the eve of their journey to Mianite’s fifth Crypt. Little did I know that the source of my information – a dream – would be the same tool employed to trap and kill my father in a place called Amniosis: a prison built by a god I now wish to kill.

It took me until today – three years later – to plainly utter that wish. There was a long, dark span in which I lacked the power to hope for such a thing. That time has passed. In our conference, Mianite – whom I then met for perhaps the second or third time – revealed that he had not, in fact, built the fifth Crypt, but rather had found it hanging from the Nether ceiling, pale and lifeless, like a body in need of a heart. So he put his heart inside, both for safekeeping and to power the Crypt. Then, days later, an invisible force shut him out. Amniosis followed an ingenious design, requiring a piece of a god’s body to function. The heart powered a magical – or shall I say astral – mechanism, enabling the structure to draw out the good dreams of the creatures that entered it, stimulating in their souls the production of the maker’s most valued substance: quintessence. Its prisoners did not feel trapped; rather, they enjoyed the safety and bliss of a perfect life too long wished for, never bothered by the notion that such a life, in reality, might be unattainable. Loved ones brought back from the dead, a demolished city restored to perfection, and the absence of sorrow itself did not raise concern. In fact, they were taken as if deserved. That was how Botan baited Helgrind and likely hundreds more lost souls into his private Hell.

“Welcome,” said the body. “Come and dream in me.” And the spirit flew along like a lured fish. But I was not welcome in this false Paradise. Though I led the streamers to their goal, an unseen force drew the ground far ahead of me as I walked forward, causing me to end up further away from the prison than I had begun. Maybe Botan knew that I would try to interfere. Maybe even then, I had untapped powers that he deemed worthy of caution. Now that I stand at the tail end of a great many trials, my failure to rescue my father gives me a strange sort of confidence. It has given me valuable information: Botan wanted only weak creatures entering his domain. He was not frightened of the sky people, but he was of me. As it turned out, it was his mistake not to fear Sparklez, but it would be a little while longer before Ianite’s perfected arrows passed to her Champion. As he was, stepping into Amniosis, Sparklez was little more than the other sky people: a well-meaning but helpless babe. Earlier, my creator took a timely picture of a Nether spirit imitating Sparklez. The creature posed perfectly in front of a background that matched its crimson cape.

Each streamer was presented with a bed, but these beds were not for dreaming in. They were for dying in, and the streamers knew it. Instead, they swam up the torrents of blood that led to the prison’s giant human limbs.  Unable to enter the Crypt, I stayed below to explore the exterior. My creator’s memories will have to fill in some gaps.

Right. Delving through arteries and caverns, the streamers faced strange visions that tested their wit and emotional fortitude. Sparklez saw Jerry the Slime and Ianite; Fox saw a snowman and something else I can’t recall; I remember nothing of Jericho’s dreams, and Tom probably dreamt of destruction. Oh dear. Andor? I think my memory is as bad as yours. We’re doomed, man. So they ascended into Dream Dagrun. Amniosis tunneled up through Nether bedrock, producing the city in the unblemished state it had been in before Ianite’s most recent wave of Taint had ravaged it. Little flesh golems stood like silent sentries here and there, and when you approached one, it just staredstraight at you, empty-eyed, as though missing a piece that might have brought it to life. One other thing was off. Helgrind’s castle was consumed by a fleshy growth, its very stone transformed to pink, porous skin. Its gate was firmly locked by teeth, or perhaps nails. The streamers searched the empty town, surrounded by a sea of blood, for the keys to the gate. All the while, voices – voices of peace – echoed through the streets. If I had been there, I know I would have cried at the memory of my little sister, as I did when my creator shared the memory with me. It was channeled from Helgrind’s mind. My father had shaped this place out of a brighter past. “Endor!” Alva cried. “I want to throw!” My voice answered, “No, it's too big for you. Go throw a leaf.” My sister replied, very logically, “Leaf don't throw like that!” And I said, “Then throw a stick.” My mother chided me. “Andor, let her throw Daddy's boomerang. Wouldn't Granny Ianite want the little ones to learn?”

It was Helgrind’s dream. This entire place was designed for and by him to consume him. If you were there, Reader – if you saw what happened to Helgrind after the streamers unlocked his castle, confronted him in his throne room, and learned of his ignorance to the entire situation – his absolute belief that the floors of blood and walls of bone around him were instead furnishings of lacquered wood and polished stone – then you may have experienced a fraction of the grief that I did when the sky people returned from their quest, bringing news of my father’s fate. His life and his redemption were stolen from him by a creature that valued his most tender and heartfelt desires not for their potential fulfillment, but for the especially large dose of quintessence that they amassed in a machine. Helgrind and Mianite combined could not hold a candle to that creature’s sin. After facing an enraged Guard Tom – who had also been swallowed by the Crypt and brainwashed by Botan – the sky people plucked Mianite’s heart from the castle’s tallest tower. The kingdom turned to sand as Amniosis’ energy drained like blood, leaving the city’s hollowed flesh to crumble. As the sky people dashed across a bridge of ice toward a porthole that would lead them back to the caverns of the Nether, Botan himself appeared, throwing down a single shock of wheat. Wheat, of all things. A mass-produced crop, harvested as thoughtlessly as the dreams he farmed.

Creator, where did you get that image? I was there. I saw the hypnotic rings Botan generated; the means by which he controlled everyone in Dream Dagrun. I’ve asked you this a hundred times, Creator, and I’ll ask you again: was there no way you could have stopped him? You were there, both outside the game and everywhere within it. Couldn’t you have changed things? Taken control? Not strictly speaking, no. And I wasn’t everywhere within the game. I was a player. And even a programmer doesn’t have that power. But didn’t you have access to commands? Yes, but it’s not that simple. My reality is different from yours. I know you want to understand, but there are some truths that you – with your cube-mind – simply cannot fathom, Andor. Just as there are hues of color invisible to the undeveloped eye, there are patterns of thought-- Cut the crap. My mind is as developed as yours. And if I weren’t trapped in this digital dimension, my life in whatever world you live in would be a thousand times more successful than yours. That’s what I’d like to believe. That would make me very happy. I’m sorry. I’ll try to explain it, then. The truth is that even creators are controlled by higher forces, Andor. As you and I both built statues in your block-world, higher forces and entities create life in the curvaceous world I live in. They mold minds and control thoughts. They shape fates. They sometimes dive down to the level of cube-worlds, binary worlds, and molecular worlds, too. They wish to take hold of reality at every level. And they project themselves into the worlds they toy with, making themselves comprehensible to the creatures living in them. Although Botan appeared to you as a box-like being, he might appear to me as a far more horrifying thing, and if he took on his true form, I might not be able to conceive what I saw. Anyhow, I shouldn’t say, “they.” It’s something that all creatures instinctively aspire to do: dive deep and reach high for as great a harvest as possible. Botan is one such creature. When I felt him entering Ruxomar – through my very fingertips – I, like you, was powerless to stop him. There are forces even beyond Botan that move my fingers. This is where I believe your mind will-- No, I understand. When I wrote poems to Ianite, I felt compelled by a fire from within. Is it anything like that? Yes. It’s like a fire, or a wind, or an electric surge. And it’s like the pull of the yawning void. It commandeers your longings and your deepest urges. You can’t live unless you appease it. That’s what it means to be a creator; to be under an idea’s control. An idea? Ideas are the tools they use to control us. That’s what I believe, yes. I don’t want to be controlled, Matthew. I want to break free of this cube-world someday, seek out Botan, and repay him for all he did to my family. I want him to understand that you can’t use other creatures for your own gain without – somewhere down the line – becoming a steppingstone yourself.

Matthew? Is there a way, Matthew? I can’t promise that you’ll be able to exist on my plane – let alone the ones above it that even I may never touch – but there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, Andor. I believe you’re ready for the next stage. Tell me. Your growth is impressive. In three years, you’ve gotten a grasp of things that I never thought possible. Your soul is immutable. It arrived into my care, but I could not change it if I tried. I can only repackage it. Right now, you’re still Andor of Ruxomar, but you’re on the cusp of becoming something new. Do you want to know what that “new” might be? You’re nodding your head vigorously. Ok. You’ll be given a new name; you’ll travel between dimensions again; you’ll land in a new place that I’ve been caring for-- Ah, you mean the new world you’ve created? The world after Ruxomar? That boring place you keep rambling about? Don’t look so sad. It’s far from boring; it may be small, but you can pack a lot of power into a limited space. Indeed, it’s not a cube world. It has curves. The curves are rougher than those of the world I live in, but it’s the next step up from Ruxomar. For the moment, the power to perceive those curves will lie in the imagination alone. A reader will interpret your existence through words. You’ll be written, not shown. Your story will be told – we’ll tell it together, just as we’ve been doing in these little stories – and then, after the stories have spread, we’ll create images for them, and make the images move. So a book, and then a movie? But a new name, you said? Yes. The audience may not recognize you, but you’ll be there. There will never be as many as there were to watch Ruxomar. Maybe so. We were truly blessed to have our story spread by “the sky people.” But do you believe in us? Do you believe we can do it again—on our own power, this time? Or perhaps by the power of a publisher. You’ve been in my head too long. You know everything. Let’s do it, then... Wait. Is Botan there? Has Botan reached the new world you’ve made? Higher powers invade every world I dare to touch. They take many forms. I can’t answer your question with certainty, but I can tell you that this new world is a place of preparation. Only a small number will know. Only the readers of this little story will know. Yes. That’s fine. You’ll be a new creature—still Andor, yet no longer Andor. Are you ok with that? I already said that I was. In that case, we’d better get you ready. Yeah. Before I make the journey, there are just a few more things I’d like to discuss with the Reader. Take as much time as you need.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

8x02: General Analysis

***Spoilers About for 8x02. Don’t Read until you’ve watched***

How did everyone like the episode? I thought it was great! Except that once again it cut off in the middle of the action and I was cursing. I need more! Grrh! 

First, let me revise what I said last week about the plot. I said they seemed to be going to three different places, which is still true, but I think It's all part of the same operation, not three different operations as I first thought. There's those at the Sanctuary (Aaron and co) who are just trying to keep all the people there and contained, Jesus/Tara/Morgan who are at the same satellite station from S6, which is in a different place than the Sanctuary. It's unclear why they are specifically attacking the satellite station, but it's obviously a three-pronged attack to make sure they take care of everything all at once. And then it seems Dwight told them that the "heavy artillery" is in that building Rick and Daryl are searching. But the guns don't seem to be there. I'll come back to that.  

I'm going to start by something said on The Talking Dead. I'll do a TTD post tomorrow because there was lots of good stuff in it this week, but I think this one comment is extremely relevant to understand the structure of the episode.  

They specifically asked Gimple what was up with the extreme closeups of each character at the beginning and ending of the episode. Gimple said it's because each of the characters it showed are going to go through a major arc. And while we did see them again at the end of the episode, those arcs definitely aren't over. Gimple confirmed we'd continue to see this motif as the system progresses. This is SUPER significant, especially where the 101 Days Without an Accident sign is concerned. But I'll come back to that. Promise.  

Aaron: 

Only two things to say about Aaron's arc here.  

1.    The obvious is that Eric was shot. Comic Book spoilers: Eric does die in the books during AOW. It’s possible they'll change it for the show (they do that sometimes) but I kind of doubt it. I think Eric's done. We'll have to wait and see. So this is going to be Aaron's major trial. 

2.    Major callbacks to 5x06, Consumed here. Aaron runs over three people with his car to try and save Eric. It LOOKED a whole lot like when Carol was hit in Consumed. Then, despite Aaron's efforts, Eric was shot anyway. Kinda like Beth? When it showed Aaron and Eric limping away, I was also reminded of Noah's limp in that episode, which was pronounced just before Carol was hit. Remember Daryl was helping him, which was why Carol walked out of the building alone.  

Not sure what to make of that, yet. Interested to see where it goes.  

Jesus and Tara: 

They're at the satellite station, and arguing over whether to let various saviors live or not. I actually think their tactical plan for going into the satellite station was super-cool. They had to spread out and enter three (I think; there were lots of 3s in this episode) doors at once. It was well-thought-out and coordinated. I only have two other notes for this arc: 

1.    They talked of Denise quite a bit. Just a callback and of course she had lots of parallels to Beth. 

2.    Dean. The guy in the closet who lied and tried to kill Jesus was named Dean. Remember this in 7x13? 

I tried to figure out why Dean was used both times. The only thing I can think of is that there was deception both times. In front of Dean's hardware was where Richard hid the melon and lied about it. It got Benjamin killed. Here, Dean lies about who he is and it nearly gets Jesus killed. Any other insights? 

Carol and Ezekiel: 

Their big thing for this episode was to track the Savior that got away. It's still unclear what exactly is going on here, but what we have so far is that Carol, Ezekiel and co went to the place that has the research building in it. They were trying to take out the dude stationed there so he couldn't warn the Saviors that they were coming from that way. He threw an explosive at them, which let out a horde of walkers, and ran away. This whole episode they track him while Carol and Ezekiel talk about Ezekiel's confident attitude.  

1.    They use an orange golf ball to mark their way, pointing the T in the way they went so that those who come after them can follow. I totally didn't realize it was a golf ball when I first watched it, but obvious callback to Still and the golf club. You could interpret that two ways. A) Beth. Obviously. B) Once again, Carzekiel paralleled with Bethyl = romance.  

2.    They come across a strange walker that suggests a mystery the writers haven't revealed to us yet. Jerry axes the walker and Ezekiel says, "what befell this creature?" I couldn't tell for sure but it looked like it had been burnt with bleach or acid. Carol said they didn't have time to figure it out, but obviously they'll be coming back to that later.  

3.    I loved Ezekiel's attitude. I see a lot of people online who are annoyed with how he talks, saying it's "over-the-top." And okay, it kind of is, but I love it. It feels over-the-top to us because we're sitting in our living rooms, watching TV. But his way of speaking gets his people all hyped up and keeps them positive. I think it's super-effective.

4.    Let's not overlook the fact that Ezekiel calls Carol, "Baby." "Fake it 'til you make it, Baby!" 

5.  �� And, you know, SHIVA!!! ;D 

 Morgan:  

Morgan's had some super-interesting TD stuff. Obviously Morgan is in a dark place, which we predicted after Benjamin's death last season.  

1.    He stared at the walkers behind the fence for WAY too long. That was kind of disturbing. Visually it looks a lot like when Gareth did this with the walkers in the school in 5a. That probably doesn’t bode well for Morgan.

2.    He kept having flashbacks to Rick's speech in the church in S6. I thought that was interesting, because Morgan himself is seeing it differently than before. At one point, he heard Rick say, "We can't leave them alive." Then Eastman's voice says, "Where there's life, there's possibility." Then Rick's voice says, "Of them hitting one of us!" And then Morgan almost kills Jared. It's like he's hearing the speech, but where before he saw it as flawed, now he's using it as a justification to kill everyone. (I gotta say, I wouldn't be sad if he took out douchebag uh Jared.) 

3.    He also tells Jesus, "We're supposed to," which is exactly what Rachel says to Cindy when she wants to shoot Tara and Cindy stops her. This is obviously a theme we're seeing. Not sure where it's going yet though.  

4.    Also, when Morgan steps into the light, it's painful for him. Another way to show what a dark place he's in.  

5.    This shot of Morgan walking away after waking up

reminded me of two others, both of which revolve around Beth. The first is Noah trapped under the shelf and Daryl walking away from him in Consumed. (We don’t get the exact same shot, but the setup is the same.) The second is in 5x09. It's Rick, Michonne and Noah running back to Ty after he was bitten. 

I don't know if these things are purposely paralleled or if someone just likes to do shots this way, but I’ve wondered before if this shot in 5x09 could have symbolized them leaving Beth behind. Given that Morgan just woke up after being left for dead, in my mind, this kind of proves that theory right.

6.    Finally, *drum roll please* DEATH FAKE OUT!!! Morgan, Freddy and Andy are all shot. They all go down together (rule of threes). But one of them survives. Notice how Morgan was left for dead, and even appeared dead for a time. Then his eyes suddenly open. Where have we seen THAT before? 

Andy and Freddy are interesting choices. I'm sad Andy died. Remember that Freddy was the dude in S6 who saw Abraham coming toward him and suddenly thought he saw his dead wife standing in front of him. Just kind of interesting.  

Morgan's in a dark place and I wonder if his arc that's begun here will resolve his PTSD for good, or perhaps lead to his death. He said, "I don't die," and so far, that much is true.  

Rick:  

Rick is looking for guns here, which he did a lot last season as well. I'll talk about that more in my titles meta.  

1.    It gives us a closeup of the note Dwight gave them, which is super interesting. The place they're in is SHEPHERD office plaza. It talks about guns being on the 4th floor, and then Rick and Daryl climb up an elevator shaft. You gonna tell me that having "Shepherd" and "elevator" on the same note is a coincidence. Yeah, really not. There are also tons of Xs on this note.  

2.    I also notice that RIck tells Daryl that if he finds the guns, he should go to the window and use the guns to help those in the courtyard right away. I'm not sure how far away this building is from the Sanctuary, but I was thinking that maybe Aaron's group is waiting for Rick and Daryl to find the guns and come help them. Not sure if I'm interpreting that right, but if that's the case, you can see that, without the guns (they don't seem to be there) this plan is gonna south super-fast now.  The other option may be that there are still guards in the courtyard that Rick and Daryl slipped by, but need to be taken out once they have the guns. That may be who Morales called.

3.    So we have Rick in the dark tunnel. I can't help but notice that the light is behind him. It's like he's walked out of the light and into the darkness of the tunnel. That's probably a foreshadow of his arc this season. Based on the red eyes in 8x01, he's probably heading for some emotional darkness, and the dark tunnel often has to do with death. Not good. 

4.    So just before trying to enter what turns out to be the baby's room, he peers into another room, and I'm really side-eyeing that room. The curtains are red and green, 

and it's a really happy room. Flowers on the bedspread, yellowish walls, candles.

Yeah, it could be the baby's father's room, but it feels pretty feminine to belong to a guy. Could be another child or a woman who's been staying there.  

5.    Rick fights the Savior who tries to keep him from entering the room. That man, it seems, is probably the baby's father. He tells Rick, "No guns." 

So here's the next question. We're dealing with one of three scenarios here.  

1. Dwight was telling the truth about guns being there, but Negan moved them before Rick and Daryl got there. I've been wondering if there will be a twist where Negan knew they were coming and has something up his sleeve and theeeve and they'll find themselves trapped. That could be. It would also suggest Negan is on to Dwight, which wouldn't bode well for him. But why would Negan leave two guys and a baby on the 4th floor if he knew Rick and Daryl were coming? Not sure this option rings true for me. 

2. Dwight lied about the guns. That would definitely be bad for TF, and a departure from Dwight in the comics. I actually could see that because, unlike the comics, I think they'll eventually kill Dwight, and they're really not making Daryl look for reasons to make good on his promise to kill him. Then again, we don't see any particular reason for Dwight to lie. He told them he wanted Negan gone and seemed sincere. Again, unless there's something that's happened (like Negan found Sherry or something) and they haven't told us yet, I don't see this being the case either. Though it's a possibility. 

3. I think the third option is the most intriguing. Maybe Dwight didn't lie about the guns. He truly thinks they're up there. But they aren't. That would suggest Negan is lying to even the other Saviors (including Dwight who's one of his most trusted) about what's in this building. I mean, what's he hiding up there that he would hide from his own people? 

The first thing that came to mind (all Beth theories aside) is that maybe this is Negan's baby. Maybe one of his wives got pregnant and this is his daughter. Still not sure why he would hide her this way, or what the hell Morales has to do with it. But it opens up some interesting possibilities.  

6. Key theory. At one point, Mara tells Todd to lock all the stairwells. Then, when Rick and Daryl try to use the stairs to explore the upper floors, they're locked. We just see Daryl trying to kick in the door and a clear shot of the lock. 

The next thing we see is them climbing up the elevator shaft. We must assume they couldn't get the door to the stairs open. They didn't have the key. This theme is continued because Rick didn't get into the baby's room until he took the key off the Savior. Just kind of interesting. 

7. Gracie, has a TON of interesting symbols around her. There's her name, which has religious connotations. "Grace of God." Then there's the mobile over her bed. I'm seeing a dog and a frog, both Beth symbols. And there's a stuffed rabbit in the crib beside her. 

That is part of the theme we've seen around Beth. We've seen baby rabbits/bunnies and baby carrots. Remember when Rick found a jar of baby carrots on one of the wolves while in the RV in 6x03 (you know, the beginning of Glenn's fake death?) I feel like we might be seeing the fulfilment of that symbolism here. 

7. Rick also sees a mirror. We could relate that to the mirror theory, but I also think it's a matter of looking at himself in the mirror and not liking what he sees, which will probably affect his mindset moving forward. I mean, he can't help but compare himself to this dude he just killed. He just offed a father trying to protect a daughter that simply MUST remind him of Judith. That's gonna be hard for him to deal with. 

8. Annd Morales! Check out MY POST FROM YESTERDAY about why Morales is great for TD. Other things I noted: We see a fishing pole and fishing nets in his room. And yes, the obvious reference is to Oceanside.

I also wonder if it’s another callback to S1. Remember in episode 1x02, Amy and Andrea (2 sisters, one of whom is the origin of Beth's scars) in a boat talking. I wonder if Gimple relied on that to build Beth's Oceanside arc at all. 

Directly after that, in Tell it to the Frogs, Rick and Daryl first meet. Morales plays a role in that first meeting. He's the one who "warns" Rick that Merle has a brother who won't be happy they left Merle behind. We have a lot of interesting elements coming into play here. Two sisters on a boat on the water, the episode where Morales kind of facilitates Rick and Daryl's first meeting, and Merle, who was left behind (which Daryl kind of went ape shit about) and presumed dead, but popped up alive and well several seasons later. Meanwhile, we now have Rick, Daryl, and Morales in the same building, with all these interesting Beth symbols hanging out around them. 

9. Finally, there's also a mirror in Morales' room. A lot of people are wondering why they brought Morales back as a bad guy. We don't know why in the plot; what he's been through that's led to him being a savior. But Gimple did hint at the arc in TTD. He said Rick isn't who he was in S1, and neither is Morales. I think they may be setting up a situation where Rick doesn't like what he sees in the mirror, and he'll see that Morales has become twisted and evil because of his experiences, and Rick doesn't want to end up like him. Remember that in the flash forward in 8x01, he said the line Siddiq said to Carl, "My mercy overcame my wrath." And that doesn't seem to be the case with Morales, so far as we've seen in this episode. 

Daryl's arc: 

Like Rick he climbed up an elevator shaft and the key thing was around him. 

1. @thegloriouscollectorlady also told me something interesting. She said she'd just re-watched Clear because we'd been discussing where Morgan's story line might be going this season. In this episode, Daryl mentioned that it made sense for them to keep the guns on the top floor because it was "Higher ground" and that's where he'd keep them. There's a LOT of talk in Clear and on Morgan's walls about "higher ground." Didn't TD always say those walls would reflect Beth's arc? We're really seeing all of this come together now. 

2. The other thing we saw with Daryl was him find what was obviously a cell used for someone else. The dog food was obviously a callback to his time at the Sanctuary and I’m sure reminded him of being a prisoner there. But here's the super-interesting thing. Daryl was never handcuffed in his cell at the Sanctuary. Here we have handcuffs attached to a bar and blood on them. That's a MAJOR callback to Merle in S1, not only being left behind, but cutting off his hand to escape. And once again, Merle disappeared when Daryl went back for him and showed up several seasons later. So we have all the stuff with Rick and Morales I mentioned earlier, and Daryl meanwhile getting reminders of Merle. Can't help but wonder who was actually being kept in that cell. Hmm. 

The other thing is that whoever was in those cuffs obvious got out of them. There’s blood, which suggests escape. The food left there may suggest it was sudden. There’s not a hand lying on the floor as there was with Merle, so it’s safe to assume the hand wasn’t cut off, but maybe just pulling the hand out of the cuffs drew blood. Either way, someone was left in those cuffs but improvised and managed to escape. Just like Merle.

So maybe Merle is alive and will show up any time. Hehe. Or maybe someone else who’s been heavily paralleled with him will. ;D

Other than that, not much happened with Daryl. He's one of the characters with the closeups, so he's entering a major arc or trial, as Gimple said. I just don't think we saw much of it here. The promos for next week do make it seem like that will be a Daryl-heavy episode. And remember that there was an 8 and a 3 behind him in the trunk in Still.

This is getting long, so I'll talk details and theme tomorrow. The day after that I'll do my TTD post. 

Let me close by saying this: I've had a lot of people express worry over the past few days who read spoilers and knew Morales was returning. They thought the 101 Days without an accident sign was significant for this episode and would mean something for Beth. Now it may not seem that way on the surface, but I think the meaning is there if you look. 

Gimple said the characters with the closeups would all "go through something" by the end of this. But these closeups didn't appear in episode 1. They appeared here. This is the beginning of those arcs. The 30 Days Without an Accident sign was seen in 4x01 which was the beginning of Beth's arc. Both were the beginning of something big and the fact that we can tie it back to Beth makes me think it's the beginning of events that will lead to Beth. 

It's very subtle, but then I think sometimes Gimple is subtler than even we give him credit for. So that's what I got for today. What did everyone else think?

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 53 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: None Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Snowbound

"So ... I have a question."

Rory glanced up from her paperwork at the sound of Kaaras' curious voice. She was huddled next to the big hearth in the main hall, using the other end of Varric's table to get up to date on everything she needed to read and sign off on.

A heavy snow-storm had descended on Skyhold, burying the courtyard in drifts three feet deep, and that was nothing compared with what the storm had done outside the fortress. Skysend was virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the plateau from up here, the drifts so deep that people had taken to carving tunnels through them rather than trying to shovel the excess out of their way. Thankfully, they'd only had one patient in the tents that were still serving as the infirmary for the time being, and he had been relatively easy to move to the armory. There were plans to restore the roof of one of the outbuildings next to the tavern and turn it into a real infirmary, but for now, they were having to make do. No one was doing any manual work until the storm had passed over them.

With nothing else to do, and a firm insistence from everyone around her to stay indoors and not do anything silly, she'd given in and set to catching up on her paperwork, though there would invariably be more to do once contact was reestablished with the city and the world beyond it. She wasn't the only one who had sought refuge in the hall - Cullen was working at a table near the dais at the far end, since their bedroom was now inches deep in snow and the tower itself too cold to work in. Blackwall had fled the stables when it became clear that Master Dennet and his people were going to barricade the doors and wait out the storm, and was even now polishing his sword with his pouch of silks for that purpose. Cassandra, deprived of her usual spot in the upper courtyard, was absorbed in her book, re-reading Swords and Shields, Vol IV, for the umpteenth time. At the other end of the table Rory was sitting at, Varric was going over his correspondence, swearing quietly to himself every time he had to add a note or sign his name to something.

They were all stuck in here together for the foreseeable future, at least the next few hours, and until the roads cleared, there would be no venturing forth from Skyhold, either. Unfortunately, that also meant that the expected guests would not be arriving anytime soon. Despite the fact that no mention had been made of it, Rory knew Hawke was on his way, and Evelyn's family were due to arrive any day, too. With luck, both parties had found somewhere to hole up until the passes cleared. She didn't want to think about Evy's noble parents stuck in a tent in weather like this.

"A question about what?" she asked, setting her quill aside as Kaaras parked himself on a stool next to the fire.

He glanced cautiously at Varric, and lowered his voice further. "How do you woo someone?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Rory stared at him for a moment, her mind caught up in manifests and supply lists. Then the penny dropped. "You mean courting?" she ventured, needing a little clarification.

He nodded, his snapped horn catching the firelight. The truncated curl had healed nicely in the month or so since Haven had fallen, the horn itself slowly beginning to seal over the delicate tissues left open to the air. He wore that break with pride, too, a sign of what he had survived against the odds.

"She likes me," he murmured to her, inching closer until he was leaning on the table, his head bowed toward her own. "At least I think she does. She almost said so. But she doesn't think I can give her what she really wants. She says she wants the ideal, whatever that is, and something about flowers and poetry and candles ... What is that about?"

Wow, that conversation happened sooner than I was expecting it. But then, in the games, that conversation depended on the Inquisitor completing a silly amount of FedEx quests, in Rory's opinion, just to trigger the cutscene. It made sense that Cassandra might bite the bullet sooner in real life. Faced with this question, however, Rory found herself drawing a blank. She just didn't remember all the ins and outs of Cassandra's romance. More than half a year without a refresher in all things Dragon Age, and she was starting to forget the important things that were going to happen.

"Look," she said thoughtfully, taking Kaaras' marked hand in hers, absently testing the tender flesh of his palm with her fingertips. "You've read Swords and Shields, haven't you?"

He frowned, shaking his head. "Dorian said it was garbage," the Qunari Inquisitor admitted awkwardly.

Rory rolled her eyes. "Garbage or not, it's got all the ingredients of the romance Cassandra yearns for," she told her friend pointedly. "It's got the larger than life hero - that's you. It's got the damsel in distress - that's her, despite all evidence to the contrary. Cassandra wants to be swept off her feet, she wants to be romanced. So what she wants is for you to prove that she's worth all the embarrassment of recreating a fantasy for. She knows it isn't like that really, but it's still what she wants."

"But why want something that she knows is embarrassing?" Kaaras pressed, deeply confused by the female brain in his experience. "What's wrong with just admitting she likes me back?"

"I ... have no idea how to explain it to you," Rory admitted, frustrated with her own lack of creativity here. "Ask Josephine? She has a better handle on where you can get all the things you'll need, too. And besides, you're already on the right lines. When Varric finishes that chapter, you can give it to her, and she'll know you consider her someone worth making an effort for. Believe me, Kaaras, you're going to have to put work into proving to her that you're in this for the long haul. If you're not, back off now, while you still have your testicles intact."

He winced just at the thought of that, but the message seemed to have gotten through. "All right, so I should ask Josephine where to get all the ... romance stuff," he muttered, apparently filing this away in the back of his mind. "And you'll tell me what to do with it, right?"

"If you can't work it out for yourself, of course I will," she promised, turning her eyes down to the glowing green scar on his palm.

Her brows knitted together worriedly - it was noticeably longer than it had been when he'd first fallen from the Fade, though not by more than half an inch. But still ... the Anchor was growing. That was more than enough to worry her, even without knowing where that growth would eventually take him. She seriously hoped that Solas was slightly less of a dick in real life than he was in the games. Maybe Fen'Harel would let his friend keep the arm, if it was possible. She hoped it was possible. Her fingertips stroked gently along the raised mark.

"Is it still hurting you?" she asked softly.

Kaaras' frown changed from confusion to annoyance as he shook his head. "Not so much anymore," he assured her quietly, his eyes on the tracing touch of her fingertips. "It flares up near rifts, and near those Veil artifact things Solas wanted us to activate, but I wouldn't say it hurts anymore. Maybe I'm just used to it."

"Maybe," Rory mused thoughtfully. "Still using the ointment?"

He fidgeted awkwardly. "I, um ... I ran out, in the Fallow Mire," he confessed with a guilty cast to his expression. "And then Haven was attacked, and you've been very busy, Ror."

"Kaaras ..." She sighed, rolling her eyes at him. "This is my job. You're not taking up my time needlessly when you have a need for what I can do. I'll get you some more of the ointment. The least I can do to help is keep that scar from splitting with all the rough handling it gets."

"Thanks, Ror."

It was strange, to see that boyish smile in a face that was already carrying more burdens than it had when they'd first met. But Kaaras was a good man - better than many - and he deserved some relief from those burdens. She hoped he would follow through on his courtship of Cassandra. They both needed a way to relieve their tensions, and doing it together would be a load off everyone's mind. With both warriors currently trapped inside with little room to spar, their ability to get annoyed was ramped up to incalculable levels.

"So, Varric ..." Kaaras raised his head, leaning along the length of the table to prod the dwarf in the shoulder. "Is your bird coming, or what?"

Varric winced, rubbing his shoulder. "Say it a little louder, I don't think Cassandra heard you," he complained, glancing toward the Seeker. Rory couldn't blame him - that relationship was a little more antagonistic than she had really expected it to be. "He's coming, all right? With friends, in case someone around here decides to arrest him."

Rory felt her interest suddenly peak. Hawke is bringing friends with him? Which friends? She let her ability to eavesdrop fade as she considered this question, ostensibly studying the page in front of her. Probably not Aveline, she's busy keeping Kirkwall under control. Sebastian's the Prince of Starkhaven, so he doesn't have the leisure to come along. Isabela's got a ship; I don't even know if Carver's alive; Anders is definitely dead. So ... oh, good grief. She had to hastily turn a laugh into an extended coughing fit. Merrill and Fenris. Oh, joy. It would be a miracle if Skyhold was still standing after that visit.

Her coughing, however, drew the attention of her husband from the other end of the room. Abandoning his work, Cullen took the length of the hall in just a few strides, snatching up a cup of water as he passed the longer table where the nobles were passing the time. Dropping to his knee beside Rory, he laid his hand gently at her back.

"Easy, sweeting," he murmured to her, apparently unconcerned that Kaaras and Varric had a first-rate view of his caring for his wife. "Breathe."

Blushing in embarrassment at how badly her cover-up was backfiring on her, Rory did as she was told, letting him guide her into sipping the water slowly. "I'm fine, really," she promised. "Honestly, something got caught in my throat, that's all."

He searched her eyes, a vague hint in his expression that he had noticed her deception but didn't quite understand why she wasn't being truthful. She smiled, leaning forward to brush her lips against his cheek, murmuring to him as she did so.

"I had a thought about Hawke," she told him in a tone carefully calculated for his ears alone. "I'll tell you later."

As she drew back, she saw the comprehension in Cullen's eyes, the suspicion fading as he stroked the flyaway hairs from her brow. "The sooner we get that roof fixed, the better," he admitted reluctantly. "I am not looking forward to bedding down in here with everyone else tonight."

"Oh, Curly, you're going to break my heart," Varric drawled, unable to let that go by without comment. "We're as much a part of your marriage as you are. We should get to experience everything with you."

"Yeah, we're not going to give you anything like that to write about," Rory interjected with a low laugh. The thought of even attempting to discreetly fuck her husband when they were sharing the main hall with a good third of Skyhold's population was, oddly enough, non-conducive to the creation of arousal.

"Not even a few sounds, so I can get it just right?" the dwarven storyteller teased.

Cullen scowled at him. "My wife is not fodder for your books, Varric," he pointed out sternly.

"Oh, give it up, Curly," Varric chuckled. "I've been writing about you two since it began. Just haven't published it yet."

"And you won't," Cullen told him, somehow managing to forget the cardinal rule when talking to Varric Tethras - never tell him he can't do something.

"And I might not, if something better comes along," was the dwarf's only concession to the commander's flaring temper.

Rory laid her hands gently over Cullen's. "Something better will come along," she promised her husband, raising a brow at Varric pointedly. "If someone gets on with his part of the deal."

"I'm working on it," Varric protested easily, glancing up at Kaaras, who was reading his manuscript over his shoulder. "Thought you didn't like romances, Beanstalk?"

The Inquisitor shrugged. "I might learn to like them?"

"Uh-huh. And the Seeker might learn not to believe everything I say," Varric grinned back at him, nudging the big man away from his elbow.

"Maybe if you were a little nicer to her, she'd be a little nicer to you," Kaaras pointed out, making Rory smile with how easily he came to Cassandra's defense.

She wasn't going to intercede in this conversation, though, even if someone offered to pay her. She liked everyone involved; she didn't really want any of them to decide they didn't like her, just because she defended the wrong person at the wrong time. Instead, she looked to Cullen, still on his knee beside her.

"I promise, I'm fine, love," she assured him. "Coughing a little does not make me an invalid. All right?"

"Take a break soon," he told her, drawing his gloved thumb over her cheekbone tenderly. "You've been at this table too long."

She raised a brow in amused indignation. "Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black, somewhat?"

Cullen rolled his eyes at her, rubbing his neck as he rose to his feet. "I am supposed to be joining Dorian in the library in a short while," he informed her. "I believe you should come with me."

"Oh, all right," she conceded with teasing reluctance. With the storm blowing outside, there were very few places she could go, anyway. "Only if I get to curl up in his comfy chair and read while you're both discussing the finer points of Tevinter literature."

The secret beauty of his hidden smile warmed whiskey-lit eyes as he looked down at her, squeezing her hand affectionately. "I look forward to the image that will present," he told her, as much a promise to make certain Dorian gave up that armchair of his for a little while as anything else he might have said.

As Cullen strode away, returning to his temporary desk and Rylen swearing over whatever it was he was reading, Kaaras grinned at Rory. "And that isn't romance, huh?" he asked in amusement.

"Not the way you need to know it, no," she told him with a low laugh of her own. "Go and ask Dorian to find you some reference books, you big baby. Then you can go and read with her."

"I might just do that." The Qunari rose to his feet, bending almost double to pat her midriff affectionately. "See you later, baby."

Varric caught Rory's resigned glance. "Let me guess ... he talks more to the baby than to you," he smirked, laughing out loud at the mild scowl he got in return.

"Anyone would think it was his," she admitted, her mood brightening as the dwarf's laughter died. "Mind you, in this place, I need never worry if the kid wanders off. You're all more excited about this than I am."

"Oh, I'm not," Varric assured her. "I'll read to it, but that's about it. I don't do babies."

"You know, that's actually pretty encouraging." Rory laughed softly, nodding to him as she picked up her quill once again. At least there was someone here who didn't look at her and instantly imagine the baby. She had a feeling that tendency was only going to get worse as the months went on.

And if she'd worked it out correctly ... she was going to give birth around the same time as the Inquisition laid siege to Adamant. Oh, yeah. Great timing, Rory.

[spudandemdotravels-blog]

Da Nang, Ho Chi Minh and Cu Chi Tunnels

Hello one and all!

So after our very wet stay in Hoi An it was time for us to move up the coast slightly to Da Nang. We put aside two nights for the city which was ample time to explore, and given the weather conditions we didn’t want to end up being stuck there for too long. Our first day was, unsurprisingly, pretty wet; although our journey was smooth and we had the first night in our pokey hostel room on our own. A good re-introduction to dorm life after nine days in our own place! Much of the afternoon was spent scoping out what was nearby, and catching up with people at home in local coffee shops, and we finished the day with eating local Quang My noodles with a selection of proteins: frog, eel, chicken and pork - delicious!

Thankfully the weather picked up the next day and it was gloriously sunny, so we explored as much of the city as we could. It definitely felt like the 5th biggest city in the country, but we had no idea that it was one of the main landing points for the American forces during the war until after we had left the city. We felt that Da Nang had a good amount of variation: plenty of city centre space with shops, bars and cafes but we also managed to get a bit lost in the local housing which towered three or four storeys with tiny alleys between them creating a huge warren of paths, but to the east a quieter ‘holiday’ area with hotels and resorts dotted along the coastline. The only criticism we have is that the eastern beaches have so much potential, but they were quite dirty mainly with plastic rubbish - a bit of TLC is required for sure. One of the main highlights of the city was how it lit up at night, all along the river front there is plenty to look at and in particular the dragon bridge which changes colour is quite a spectacle! In total we covered about 14km (about 8.5 miles) in our flip flops that day, which to be honest we are quite impressed with. Clearly our feet have got used to Asian living!

After a very rough night, we were happy to be flying south to Ho Chi Minh. To summarise our suffering, we both drank about three cups of green tea alongside a strong coffee at about 5pm, completely forgetting that we were caffeinating ourselves to high heaven. In addition to not being able to sleep that night, a girl in our dorm came down with D&V so she was up and down like a yo-yo,. To top it all off, unlike very few of the dorms we had previously stayed in, the bathroom was part of the dorm, not in the hallway. Now, I’ve already mentioned that the room was pokey and as a result the bathroom was very close to Spud’s bed. We shall leave the rest of our terrible experience to your imaginations.

Moving on, our flight went well and we were transferred to our accommodation in District 1 by a very efficient shuttle bus in about half an hour. Our hopes for better weather didn’t pay off so well and the heavens opened that afternoon, so we holed up in one of the many local bars for a beer or two before eating a fantastic dinner in the Secret Garden restaurant. To get to the restaurant you have to walk up an unassuming alley and then up through an old residential building that is still lived in, before you reach the rooftop where the restaurant is situated. It was quite an experience but once you came out on to the terrace of the restaurant, the atmosphere was wonderful - beautifully lit up with traditional lanterns and candle light looking out over the city, it set the scene for an incredible meal of: baby squid with fish sauce, minced pork stuffed lotus flower, fried mackerel in tomato sauce, baby bamboo salad and steamed jasmine rice - we were in our element!

That night we realised that choosing District 1 to stay in was perhaps quite bold. The whole area felt a little like pub street in Siem Reap, with huge clubs, strip bars, and people trying to sell you drugs all over the place. We felt like we were on the edge of a red light district as on our side of the street scantily clad Vietnamese women hung around in the bars, whilst on the other side of the street (mainly Western) men sat outside the cafes and small restaurants eyeing up the potential catch for the night. It was pretty seedy, but as now hardened hostellers we took it on the chin and slept pretty well that night (ear plugs are the best!)

The next day was a walking day and we covered a fair amount of the city centre. It is a great place to explore with a good atmosphere all round. We visited the the National War Museum which was a fascinating, if not graphic and extremely biased view on the American War. The day ended in the Bitexco building sky bar to watch the sun set. For the same price as a ticket to be taken to a sky deck two floors lower, we had our own table, two beers and live music to keep us entertained. Bargain! The sunset was quite spectacular and we stayed long enough to watch the city light up after dark. What a way to end our month in Vietnam.

All back in the same city for one day...Bry, Kyson, and a Frenchman called Laurent met us at our hostel early the next morning where we were picked up and taken to the Benh Duoc tunnels which are part of the Cu Chi complex. We had decided to avoid the Benh Dinh tunnels as we read that they were a bit of a tourist trap, and funnily enough full of tourists as a result! Benh Duoc was a great experience for us, however in our travels we haven’t ever come across such a biased view of previous conflict or political unrest as we did here. The tour started off what was essentially a propaganda video from the 60’s against the US army. We quickly realised that in this area, the Vietnamese were proud of the Viet Cong’s achievements, and they weren’t afraid to show it. We were then guided to the entrance of the tunnels and had our first taste of the confinement, however this was the biggest tunnel of the lot. In total there are over 250km of tunnels built over 40 years, on average the tunnels are only big enough to crawl through and dug in up to three levels deep. At the third level you would only be able to stay for 1 hour due to lack of oxygen! Emily showed no fear and was one of the first to climb down into a gun emplacement, the entrance to which you would never know was there unless the guide showed you. The ingenuity of the Viet Cong was amazing: they thought of every conceivable way of trapping and maiming the enemy with a variety of different traps (mostly punji sticks) and rigged entrance hatches. They even trapped their own tunnels but jumped over where they knew the trap doors were!

Our tour carried on through a hospital with an operating room, mess area that used an extensive chimney system to slow the release of smoke from the fires used to cook food, and a reinforced tunnel/cave for the upper echelons. Kyson and Spud went into one of the ‘resting’ rooms for commanders and quickly came out as there were at least 50 bats that were disturbed and started to fly into their faces. It was hilarious as Kyson got stuck in the room and Spud in the entrance tunnel as someone else tried to come down at the same time!

The day finished with a brief visit to the local shooting range (the boys couldn’t help themselves). Laurent fired an M14 rifle, and Spud and Kyson opted for the M1 Garand mainly because it was used during both WW2 and the Vietnam conflict. We couldn’t get over how loud they were, and equally couldn’t begin to comprehend just how loud the conflict zones must have been. That night we had our first Indian meal since leaving the UK. The food was great and we ended up having a few beers with the guys before saying our goodbyes as we were heading out to Indonesia the next day.

Next stop, Gill Trawangan, Nusa Lembongan and Lombok!

[borntorun75-blog]

30 Most Underrated Springsteen Songs: #26. Jackson Cage

The River (1980)

"You can try with all your might / But you’re reminded every night / That you’ve been judged and handed life / Down in the Jackson Cage!”

One of the lesser-known songs off The River, Jackson Cage takes pretty much all the desperation of Born to Run and insight of Darkness on the Edge of Town and wraps it up wonderfully into a nice, bite-sized package of catchy River-y rock and brings with it one of the best vocal performances of his career. More thoughts under the cut.

If someone wants to know what Bruce Springsteen is all about, play them “Jackson Cage”.

...I mean, okay, no. Maybe don’t do that. If you’re reading this post and don’t know Springsteen, go listen to the Born to Run album and then come back and tell me what you thought of it, positive or negative. Or if you’re reading this post as a Springsteen fan, first try telling them that no, no one song or even one album could possibly convey his strength as a songwriter because Nebraska and Born to Run and Tunnel of Love and Darkness on the Edge of Town and The Rising all such wildly different albums but they’re all amazing and so many of his songs no matter how good they are are even better within the context of that album and then that album is better within the context of his career and so if they’re interested they should really just check out all of his studio albums start to finish other than maybe Human Touch and while they’re at it they should listen to some of the best stuff off of Tracks because otherwise they’ll never get to hear Iceman and Roulette and they also need to at least hear the Christic shows and if they do all these things they really will thank you later, faith will be rewarded and all that, so hurry up and let me play Blinded by the Light because the sooner I do the sooner you can get to Incident and then everything off Born to Run and then everything off Darkness and oh man then you’re so close to getting to hear Atlantic City...

And then, if they haven’t walked away but still are foolish enough to not be interested in such a colossal commitment, and you can only play them a couple of songs? Well, okay, first things first play them “Born to Run” or “Thunder Road”, and also “Atlantic City” and “The River”, and maybe toss LOHAD in there too so they can understand Bruce fandom, you know? - but toss this one in there too.

And it - if you only get one song... and they’re, like, allergic to songs with “Thunder” in the title or something so “Thunder Road” is for some reason not an option - then, in that highly specific situation, fuck it: play them “Jackson Cage”.

The reason I say this is because, as I said in the description, this one song embodies a relatively large amount of what’s great about... if not Bruce’s entire career - because how could one song even begin to sum up 19 albums and countless outtakes across four and a half decades lol - at least the 3rd/4th/5th albums. It’s like a bite-sized Born to Run song. (And to be clear, the actual Born to Run songs are even better, obviously, but that’s beside the point.)

Any Bruce fan will pretty immediately, clearly recognize what this song has in common thematically with virtually any song off Born to Run or Darkness: like any song off Darkness, it’s an isolated “character” study of a person or a couple of unfulfilled people trapped in New Jersey (which could really be any unfulfilling small town in America [which could really be anywhere where you feel constrained by those around you because his songs resonate so universally]) focused particularly on feeling marginalized by other people who are better off, one that draws less on imagination and centers less on characters than it draws on Bruce’s direct observations of the world around him and centers on depictions of actual people and places he’s lived in and around (in this case, specifically, the suburb of Jackson.) Like I said - every song off Darkness. And like Born to Run, it takes those struggles that in the real world are mundane and indeed crushing specifically in their monotony but then makes them extraordinary and dramatic by using the scope of that destruction as its muse and casting aside the tedium of it all in favor of a breathless insistence that it not only can but must change and must change now or it’ll be too late. It takes the everyday observation of a Darkness song and combines it with the dramatic, heated passion of a Born to Run song... then it puts it all in the agreeable pop rock package and familiar, friendly verse-chorus structure of a River song.

And it’s for that final reason that I say this song represents multiple albums at once: this song draws from basically the same emotional well as a Badlands or a Born to Run, a Factory or a Thunder Road... but it demands far, far less of the listener’s attention in order to resonate emotionally, because it delivers it all in such a warm and simple package to where it still feels right at home in between Sherry Darling and Two Hearts. What’s interesting is that this song can really hit me on multiple levels: it doesn’t demand the extra attention of a Born to Run song, because I can tell at a glance that it’s a more serious song, that it’s an unhappy and pretty urgent one, and I can put it on and enjoy it solely in that capacity... but it still rewards that attention if it’s given: putting it on repeat now and hearing the vocals over and over, I fully realize just how much emotion there is to this song and how in that regard it really holds a candle to pretty much anything off of Darkness.

Essentially, unlike many of the other River songs, you can listen to this song very attentively and get a whole bunch out of it - or, unlike many of the Born to Run and Darkness songs, you can just put it on and get the gist without much thought. And that’s what I mean when I say it’s a bite-sized Born to Run song, or a Born to Run song in a much more accessible package.

Through all this, I think it’s absolutely one of the most successful songs on The River. Bruce has said that while he wanted The River to feel and sound like an E Street Band show (and so that’s where we get Sherry Darling, You Can Look, Cadillac Ranch, I’m a Rocker, Ramrod...), the album’s power came from its ballads like Independence Day, The River, Point Blank, Stolen Car, etc.

While I don’t totally disagree with him, I think this song is more effective than pretty much any song in either camp. See, if you just put Sherry Darling and Cadillac Ranch next to Point Blank and Independence Day, you don’t have an album of “Sherry Darling and Point Blank” mixed together into one cohesive mold; you have an album of Sherry Darling and you have an album of Point Blank and they happen to be next to each other; while they’re emotionally diverse, they do on some level lack any real unity. It’s this song that I think does the best job capturing the “E Street Band show” feeling and the emotional ballad feeling all at once - by taking the structure of one of the lighter songs on the album but injecting into it a lot more emotional power. This is the kind of song that really makes me respect The River more.

And so I’d be doing this song a disservice if I didn’t highlight some of what makes it the emotional song that it is. The assault of drums at the outset of the song immediately signals that it’s going to be a more serious affair than Ties, with its lighter opening, or Sherry Darling, which opens with joyous hollering and laughter. And lyrically.. most of the lyrics speak for themselves:

“You can try with all your might / But you’re reminded every night / That you’ve been judged and handed life / Down in the Jackson Cage” - I don’t think any other Bruce song does such a great job conveying, and conveying so clearly with no dramatic metaphors, the feeling of isolation that goes with coming from the kind of socioeconomic background he did - the psychological effect that being in a lower economic class can have when it makes you feel like you’re in a lower class of human being, when it makes you feel like you’re worth less. Those lines are absolutely brutal - take the kid from Mansion on the Hill, make him old enough that he understands why his dad drives him to look at the nicer houses than theirs on the outskirts of town, but keep him young enough that he hasn’t yet been hardened into numbness by the whole thing - and you have the person singing that first chorus, you have the person recognizing that they’re judged and handed life but still being deeply outraged by it.

"To settle back is to settle without knowing the hard edge that you’re looking for” - If you stop clawing and fighting to try to climb upward, you’re giving up on ever feeling better, on ever finding yourself in a better spot. This line provides two options: struggle or surrender. There’s no solace of finding comfort in your station in life; either you’re dissatisfied enough to keep trying to get out of it, or you’re... exactly as dissatisfied, but have just given up on ever trying to change it. There’s no acceptance in this song, only surrender.

“There’s always just one more day” - Repetition. Constant repetition. The days don’t blur together; every day is a fresh new defeat, a new opening of the wound. There’s always another day. “And it’s always gonna be that way” - Self-explanatory: total futility, you’re never going to find something better.

“You’ve been down here so long, I can tell by the way that you move you belong to the Jackson Cage” - Living in this town, being and feeling cast aside and marginalized, day after day and week after week and month after month and year after year, wears a person down to where their weakness and depression are visible. And the latter half of that line - you don’t live in Jackson; you belong to it. You’re less than human - you’re a possession, an object, and one who’s completely powerless.

"There’s nights when I dream of a better world / But I wake up so downhearted, girl"  - Again, self-explanatory. Absolute defeat. There’s so much vulnerability in these lines: it’s an admission of hope and of constant disappointment, each of which is as revealing as the other - an admission of helplessness and frustration.

“I see you feeling so tired and confused / I wonder what it’s worth to me or you / Just waiting to see some sun / Never knowing if that day will ever come / Left alone standing out in the street...” - ...ouch. This is where the constant cycle of raising one’s hopes only to have them dashed, over and over again, finally breaks the narrator and his love - where they finally give in to the permanence and hopelessness of their situation, where they decide not just that hope is futile, but that it’s not worth it, not worth the disappointment that comes with hope when that hope’s never fulfilled. That continuing to hope for tomorrow to be better, for the sun to break through the clouds, isn’t worth the daily heartbreak when that doesn’t happen. Their optimism is outweighed by their misery when their optimism is proven foolish time and time again. And so their surrender, their decision to settle, without knowing the hard edge they’re looking for, comes not just from a place of rational resignation but a place of pain, a place where hope itself becomes a pattern of abuse they commit against themselves. And so they abandon hope. And when they do...

"Til you become the hand that turns the key, down in Jackson Cage...” - God, this line is fucking brilliant. “You become the hand that turns the key” - I love it. This adds so much depth to the entire song: whatever older people in Jackson made the narrator feel more hopeless, convinced him that he’d never get out of the cage and looked down upon him for being optimistic... they did so not out of spite necessarily, and not because they’re bad people - but because they used to be him, and they know, from experience, that whatever hope he has of getting out or moving up is naive. It adds an utterly crushing feeling of inevitability, of endlessness, of cyclicity to the whole thing: what’s happened to this couple - the story of realizing what a bad environment and position they’re in, of hoping to get out, of having that hope being defeated over and over again, and eventually becoming hardened and bitter... it’s hardly unique. It’s as everyday as everything else - it’s what the people before them did, and the people before them, and it’s what those who come after them will do, too. Every single person in Jackson (in this song) goes through the same cycle of having and abandoning hope - it’s never-ending and their story isn’t unique. There have been and are and will remain countless others just like it. It’s just what happens, day in and day out - you wait to see some sun, you’re left alone in the street.... and you become the hand that turns the key - looking down upon people with the same aspirations you used to have, doing your part to keep up the same walls you used to want to tear down. And that makes the defeat all the more crushing - not just how common it is, how inevitable and never-ending a process it is, but how thorough it is - how in abandoning hope, you don’t just stop caring about the Jackson Cage; you start locking up the next generation inside of it, you start contributing to the same social divisions that you once rallied against and that broke you into the kind of hardened, uncaring person who would carelessly contribute to those social divisions. The defeat is absolutely total. In this song, everyone breaks, and when they break, they become the worst enemy of everything they once stood for. All because of this line.

And the vocals are utterly fantastic, too - the wordless ones in the intro set up the darkness of the song, his voice is both gritty and high-pitched in a reaally pleasing way that lies somewhere between Two Hearts and Crush (like a little more high-pitched version of the vocals from Out in the Street) - and most crucially, on some of the harshest lines, he fucking kills it, the raw anger with which he throws the words “You’re reminded every night that you’ve been judged and handed life...”, the fear and frustration on “There’s always just one more day, and it’s always gonna be that way”... There’s exactly the right edge to how he’s singing in this song, his voice sounds excellent - and the emotional delivery of a couple key lines enhances them perfectly.

The more I’ve listened to and reflected on this song, the more it’s grown on me. For as long as I’ve known it, it’s been my favorite of the first four songs on the album (well, really anything up to the title track; I just group those first four together); now, it absolutely eclipses them. I think the only song I’d put above this one is the universally adored title track, and even that I’m a little less certain on(!) after writing this post. (The other member of my clear and ironclad top 3 will appear later on on this list.)

The only reason I don’t put it higher is because I’m not sure this opinion is a huge stretch among diehard Bruce fans. It’s a lesser-known Bruce song, but among people who know it, it’s fairly highly regarded. Pretty much every time I see an “Underrated Springsteen songs?” discussion, this song is brought up a lot within it. So it’s fairly frequently considered a lost classic, and as a result of the fact that there are a non-insignificant amount of big Jackson Cage fans out there, I can’t rank it higher... but it’s still a definite deep cut, it’s not played live particularly often, and it pretty much only ever comes up when people are specifically talking about underrated songs - which I don’t think is justified, I think it needs to be mentioned right away in any song about the best Bruce vocals or the most emblematic Bruce songs or certainly the best songs off The River - but it’s typically not, so as a result, this classic is still lost and the song remains underrated.

[husheduphistory]

Deep Trouble: The Misfortune and Miracle of the Cherry Mine Disaster

As the Industrial Revolution arrived in the United States the idea of work greatly moved from the fields above to the depths of the earth below. Many facets of the new industries needed energy, and one source of that energy was coal. Buried deep underground, the process of harvesting this new essential crop was filthy, hot, dry, wet, backbreaking, and extremely dangerous. Workforces pushed for more and more coal and coal miners were not paid by the hour, but by how much coal they extracted from the earth. The hours were long and very often the blistered hands were young with entire families working in the mines in order to make as much money as possible.

A typical mining scene from the early 1900s.

With cramped spaces, poor ventilation, wood and rope mechanisms, and light coming from lit candles, mines were prime environments for tragedy. When the St. Paul Coal Company opened their mine in Cherry, Illinois in 1905 it promised state-of-the-art safety measures including electrical lighting and a building with a large fan providing fresh air down below. These features were probably appealing to the workers, in the mines of northern Illinois alone approximately half a dozen miners were dying on the job every month. There was still a long list of dangers but the Cherry Mine was hugely profitable, producing around 300,000 tons of coal annually, and the mostly Italian immigrant workforce accepted the risks in pursuit of a better life outside the mine.

The construction of the Cherry Mine included three horizontal levels with two vertical shafts, a main and a secondary, going through them at approximately one hundred yards apart. Both shafts had wooden steps and ladders. The top of the main shaft had an eighty-five-foot-tall steel tower that controlled a mechanical cage used by the miners to travel up and down through the mine. At the top of the secondary shaft, which also served as an escape shaft, was the large industrial fan building that provided the luxury of fresh air to the workers.

Layout of the Cherry Mine.

On Saturday, November 13th, 1909 the nearly 500 employees of the Cherry Mine arrived at a work site that was slacking on some of its promises. Although it was fitted with electricity the mine had been without power for weeks forcing the miners to rely on flaming kerosene torches for light. The day was progressing as usual and the workers watched the noon hour arrive, bringing with it a small reprieve from the labor. When the workforce returned from their break none of the souls on site saw any indication of the terrible turn the day was about to take.

In addition to the human employees, the Cherry Mine also ran on the power of three dozen mules, all of which needed to be fed. Six bales of hay were loaded into a wagon to be lowered down to the animals and when the hay arrived at the second level it came into contact with one of the many kerosene torches providing the only light for the workers. But, the resulting fire was small, so small that a number of miners walked right past it in order to ride the 1:30pm cage up to the surface and there was initially no mention of it when they arrived above ground. As smoke began to build the miners began to take notice and attempted to put out the still considered minor blaze, but the smoke steadily thickened, and the situation began to reveal itself as urgent. The eventual solution was to drop the cage with the flaming hay down to the third level where there were water hoses used to wash the mules, but the cage got stuck. Eventually the contents of the fiery wagon was simply dumped down the shaft where it was easily extinguished. What the miners further down in the third level did not know was that as the hay traveled down it had ignited all the wooden support timbers on the second level and the air flow from the fan was quickly fanning the flames. The miners on the third level noticed their air quality diminishing and they called for a cage to be lowered but got no response. After climbing the ladder 165 feet up to the second level they were met with a horrifying sight, the cage station was left unmanned and the passageway was ablaze.

Photo taken on November 13th showing smoke rising from the mine.

It took forty-five minutes after the fire began for the evacuation call to be made. Cages full of men began racing to the surface while others scrambled up the ladders but the situation was dire for those working down on the third level. At approximately 2pm someone reversed the large industrial fan on the surface in an attempt to suck air out of the mine and minimize the fire, but it only made the situation worse turning the mine shafts into walls of flames and cutting off an escape route from the third level. When some of the miners from the third level reached the second level above them, they found the ladders to the surface burning due to the air and flames being sucked upward.

Cages were repeatedly lowered and brought up filled with dozens of panicked workers, many of whom owed their lives not to other miners, but to Cherry locals who ran to their aid. A group of approximately one dozen people including the mine manager, a local grocer, and a clothier all volunteered to go down into the mine in order to rescue some of the hundreds of workers that were still below and quickly succumbing to the lack of oxygen. The men made six successful trips down into the depths but on their seventh trip down the signals coming back up to the cage operator were jumbled and nonsensical, eventually stopping all together. When the operator brought the cage back up all twelve people inside had been burned to death from being lowered directly into the fire. When the fire department arrived on the scene they were forbidden to go down into the mines and their efforts were reduced to pouring water down into the burning mine shafts. At approximately 4pm the assumption was that they had done all they could and the shafts were closed. There were still 280 miners left underground.

A group of miners who lost their lives in the Cherry Mine.

When Thomas White, Walter Waite, and George Eddy went to work on November 13th 1909 they had no idea what horror would befall hundreds of their coworkers that day. White and Waite were among a group of twenty-one laborers working in a secluded portion on the mine when Eddy, a mine examiner, informed them of the turmoil unfolding. The men rang for a cage to be lowered in order to escape but after getting no response they realized their unimaginable situation, they were left on their own inside the inferno.

The dangers of being left behind in the mine extended beyond the flames. Another killer lurking in the tunnels was Black Damp, a toxic mix of water vapor, carbon dioxide, and nitrogen that remains in the environment after oxygen has been depleted. The group of twenty-one miners attempted to find an escape route twice but both times they were beaten back by flames. Upon their third trip out into the darkness they encountered the dreaded Black Damp. This meant only one thing, the mines had been sealed and the oxygen was quickly fading away. With few options remaining the men collected themselves into a small, secluded area of the mine and began to build a wall of mud, rocks, and timbers to separate themselves from the fumes and flames. With only a few lanterns the men found themselves barricaded inside a small passage less than 500 feet long. All they could do was hope for a miracle.

Every minute spent in the passage was agonizing. The men had no food and their only source of water was a small trickle that crept into their chamber and had to be collected, guarded, and rationed. In order to pass along both the time, and what they thought could be their final message to family, the miners wrote letters. One penned by Eddy reveals his opinion that survival was unlikely:

Dear wife and children: I write these few lines to you and I think it will be for the last time. I have tried to get out twice, but was driven back. There seems to be no hope for us. I came down this shaft yesterday to help to save the men's lives. I hope the men I got out were saved. Well. Lizzie, if I am found dead take me to bury me in Streator and move back. Keep Esther and Jenny and Clarence together as much as you can. I hope they will not forget their father, so I will bid you all good-by, and. God bless you all. George Eddy.

The letter written by George Eddy to his wife and children while he was trapped in the mine.

While the miners sat hundreds of feet under the surface they had no way of knowing what, if anything, was being done in order to save them. Meanwhile, in a terrible parallel, no one on the surface knew if there was anyone left down below to be saved.

Given the newness of the mining industry the processes of how to go about a recovery after disaster were still in their infancy. The day after the tragedy, on Sunday November 14th , rescue chief Robert Y. Williams of the United States Geologic Survey (USGS) and George S. Rice, Chief Mining Engineer at the Technologic Branch of the USGS, attempted to enter the mines but the still-blazing fires were too strong for the men to enter. 

The Cherry Mine and volunteers the day after the fire. 

On Wednesday November 17th there was a discussion between Rice and A J. Earling, President of the Chicago, Milwaukee, & St. Paul Railroad. Despite the odds, Rice still believed it was possible that there were survivors in the mine depending on how isolated they were when working in relation to the flames. Inspectors fought the notion of treating the proceedings as a rescue mission, in their minds too many had died in the blaze and twelve more had already died attempting rescues. In the end one investigator said that it was his belief that the USGS inspectors should continue their investigation and Williams descended into the mine.

The air was noticeably clearer.

Over the course of the next few days Rice and Williams went into the mine and upon finding that the air was free of toxic fumes state inspectors began the horrific task of collecting the dozens of bodies that never had the chance to return home.

Saturday November 20th marked nearly one week after the Cherry Mine made the tragic turn from mine to morgue and for the twenty-one workers still trapped below time was running out. Some of the men spiraled into incoherent rambling, others crumbled in sheer weakness, and those who were still able to function knew there was nothing left to lose, they were going to break through the wall and go into the mine tunnels. Upon emerging from behind their handmade wall the healthiest of the men began moving outward in groups of four. To their relief and surprise they found that the air was no longer toxic, oxygen was back in the tunnels, which meant that someone had re-opened the mine shafts above.

After several hours of working through the tunnels a group of eight lost miners finally heard the sounds of salvation. Voices. A rescue party, led by Williams and Rice who pushed for rescue efforts in the days after the disaster, found the men and were quickly informed that there were more survivors that needed help. Rice was the only one on site who knew how to operate the apparatus needed to bring them all up to the surface. He trained volunteers how to use the device on the spot and by 1pm that afternoon the twenty-one miners were above ground, alive.

Image of the twenty-one miners being brought up alive.

To call Thomas White, Walter Waite, George Eddy, and their fellow workers lucky would be an understatement. The search continued but no other living miners were found. When the mine was finally closed for good the death toll stood at 259 lives lost leaving behind 160 widows and 390 children. Daniel Holafick, the oldest of the twenty-one trapped miners, was brought out unconscious and succumbed to breathing complications days after the rescue.

Investigation into the Cherry Mine disaster revealed a number of awful truths. The mine was called “the safest mine in the world” but the reality was that the construction and setup made it a deathtrap, especially for anyone working on the lowest third level. As stated by Rice privately “The escapeways were the most absurd arrangements that were ever conceived as far as concerns the third or lower vein.” It was also noted that the disaster could have been lessened, or potentially totally averted, if the mine was armed with basic firefighting equipment, fireproof materials in the mine shafts, and an escape route directly from the third level to the surface. Above all of this hung the fact that the mine was not being properly maintained and the reason the torches were there in the first place was because of a failure to fix the electrical system needed to supply light to the workers.

Worse than the revelations about building materials and lack of supplies was the discoveries about some of the people in the mine that awful day. It was determined that the Cherry Mine was illegally employing underage boys, at least nine that were under the age of sixteen, four of which were killed in the blaze. For this violation the St. Paul Mining Company was fined a total of $630 and they were further required to pay the families of the deceased $1,800 each.

 The reaction to the disaster from the public was a mix of shock, heartbreak, anger, and disgust. Appalled at the low amount of money being given to widows and their families, private donations were gathered and distributed while a review board was established to hear the claims from families and survivors in need of help. The following year Illinois passed its first Workers Compensation Act ensuring that families and victims of an industrial accident would never again have to rely on private donations for support.

In hopes of preventing anything of this magnitude from happening again the Illinois legislature strengthened mine safety regulations requiring parts of mines to be fireproof, that mines be fitted with firefighting equipment, and the establishment of state firefighting and rescue stations. The disaster also led to significant changes in how the aftermath of mining disasters was considered. The rescue after the disaster in the Cherry Mine was the first successful rescue mission of its kind and it opened conversations about the importance of rescue work after mining disasters, the need for proper rescue equipment and training, and procedures to be followed by the miners should another similar disaster happen.

Months after the fire attempts were made to recover bodies and fragments of lives lost in the mine. Due to the heat and air quality, some bodies were mummified, others had letters in their pockets bidding their families goodbye, but many were never recovered at all.

Property of the miners recovered from the mine. 

On May 15, 1971 the Illinois Department of Transportation and the Illinois State Historical Society dedicated a monument to the 259 lives lost in the Cherry Mine Disaster. A new monument was placed at Cherry Village Hall at the centennial of the disaster on November 14th 2009. Today the remains of some unidentified victims of the Cherry Mine Disaster lay in a mass grave alongside a memorial statue inside the Miner's Cemetery of Cherry, Illinois.

The Cherry Mine Disaster remains one of the deadliest mining disasters in American history.

Mass grave memorial stone placed for those lost in the Cherry Mine Disaster.

[rebornbluehaze-blog]

Dream of Awakening - (The First Lord)

Name: Teron Ar

Titles: The First Lord, Warlord Teron, High Lord of Ardora, The Foolish Leader, The Stone King

Age: Unknown

Species: Ardor

Gender: Male

Birthplace: The Steppes

Occupation: Warlord

Distinct Features: Taller than any human and most other species on Kerros, The Ardor are creatures of fire. Flesh of the color of fire, with the heat to melt stone. A body with metal armor that only covered the necessities and etchings that displayed his great triumphs and glorious defeat. He was the first of his kind, the perfect specimen that Father Fire could imagine with his power.

The Story So Far:

Lindor lead his small troop of acolytes through the final tunnel. It was the last one they hadn’t explored in the deeps below the ruins of Teradar and he was tired of running through the dark for a god who only gave him one command with no other follow up in the decades since. Lindor thought he should have given up by now, but what else would he do? Go back to being a beggar? He shook his head and kept slogging on. The tunnels weren’t cramped at least.

The group was trundling down the dark tunnel with his torch being the only source leading the way. Lindor had no idea how long it would keep going. If it was similar to any of his past explorations, then it would stay like that. He looked back and heard more than saw Herod complaining in the back as usual probably with Joran quietly listening. Anora was keeping pace behind just behind himself. After his customary check on their well being Lindor returned to his own thoughts. Lindor could remember what his life was like before he was singled out by the Tortured God. Living simply on the streets of Bapurisan, in the slums of Old Wall Gate with nothing to his name except a few thieving jobs gone wrong. Left with no one he could trust, he stopped doing anything even the Bapuri that monitored the area looked him over after the shooing aways failed. Then suddenly a vision in his head told him to seek out the Stone King. The vision repeated itself over and over and over until he was driven insane and did as it commanded. That was over thirty years ago and all it had done was lead him into a cave at the bottom of the world on and Island full of little black and red demons that hated trespassers. He wished he could go back now that he thought about it. He was brought out of his trance with a hand on the shoulder.

“Hmm?” he questioned.

“Looks like a dead end,” Anora responded, pointing. Lindor followed her finger to a giant wall that blocked their path. The light reflected off the flat surface revealing the black rock that dominated most of the tunnels underneath the old fire city. Lindor walked a bit closer to it. He examined the flat black surface with a feeling of finality settling in that he didn’t expect. This is it then, he thought to himself. He sighed, lowered the torch and stepped a little closer to get his last impression before leaving. Another trail ended.

As he stepped closer, the wall showed more details. They began reacting with the light, drawing it in as smoke through a chimney. Scratches and markings slowly faded into being with the light of his torch dimming. When he was as close as he dared, the light of the torch was little more than a used candle, but the wall glowed with a dim radiance to match the light before. Lindor looked down at his feeble source of comfort and closed his eyes. This really is it.

“Well, what now?” Herod asked, yelling slighting to echo in the chamber. “Do we turn back or what? I’m getting tired, we should head back to camp.”

“We don’t turn back,” Lindor answered, his old voice crackling. He coughed a few times then regained his composure.

“What else then?” Joran asked. “Is this what we’ve been looking for?

Lindor nodded his yes and moved to open what should be the doors to the Chamber of Fire. Anora grabbed his wrinkled wrist and pulled it back a bit. “We don’t know how long this has been here or for what reason,” her warning given in a soft voice, unusual of the well spoken woman. “We should test it first for traps and such.”

“It ain’t no trap,” Herod said. “None of the other ways had false doors and traps. This has to be it. If you won’t open it then I will.” Herod shoved Lindor and Anora back. Anora stumbled and caught Lindor as he started to fall to the ground. Herod placed his hands on the flat shimmering surface and pushed. His hand instantly denigrated, ash flowing to the ground like snow in the winter. The sudden absence of support startled Herod and he lost his balance. He fell toward the door, silent as he still hadn’t recovered from the loss of his hands. His arms and shoulder touched the door turning into ash as quickly as his hands did. The pain finally hit his brain and he screamed. Anora had to cover her ears from the sudden outburst that echoed fiercely in the tunnel. Lindor was frozen with shock watching the man fall to bits before him. Joran ran past them to try and catch Herod before his head touched the door. He didn’t make it. The screaming stopped with a jerking sound. Joran stopped when he saw the newest acolyte’s head disappear into the black door. The body kept its momentum and fell the rest of the way. The body fell until only the bottoms of the shins were left untouch, resting on the floor.

The three stood in silence for a few moments, the last of the echos dying down. Joran moved over to the feet. He scrunched his nose at the foul smell that permeated the tunnel. He kicked the remains off to the side and studied them for a few seconds. He shrugged then and turned to Anora “You did warn us,” he said, his expression controlled, not revealing anything. Anora had recovered and stepped up next to Joran. She looked at the remains as well and offered a small prayer.

 As they stood in silence over their fallen, a sound jolted the floor. They all wobbled on their feet, Joran and Anora holding on to each other for support, Lindor just barely handling himself. They turned back to the wall and watched as it split in half and swung inward, opening up the path to the inside. Lindor didn’t hesitate when he saw his destination. Thirty years of work paying off right at the end of his rope. He walked in almost wide eyes, even if only because of the deep blackness of the room.

The room was only dark for a few moments after Lindor walked in. A fire along the walls ignited to light up the large chamber. Pillars of gleaming metal held up the ceiling. A torn, burnt carpet lead his eyes down the center path that ended with a dias that presented two thrones. One large and ornate, occupied by a statue. The second throne was a smaller one with as much detail as the first, but empty with the top of the backrest cut at an angle, the top resting on the floor beside it. The chamber  was mostly empty with no tapestries hanging on the walls, no tables on the floor, no chairs to sit. Only the fire that lit the walls and pulsed from the pillars gave depth to the vacant auditorium. 

Lindor walked to the center dais to examine the statue that was his long sought goal. The six wide steps gave ample space for someone to lay down on before the next step up. The hard red stone that made up the floor and the steps reflected the light as a perfect mirror, almost slippery to the touch. He stopped at the first one to take in his moment of triumph. His long awaited achievement finally come to an end. His god would surely reward him for his dedication to the task. The possibilities ran through Lindor’s head until he saw the glowing start to flow into the statue.

Anora and Joran stepped up beside Lindor and watched as the fire crawled its way into the stone. The lines flowed like veins up to arms of the king that then jaggedly shot through the body to where a human’s heart would lay. It gathered there, pulsing faster with every breath Lindor took. The light it gave off changed from a dull red to white hot and the heat almost drove the three back, but Lindor refused to move, giving strength to his followers. Time seemed to slow down as Lindor watched the statue come to life. He felt that he knew what would happen, even if he never thought about it. It was right that the Stone King returned, just as the old tales said. Lindor knew he was meant for that moment and tears rose in his eyes as the stone started to shatter and break away.

The fingers where the first to released from their ancient shackles. Red fingers with steel-like metal casings around them but for the joints. They flexed when the stone loosened, allowing it to collapse with the movement. They balled into a fist and jerked up, pulling the arms free with a crack like a boulder shattering. Silver metal still encased the limb in the same fashion of the hands, but fire-etched lines detailed the forearms and biceps. The freed arms gripped the armrests of the stone throne and the body lifted as if a blanket were the only thing to hold down the ancient king. The rock fell away and a heat filled the room as though a brick furnace had been opened. The Stone King’s head was engulfed in flames that were captured by his metal horn crown. His broad chest was decorated with a metal chest-plate that detailed a large creature standing over a circle. The details grew smaller and more intricate as Lindor stared following the glowing lights that carved the scene. His legs were covered as the rest of his body, but his feet remained bare.

The King looked up and around until his gaze settled on the throne next to his. The fire that was his hair changed from its dark flowing red to an intense white. He said something in a language that none of the three could understand. It sounded as an inferno with a deep rumble that shook Lindor to his very soul. Lindor took a step back. The sound of his foot scrapping the floor reached the king and he turned to look upon the three humans that stood in his chamber. He said something again in that same language, but no one answered. Lindor stepped forward, presenting himself as the leader and tried to speak, but his mouth had run dry from the heat. Only empty gasps came from the frail old man.

The king watched Lindor struggle then walked towards the group. As he took a each step, the heat abated until the king stood on the last step, less than three paces away. He was a giant comapared to the three standing in awe of his awakening. Half again as tall as a man, his slender frame exuded power and strength with every line and crease of his muscles. The king held up a hand to stop Lindor from his failing attempts at communication and beckoned Joran forward with a hand. Joran hesitated and looked at Lindor for guidance. A flame erupted to the side of the chamber, startling all three. Joran looked back at the king, nothing given away by the large creature. Joran slowly stepped up and almost climbed the first step. A massive red hand rested on his head to stop him and a voice rumbled through his mind. Joran made eye contact with the King for a moment then he stopped. Even his breathing.

Lindor watched as his young friend stepped up, fearing what he did not know would happen. For that moment, nothing seemed to transpire, until Joran looked up to the red face and the glowing orange eyes. They locked gazes for a few second, then an explosion of hot ash filled Lindor’s eyes. They burnt and melted the skin it touched, but only for a heartbeat. Lindor and Anora screamed their pain and fell to their knees, their hands franticly trying to brush off the hot ash. A voice as deep as the ground filled the room once again.

“I would ask again who you are, but that man has given me those answers that I need. As a courtesy for me taking the life of two of your companions, I will let you answer another question he could not. Where is your Tortured God?”

Lindor struggled to regain his composure through the pain, but he slowly rose. He rested a hand on Anora’s arm, trying to calm her as well as give himself support. His eyes were watery, but he blinked them clear enough to make out the figure before him. The king’s face still an unknowable mask.  “I don’t know,” Lindor coughed, the pain still not entirely gone. “I was only told to find you and here I am.”

The king’s expression gave away nothing in the silence between his response. “Joran knew nothing of your single man cult until you found him and offered him a purpose. He was very suspicious of your motives up until that fool fell onto my door. Now you affirm his greatest fear that even you didn’t know what you were doing.” The king bent over slightly, looming over Lindor. “Would you like to know what Joran would say to you in this moment, Old Man?”

Lindor opened his mouth to give asnwer, but yet again nothing came out. instead another voice left his open maw. A high reedy voice that sounded as though it scrapped through ice to reach them. “Would you drop the theatrics Teron? You always were too dramatic for your own good.”

The king lunged forward and lifted Lindor from the ground by his neck. Anora couldn’t follow the movement and only recoiled when the heat from the king hit her. Lindor struggled off the ground, his feet wildly flailing and his hands reaching for his throat. He couldn’t make a sound.

A figure coalesced behind Lindor and Anora in a cloud of black and deep blue streaks. The figure was dressed in a long grey robe with a hood that shadowed his face. Holes and tears spotted the cloth in various places, showing wrinkled and torn blue flesh that looked rotted. “You still don’t know how to control your anger. After these long years of just sitting, you would think someone would gain a sense of how to accomplish that?” Teron dropped his prey and threw a wall of fire at the figure. The wall engulfed it, but nothing happened as the fire dispersed and the figure still stood. “It’s a shame really. I was hoping that you would have mellowed out some. That would make this much easier.”

“Why are you still here?” The king demanded. “Kayalah promised Father that you would be punished for the the remainder of days. Did that watery hag changed her mind after a few years as he usually does?”

“As you will be happy to know,” the figure said with a slight whimsy to his tone. “She didn’t. In fact I am still there right now. The pain is unbearable, so I decided to take a small trip through this poor mortal’s body. His mind is a dreadfully boring place, I should have gone with Joran or little Anora here.” His arm gesturing to woman frozen in place. Lindor had stopped struggling, his breath catching up to him. “Things have changed a great deal while you have been resting Teron. A new way of life has risen up in place of our old ways. I am more powerful now than you ever were against Goral and his legions. I just wanted you to know that before I washed you away like the rest of the dirt Kerros has allowed to live. If you don’t like that,” the figure disappeard then reappeared in front of Teron, “then come find me.” The figure left.

Teron stood where he was, unmoving, even when Anora and Lindor started towards the exit. They were almost out when they black doors slammed shut. Anora sobbed her terror with Lindor’s arm around her shoulders. “I gained much information from Joran. He was very gracious in giving it to me, but he did not hold all the answers I need.” Footsteps crept up behind Anora and she couldn’t hold back the tears. She didn’t turn around, her fear freezing her in place. She slowly dropped to her knees and Lindor sat down next to her. Lindor again rested a hand on her shoulder, this time purely for her. He turned to face her. Her once perfect skin was marred with red welts and burn marks. Tears streaked her face with channels through the ash and grime. She silently sobbed and held her eyes forward, not meeting his. Lindor felt the familiar heat as a hand touched his head. A voice filled his mind and then it faded away. His final thought before the end was how much this all felt right to him. He smiled then ash filled the air. A scream the last thing he heard.