#I was infinitely busy these past three days so I did hardly any drawing

[starfiresky]

❤️ “May your heart be your guiding key!” 🗝️

#please do not repost! #I was infinitely busy these past three days so I did hardly any drawing #but I it was good to take a little break! #kingdom hearts #art #kh #my art #digital art #sora #fan art #gaming #cute #artists on tumblr #kh1 #kingdom hearts 1 #illustration #keyblade #kingdom key #light in the darkness #I have never drawn kh1 sora! #so cutteeee

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

(Part 2 of yesterday's snippet!)

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. 

Luke had been so sure of himself when he'd entered the chamber. He knew what he had to do, and he knew there was always a chance that he would die in the attempt. But his friends -- no, his family -- were trapped in this facility, and Luke would not let them die.

Yoda didn't understand. He claimed to have watched over Luke all his life. He criticized Luke for looking to the future and not the present. 

If the present is so important, Master, if you can see so far, why didn't you see that Leia's been tortured by Vader before? How can you be willing to let her fall into his hands again?

No. Luke would never let that happen. His friend was more important than his training: he would never choose to let someone die for his own benefit. 

That's not the kind of Jedi I'm going to be.

And so he had chosen to fight.

But there was a problem. 

Darth Vader had chosen not to fight.

The man's presence filled the room like smoke, billowing and curling around them both as though it could cut off every escape route. Maybe it could. Luke was not foolish enough to believe that Vader was vulnerable, just because he refused to draw his sword. The Force was with him, after all. Corrupted, used for selfish purposes, but nevertheless a powerful ally. 

But Vader did not attack.

Again and again he admonished Luke for his aggression. A hint of scolding. A hint of fond exasperation. As if he were a teacher correcting a favored pupil. 

Or a fa-

Luke cut off the thoughts in fury. His enemy was underestimating him. Patronizing the would-be Jedi, so sure of his own superiority. 

This was not a Darth Vader he had seen before. Where was the cold pragmatism? The apathy towards others? Clearly it had been in play when he had harmed Han and Leia and Chewie. 

"I have no specific grievance against those you keep company with."

And that was worse. Infinitely worse. Everything he had done to his friends -- to Leia! -- and he didn't even have any particular issues with them?! If he could torture someone he didn't hate, what would he do to someone he did have a grudge against?

What will he do to me?

Now he walked down the stairs, ignoring Luke's lightsaber, speaking calmly as though he could pretend he hadn't just used sentient beings as bait to draw him here. It didn't work like that! He couldn't just make Luke drop his guard with honeyed words. Every child raised on Tatooine knew the danger of those who spoke sweetly and held a transmitter behind their backs. Luke wasn't going to fall for it and he wasn't shy about saying so.

"The jakreb learns to listen before he runs," his enemy quoted suddenly. He sounded amused.

That was an old saying on Tatooine. A proverb to teach children to watch carefully for signs of danger before making a move. There should have been no reason for Vader to know it.

None whatsoever.

I don't like this. Something is wrong.

Something plucked at his memories. A tickle at the back of his mind, like a spider crawling across his skin. Nothing concrete, but a nameless, formless, something. 

"The dragon who moves too soon is a dragon who starves," Luke shot back, a little rashly.

Another old proverb. Less about wariness and caution and more about patience. 

I know what you're doing, old man. You're the dragon. I'm the jakreb. So which one of us is going to move first?

But Vader kept walking. After all this, after the horrible things he'd done just to get Luke here, he was just...just leaving?! But that didn't make any sense!

“You want me to drop my guard, so you can kill me. Just like you did to Ben!” he accused.

He turned his blade to a more horizontal guard and stepped up to the high ground. 

If Vader was trying to lure him in close enough to run him through, he was going to be disappointed. 

“Luke.” Vader shook his head and continued to descend the staircase. Again his voice was sickeningly compassionate. “Obi-wan allowed himself to be killed. What his motives could have been, I do not know. He told himself and everyone around him such pretty lies that I am no longer certain that even he knew what his motivations were. But I assure you that whatever he did, he did so deliberately.”

The bottom seemed to drop out of Luke's stomach. There was so much anger hiding in those words. Maybe Vader didn't have a vendetta against Luke's friends, but it was very clear that he'd hated Obi-wan. But why?

Ben said that Vader betrayed and murdered his father. He said nothing about Vader betraying him. And he'd given no hint that there might be particularly bad blood between them. Did he just think it wasn't Luke's business?

But Luke knew that Vader was right about one thing: Ben had chosen to die at that particular moment. “To give us time to escape," he said defiantly. Lightsaber at the ready, he cautiously began to descend the stairs after Vader. "So we could destroy your Death Star! Worked out pretty well, Vader.”

“Indeed?” 

Vader glanced back over his shoulder at Luke, then stepped off the edge of the platform. 

What the kriff?!

He was leaving! Why? Was this room a trap? Would he activate one of those machines as soon as he was out?

Oh no way. Not a chance. You don't get to walk away from me, Sithspawn.

Luke scrambled to the edge of the platform in time to see Vader stepping into one of the maintenance tunnels.

“That is a topic for speculation, I believe," the rumbling voice echoed back. Luke definitely caught some sarcasm in his tone. "But for all the times your “Ben” betrayed me, it is fitting that in his final moments he unwittingly revealed you to me. Returning what he stole all those years ago.”

What.

The reverberating breaths faded out, and Luke stood at the edge of the platform. He tried to piece together what he'd just heard logically.

Had Ben stolen something from Vader? If the Sith wanted it, it was probably a good thing Obi-wan had taken it. Whatever it was. Maybe a weapon?

Luke's heart sank as he looked down at the brilliant blue glow of his saber. 

Vader killed his father. He might have felt that Anakin's lightsaber rightfully belonged to him.

What do I do?! This is my lightsaber! My inheritance. It's all I have of my father and I will not let him take that away.

Luke's emotions twisted around each other, bending back over themselves in a discordant jangle of mismatched rhythms as he tried to understand what was happening. The grip of the saber was slick in his hands. 

I'm…

No, no, I can do this.

I'm scared 

I can do this!

He was being torn in two different directions. Every fiber of his being begged him to flee. To not walk into what could very well be a trap. But at the same time, something down that tunnel was calling him. Like a cord wrapped around his heart, steadily pulling him to an unknown destination, he felt the whispers more than he heard them.

I'm scared. 

It's alright to be scared. I'm here.

They weren't words so much as sensations. Faintly brushing against his memory like a butterfly's wing, the whispers seemed to promise that everything would be alright, he just couldn't look back. 

Frightened, but determined, Luke clipped his saber to his belt and eased over the edge of the platform. 

It's okay. I can do this. 

I can win.

Just don't look back. 

The instant Luke stepped into the tunnel, the lights snapped on. He had a feeling that he was walking into a trap. But then, the place he had just left felt like a trap, too. 

Kriff kriff kriff.

Stupid jakreb hopped right into the snare.

There was a control room at the end of the tunnel. 

There was a Sith Lord at the end of the tunnel.

Luke had his lightsaber out almost before he had time to think. 

A grate slid shut over the tunnel mouth behind him, cutting off his retreat.

Well. 

At least he could see in this room.

"Put down your weapon, young one," Vader said again. He did not even turn away from the holographic map to face Luke. 

"Not. Happening." Luke bared his teeth and forced himself to take two steps forward. "You have to answer for what you did, Vader. To my friends, and the galaxy, and the Jedi...and my father."

Quite suddenly, Vader's shoulders fell. He leaned against the projector as if he were bone-weary. 

"Child, I have done nothing to your father."

He still did not turn.

"He is a contemptible, pitiable wretch, too quick to give his loyalty to those who do not deserve it. But he is a powerful wretch. Powerful enough to conceal your existence from the emperor for the last three years."

Luke stumbled back. His father's lightsaber hung by his side uselessly.

Present tense.

Darth Vader was speaking about his father in the present tense.

Anakin Skywalker. 

Present tense.

"You...you're lying."

No please, please don't be lying-

I can't…

Don't toy with me you sleemo

Don't you dare use my father's memory as a ploy-

At last, Vader turned to face him. "I have done what I can, Luke," he said simply. "But now we are out of time."

"I have done what I can"

Something cold and clammy slithered in Luke's gut. It knotted in coils around his spine to sink its teeth into his heart. Against his will, tears sprang to his eyes.

He knew Darth Vader was evil, but this was a cruelty he had not expected. The carefully laid trap, baited with words, and the insinuations eased between sentences, struck deeper than any lightsaber's blow. He played on the memory of Luke's father -- of his loneliness, his lifelong yearning for his father -- and twisted it. Perverted it into an attempt at manipulation so blatant it could hardly be believed.

Did he believe it was an attempt at manipulation?

What if it was worse? What if Vader actually believed what he seemed to be implying? Pointing out how illogical it was could quickly become dangerous. But Luke was past the point of caring.

"You...you aren't half the man my father was!" he hissed. 

Something bitter and almost amused dripped from the Sith to puddle around Luke's fear.

"An ironic statement."

"You don't know me!" Luke continued gamely on as if he had not been interrupted. "You think you're the first person to play mind games with my memories? Huh? Kriff you!"

He swung the blade up in a ready position. 

Darth Vader tilted his head to one side, considering.

"This is not going to go the way you think."

The spiders were back, creeping across his brain. Luke blinked and shook his head to clear it. Losing his focus here would be fatal.

"Don't fight it."

Vader raised a hand towards him, almost reaching out. 

"You have been running for a long time. It is alright to rest, now."

Was the Sith doing something to his mind?!

But Ben said mind tricks only worked on the weak-willed! And Yoda was always complaining about how stubborn he was!

"Get out of my head!" Luke shouted. Don't panic, don't panic-

"It is not me." 

Oh, gentleness did not sound right coming out of that voice.

"You have forgotten who you are, and yet from our first encounter your memories have tried to reestablish themselves. Stop fighting them, Luke. Let them flow."

Luke stopped pretending he wasn't afraid. He was terrified. He was alone in an isolated place, too far away to call for help, and trapped with a deadly enemy who meant to prey upon his very sense of self. 

His hands were shaking too badly to hold up his father's blade. This was so stupid, he was so stupid, he never should have come here! He had to get out, there had to be a way out!

Luke scanned the room frantically for an exit. He backed away from Vader and edged towards what looked like a corridor. 

"Luke."

"No!" 

Luke stumbled over a bundle of cables on the floor and nearly fell. He managed a graceful recovery despite his terror and kept moving.

"Stay away from me!"

Vader did not. He began to move at last, slow and purposeful and relentless. 

The Force moved around them like a frigid tide, pulling machinery from the walls to land behind Luke. He was cutting off his escape. The trap had been sprung.

"Stop running, Luke."

"Leave me alone!"

He was pleading now.

All sense of bravado, of dignity, had fled.

Obi-wan was right. I'm not ready. I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die-

If Leia lives, it's worth it

But I don't-

I don't want to die

And then at last, he could go no further. His calves caught on some discarded hunk of metal, and toppled him. Sharp, broken pieces dug into his back as he landed. The pain felt distant, like something that was happening to someone else. Luke's increasing disorientation muffled everything but his fear.

This was the end. Luke, on the ground at Darth Vader's feet. If the encounter didn't end in immediate death, his interrogation was likely imminent. 

But Vader 

Knelt.

He kneeled down beside Luke and rested his gloved hand on Luke's cheek. Luke was very sure that his heart was going to stop.

Oh. He's going to snap my neck. At least it'll be quick.

"Enough, child." A deep bass growl vibrated through the words. He sounded as though he was finally angry. "I am not going to kill you!"

Before Luke had time to process that, he added, "I am trying to save you."

Save me?! From what?!

Luke swung out with one arm, trying to push the dark lord away. Vader caught his wrist easily and squeezed it. 

"You know me." Each syllable dripped with an unexpected urgency. "Search your feelings: you will know it to be true. Remember, Luke. You must remember."

"No!" Luke tried in vain to pull away. "S-stop!"

He was pulled, gently, but firmly, up into a sitting position. 

He was pulled, less gently, by the thread around his soul. It reached out, straining for something it had once known. A sense of something missing. 

A sense that was being answered in kind.

And he felt something. Something he had felt before. 

Or rather 

Someone.

Luke knew the answer to the question his soul was asking. 

He didn't want to know. 

He didn't want to face it. 

No, no please-! 

"You have forgotten what you once knew," Vader murmured. "You have forgotten me. And I- I believed you had died."

Seething shadows coiled around them both. 

"The Emperor will suffer no Skywalker to be free. If he is not entirely beneath the emperor's thumb, then he must die. If you lived, his hold on me was jeopardized. Luke, he told me you were dead. But here you are, alive again!"

Skywalker. 

Vader was referring to himself as Skywalker. 

The Force resonated. A great bell seemed to have tolled, and with each reverberation the jagged pieces were forced together. 

Darkness and Light.

Hunter and quarry. 

Lost and found. 

Father and son.

Luke could not see through his tears. He didn't need to. He could feel. 

The Force was no longer a counterpoint around them. It was a harmony. And that was the hardest truth of all.

Shhh, you are safe. I'm here, I'm here.

The same soundless lullaby that had soothed his childhood nightmares. The thing he had forgotten.

His father's voice. 

I know you. 

"Oh." Darth Vader lifted him free of the machinery as easily as if he were still a little child. 

He pulled Luke into his arms. Luke did not have the strength to resist.

“There you are.”

#Free Day Thursday #star wars wednesday #star wars au #bespin au #esb au #darth vader #luke skywalker #fic prompts #writing prompts #Luke is Not having a good time but hey he doesn't lose a hand #sneaky Mufasa references Because I Can #look if a human baby can know and recognize their parents' voices before birth and you add Force Weirdness to that #then not only do you get a plausible explanation for Leia having memories of her mother #you also have the possibility of Luke recognizing his dad's Force signature

[takingcourage]

Additions: Part 3

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 5,050

Summary: As the school year begins and tensions mount, Jaime and Arden start to wonder if they might be out of their depth.

Note: This chapter has been fighting me for the past two weeks, probably because it represents the true low point of the story and I hate making these characters suffer. While it’s not going to be completely smooth sailing from here on out, I can assure you that things will be better in Part 4. 

Warning: This section contains references to childhood depression and self-harm. There’s nothing graphic or gratuitous, but the mentions may still be upsetting. Please read at your own discretion.

August, 2027

“You keep spacing out over there. Should I be concerned?”

Smiling coyly, Arden glanced up from her carton of stir fry. Jaime sat across their dining room table, a half-eaten spring roll held between his fingers. It was the first time in days that she’d actually taken a proper look at him, and she was a little disappointed that she couldn’t do more than just look.

In seven years of marriage, his appearance had remained relatively unchanged. His eyes were still thoughtful and kind, his hair thick and just unruly enough to be perfect without him having to try. Maybe it was just his glorious golden tan skewing her perceptions, but she could swear that becoming a father had made him infinitely more attractive.  

Probably just wishful thinking since I don’t have him to myself anymore, she mused, meeting his inquiring eyes with decision. “Can’t I enjoy having a lunch date with my husband?”

His demeanor warmed. “I’ve kind of missed having time for just the two of us.”

“Me too. If these monthly meetings mean getting some of that time back, I’m all for them.”

She knew neither one of them would choose to change their circumstances. Having time together with the kids meant the world to both of them, but it also meant that things were different.

“These days, I feel like I’m lucky to get ten minutes alone with you before we go to bed.” Jaime chewed his last bite of spring roll contemplatively. “And even then, we’re usually talking about the kids.”  

“I know. By the time we make it to our room, we’re so exhausted that there’s usually just enough time to exchange a few sentences before we pass out. It’s not like we have time for a lot of conversation…or anything else.” Arden stretched a leg toward him, gently toeing his bare shin.

His eyebrows raised at the contact, but there was a sparkle of humor in his deep brown eyes. “Maybe we should start having these meetings more often?”

“I’d love to, but with all the projects you have slated for the rest of the year, I don’t think it’s very feasible. But we’ll keep finding ways to spend time together, I’m sure.” With a wink, she straightened back into her seat. “Besides, that’s not what we’re here for now anyway. We’re supposed to be comparing notes and making sure we’re still on the same page about parenting.”

“So we are.” In spite of his jocular tone, she knew he hadn’t forgotten. “All right, getting down to business.” He pulled a notecard from his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it between them on the wooden surface. “Question 1: What are your highs and lows of the first full week of school?”

Arden took a long sip from her glass of water. They’d prepared the questions beforehand, so she’d known exactly what was coming, but it was still difficult to separate the events of the past five days into those two extremes.

The week had been filled with so many little triumphs, from Sophia making band to Alex finally waking up on his own without needing a full half-hour of reminders. But in the end, one stood out.

“I think my high was getting that email from Will’s teacher. He’s a social guy at home, but I was afraid that he might struggle to connect with with kids in class. Hearing that he’s been making friends was really heartening.” Jaime’s lips parted, and she paused to let him speak.

“I especially liked what she said about him seeking out the shy kids during recess. He reminds me a lot of someone I knew when I was about his age…” Jaime’s voice trailed, but he ended the sentiment with a meaningful nod. 

Arden smirked at his suggestion. “Maybe we should pack some ice-cream bars in his lunch?”

“That might not be such a bad idea,” he said with a low laugh. 

Eyes crinkling affectionately, she shook her head and fished out another bite of vegetables. Despite the momentary diversion, she knew they needed to get back to the other half of his question. “Now for the hard part. My low was…Alex’s attitude about school and his refusal to talk about it. I keep hearing his thoughts about how stupid it is, but I can’t ask him anything pointed unless he actually tells me out loud.”

Jaime pinched his entree open with a sigh. “I think that’s probably mine too. He keeps shutting down whenever I try to talk to him about it. I keep hoping it’s just the adjustment period and he’ll find a new routine, but…”

But they both knew his history was discouraging. Though they’d decided long before the kids ever came to live with them that their case files weren’t going to define their expectations, it was impossible not to see the similarities between their own experience and what had come before. 

All three of Alex’s previous foster families had reported problems with managing anger, along with some variety of troubles in school – missing assignments, incomplete tests, refusing to speak in class. Though this year was off to a rough start, they still hoped to finally break the mold. 

“So what do we do moving forward?”

It was hardly the first time they’d posed the question to one another, but brilliant solutions were few and far between. For several seconds, Jaime stared at the wall behind her head, his thoughts indiscernible. “I think we just keep doing what we’ve been doing -- we deescalate when he’s upset and encourage him to talk about what’s bothering him. We have to get through to him eventually.” 

“I just wonder if there’s more going on,” Arden ventured. The half-formed thought had been stewing in her mind for a while. “I think he’s more scared than he is angry.”

“I’ve been getting that sense too. Starting in a new school is tough -- I remember. Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to him about it soon.”

“It might help,” Arden encouraged. “He might share more if he knew what you’ve been through.”

"I hope so.” His smile returned, clearing the worries from his face. “Anyway, my high was Sophia asking me to help with that question on her homework last night. You were right there, so it’s not like we were alone or anything, but it’s one of the only times she’s initiated conversation with me.”

Arden still remembered the sound of Jaime’s jubilant thoughts as he’d read the problem over Sophia’s shoulder. Even just recalling it to memory sent a fresh wave of shivers over her shoulders. “You’re bonding with our daughter over math homework, Jaime. Who would have thought we’d be saying that a year ago?”

He shook his head with a half smile. “It’s finally starting to feel kind of normal. Not quite there yet, but I feel like we’re really close in a lot of ways.”

“I think so too.”

“And I have to say, I think we’ve been doing a pretty amazing job with them so far.” 

So far. Behind her smile, those two words lingered like a bitter aftertaste. As much as he’d intended them as an encouragement, Arden longed for the day when such compliments no longer came with conditions. 

_____

September, 2027

Arden tossed in a dishwasher tablet, sealed the door, and pressed start. For a moment, she stood in front of the noisy appliance, giving her mind a rest before she could start questioning why the other end of the house was so quiet.

Twenty minutes ago, all three kids had assured her that they were working hard at their studies. For her oldest and youngest, it wasn’t difficult to believe that they were still on task. For Alex, it was a completely different story.

Much as he hated being told what to do, he needed frequent reminders to continue working. The number of times she’d walked in to find him doodling in the margins when he was supposed to be reading was alarming. Thankfully, between the thoughts she overheard and her ability to read his body language, she could typically walk the fine line between motivation and bringing him to the point of anger. 

She’d never seen a child so hostile to any kind of instruction. They were only a month into the school year, but she was already convinced that the child’s teacher must be a literal angel to put up with his stubbornness for so much of the day.

He’s probably drawing again, she determined as her husband’s sure step broke through the after-dinner lull. Coming from the garage, Jaime met her in the hallway, a pair of lightbulbs in his hand.

“Are those for the upstairs bathroom?”

“They are.” He kissed her cheek before poking his head into the empty dining room. “The kids?”

“Alex is in his room. Will’s upstairs with Sophia, working on some vocab. She finished her homework before we ate.”

“Even exponents?”

“She’s got the hang of them now.”

Their daughter’s light tread came tripping down the stairs at that moment, her body a blur as she flew through the hall.

“Looks like she’s keeping both of them on top of their work,” Jaime commented when Sophia disappeared into the boys’ room.

“I should probably check in,” Arden suggested. “Make sure she’s not bossing him around too much.” She caught her husband’s attention once more before he mounted the stairs. “While you’re up there, could you tell Will that I’m ready to work on social studies whenever he is?”

With a nod, he continued his climb. As the sound of his steps faded, her ears detected a far different noise coming from Alex’s room -- a noise that sounded very much like ripping paper. 

That can’t be good.

Picking up speed, she crossed the threshold just a few seconds later. A pile of roughly torn half-sheets from a notebook lay on the floor before her. Examining the scene, Arden was vaguely conscious of Sophia’s feeble attempts to retrieve them, but what stood out to her more than anything was the florid coloring of her son’s face.

“I told you to leave me alone!” he shouted, pushing a stack of school books from his desk to the floor.

Sophia sidestepped in time to avoid the collision, but Arden still winced when they hit the floor. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Let’s take a deep breath and calm things down in here,” she began, determining that it was probably best to insert herself into the confrontation before the things went any further.

“He needs to finish his homework so he can pass and not get held back another grade,” Sophia summarized. “He can’t keep doing this!” 

The hint of piety in her tone grated the entire length of Arden’s spine. Even though she found herself agreeing with her daughter’s assessment, it was all-too evident that the accusation wasn’t going to do Alex any good.

That child was still seated, his heaving chest and white knuckles providing a glimpse of just how much frustration he’d been bottling up. If the objects on the floor were any indication, his anger had started to spill over. 

“You’re not my boss!”

Arden swallowed hard. She knew these moments were important – that she needed to make it clear that she was the parent and that they couldn’t just make rules for themselves. But the emotional tension was almost paralyzing. She could hardly think, much less find a solution to the conflict brewing in front of her. 

Still, she had to do something.

“Okay,” she started, still trying to gauge the situation. “It’s obvious that you’re both upset right now. I think it’s best for us to all take a few minutes to calm down before we try to work through this. Sophia, you can come with me to the living room. Alex, we’ll let you have some space and be back in a little bit to sort things out.”

…to the docks…

Arden raised a quizzical brow at her son’s arbitrary thought, but pressed on. “We’ll come back in a few minutes,” she reiterated, hoping that the reminder would get him help to calm him. 

Passing through the hallway, she checked the lock on the front door. As far as she knew, he had no history of running away, but his thought about the docks had left her unsettled. She wasn’t taking any chances.

_____

Jaime sauntered down to the main level of the house a few minutes later, expired lightbulbs in hand. By the time he located the proper recycling box and returned from the garage, his wife was waiting in the doorway.

In hushed tones, she filled him in on what had passed while he’d been upstairs. Feeling almost guilty for the time he’d spent joking around with Will, he was determined to pick up the slack in handling the aftermath.

“I’ll go and talk to Alex,” he volunteered, rubbing his palm over the line of his jaw. “I’d like to figure things out with him before we bring Sophia back into it.”

“Thanks. Good luck.” 

Making his way to the open bedroom door, he rapped a finger on the wood before pushing it the rest of the way. As the door swung wide, the first thing he noticed was that the room was empty. The second was that the window was wide open.  

"Alex?” His heart sank even before the word had left his mouth. This can’t be happening. 

Both girls came running at his elevated voice, quickly coming to the same conclusion that he had on seeing the scene.

Jaime didn’t waste time searching the room, instinct telling him that the boy had run from the house. All that mattered was finding him as soon as possible.

Arden’s small wave attracted his attention. When he looked to her, she mouthed a single word: docks.

“I’ll help!” Sophia offered, voice cracking under the pressure of tears. “He gets this way when he’s really upset, but I can usually calm him down.”

With a hand to his daughter’s trembling shoulder, Jaime inclined his head to look her in the eyes. The glistening pools flicked up to his for less than a second before falling back to the papers on the floor.

“Sophia, I know where to find him, and I’ll do everything I can to calm him down myself. For now, I think it’s best for you to stay here with Arden and Will,” he proposed, squeezing her shoulder gently.

“Okay,” she relented, though he could tell from her sigh that she was skeptical about his plan.

Can you explain it to her? he asked his wife as he slipped through the door.

At her nod, he started for the lake.

It seemed unlikely that the boy was in any real danger, but that didn’t stop Jaime’s heart from hammering harder with every step he took through the deepening twilight. Threat or no threat, he needed Alex to know that he wasn’t going to face anything alone.

He relaxed his pace on seeing the small figure at the end of the dock, but he was still breathing hard by the time he made it to the boy’s side.

His son was seated at the corner of the deck, eyes shining with a defiance that Jaime had seen more times than he could count. This particular display of anger would have worried him far more if his son wasn’t sitting with his chin tucked into his knees, curled smaller than he’d ever seen him.

Every part of his consciousness was screaming for him to bundle the boy up in his arms, hold him tightly, and promise that he was never going to let him go. Better judgement was all that held him back.  

“Hey,” he started simply, making sure the child was aware of his presence.

Alex ignored him, teeth ground in frustration.

With a deep breath, Jaime lowered himself beside the boy, careful to maintain several inches of distance between them. He looked him over again, catching a glimpse of the sunset on a series of haphazard lines along his forearm. 

Leaning closer, he could see that they were scratches. No blood had been drawn, but there was no mistaking that they’d been made by a set of fingernails.

Instinctively, his eyes jumped to the boy’s hands. Jaime’s stomach churned. No explanation was good, and he knew with absolute certainty that the marks hadn’t been there during dinner. 

He found himself wishing for Arden’s abilities -- for any advantage that could help him in the conversation that lay ahead. 

“Alex, we need to talk, bud,” he started gently, almost relieved that his son still hadn’t worked up the courage to look him in the eyes. Staring out at the water was easier for both of them. 

The boy’s only reply was a noncommittal, “Hmph.”

When Jaime looked at his face again, he couldn’t help noting the deep set of his brow. Arden was right. There was something more to this than just being angry. 

Whatever it was that plagued his son, this was probably the best opportunity he’d get to help sort it out. Adrenaline pumping, he launched in. “Alex, I know that sometimes running away from problems seems like the best way to solve them, but it usually just makes things worse.”

The child’s hands shifted, the fingers of one hand trailing up and down the series of angry red lines on his arm.

Jaime counted through several long breaths, hoping that Alex would take initiative to break the awkward silence. “Could you tell me what upset you tonight? If I have to try to guess, we’re going to be out here a long time.” 

“I hate school.”

“Did something happen today?” he pressed further. They’d known that the transition to a new school would be challenging, but nothing they’d seen in the first three-and-a-half weeks had given any particular cause for alarm.

“It’s just stupid and I hate it.”

Trying another tactic, Jaime delved into his own past. “I hated school too when I first moved in with Paula. I came to live with her toward the end of the school year, so I didn’t know a single person in my class. I spent the whole first month arguing with her every morning before I got on the bus.”

Alex didn’t say anything, though his grip on his knees loosened almost imperceptibly.  

“She always made me go, so one morning, I hid under the bed so she couldn’t find me.”

“Did she?” His voice was soft, but curious.

“She did.” Jaime shifted to straighten his legs, propping both arms behind him. His stomach was almost sick with the desire to keep his son talking. “And you know what she said?”

“Huh?”

“She told me that I was a superhero.”

Confused, Alex lowered his knees and crossed them, head inclining away from the water for the first time since Jaime had arrived. 

From the corner of his eye, He could see that the boy’s eyes were on him. “She told me that feeling upset could be a superpower, but that I wasted all of its potential when I let it control me instead of being the one to take control. Then she drove me to school and told me to try using my frustration to be the best second-grader I could be.”

Jaime monitored his response, catching the sneer that came over Alex’s features. He didn’t need Arden’s powers to know that the boy was unimpressed.

“I know, I know. It was cheesy. I realized that at the time too, but I wanted to prove to her that I was stronger than those angry feelings. In the end, her advice actually helped.”

Alex rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

“Look, I don’t want to make assumptions, but it seems like some of your feelings have been getting control of you too. Can you tell me what’s been happening?”

“I got angry. Couldn’t help it.”

“What couldn’t you help?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean throwing your books and running away?” He didn’t even want to give voice to his other suspicion. “Hurting yourself?”

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t help it.”

“Can you tell me what upset you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure? Did something happen at school? Was it something Sophia said?” He asked the questions at measured intervals, allowing the boy ample time to respond. When his answer finally, came, the harsh edge in his voice left no doubt in his mind that the conversation was over. 

“I said I don’t know.”

Drawing a ragged breath through his nose, Jaime stared out across the water. There was only so much he could do. It was eminently clear that his son wasn’t interested in sharing any more with him at this point, and pushing him further wouldn’t end well for either one of them.  

Conscious that the rest of his family had been left in a state of upheaval, Jaime determined that it was in everyone’s best interest for them to return home. The matter hadn’t been resolved, but there was still one final reminder he could offer the boy.

“Alex, I’m not sure how to help you right now, but I want you to know that you’re not going to have to deal with this on your own. We’re going to figure this out together, okay?”

The child gave no verbal response, but he joined Jaime in standing and returning to the house.

_____

Two hours later, Arden opened their bedroom door to find Jaime sitting motionless on the bed. They’d parted ways shortly after saying their goodnights to all three kids in the boys’ room.  

With the teary reunion that had occurred when Jaime returned with their runaway, it was little wonder that Sophia had insisted on sleeping on the floor between her brothers. The three of them shared a bond that was unlike anything Arden had ever known as an only child. For her own selfish reasons, she was grateful for the arrangement. Knowing Sophia would keep an eye on things made it all the more likely that she and Jaime could find some rest during the night. 

“I just got off the phone with the caseworker again.” She joined him at the end of the bed, legs close enough feel his presence even without actually touching. “She said we did everything we could.” The words felt as hollow as the sentiment behind them. 

Jaime’s hand slipped into hers, and she gave the clammy fingers a reassuring squeeze. 

“Anyway, I was hoping we could talk for a minute. I wrote up most of the incident report while I was talking with her, but there’s still time to add more details before I send it until tomorrow. Is there anything I should put in based on what happened at the docks? Did he tell you anything?”

“No, I just made things worse.” 

Unaccustomed to the defeat in her husband’s tone, Arden pulled up a leg to angle toward him. His face was a mask, though his thoughts were easy to read. 

I can’t believe I let this happen. 

“Jaime, this isn’t just you,” she implored, “I’m the one who left him alone in there. It never occurred to me that he would climb through the window.” Her strength waning, she dropped fully to the mattress. 

They’d known that parenting would come with its share of struggles, but she hadn’t anticipated that it would leave them feeling so helpless. She was used to problems that could be solved with the right combination of research and discussion. Their children’s hardships were far too ambiguous for such treatment -- especially when it came to their middle child. 

She’d thought that they could head off all of his anger and frustration – prevent it from factoring into this school year to any large degree. But instead, it seemed that he’d been bottling everything up and making it worse. Whatever it was that had set him off this evening was just the indication of a larger worry bubbling below the surface.

“What did we do wrong?”

Arden regarded him solemnly, forehead leaning against her palm as she propped an elbow on the bed. She allowed his question to soak over her mind, flirting with the temptation to take blame for something that she knew had been beyond their control. “I don’t know what else we could have done, honestly. Short of nailing his window shut, I’m not sure how we could have made things any better.”

Jaime fell to his back, emitting a long sigh before he attempted an answer. “I failed, Arden. I went out there thinking I’d be able to talk him through this and we’d be okay. I always figured that my past would give me an edge in dealing with these kinds of things, but I’m at a loss. I don’t know what else to do for him.”

Arden scooted next to him, her ankle hooking his as she drew close enough for contact. “Maybe there isn’t anything else we can do. Especially if there’s more to this than anger.”

“I know he’s been upset before, but this was a new low. If what the caseworker’s told us is right, he’s never run away or hurt himself like this. Why now?”

Shaking her head, she considered the flurry of thoughts that had been in the boy’s mind after they’d returned inside. “I think resentment and fear have been building for a long time. I don’t know who’s responsible for putting them there, but it breaks my heart.” Her throat clogged as she fought over her next words. “I hate that I’m even having to say this, but I think there’s something else going on too. He’s internalizing everything except his anger, and that really worries me.”

Jaime tensed. “I thought he was just having trouble adjusting. New house, new family, new school – I get how difficult that is. But I never wanted to hurt myself because of it.”

“I know.” She buried her face in the mattress as she gathered her thoughts. When she surfaced, it was with a question. “Do you remember that new mental-health initiative Ellen and I covered a couple of years ago? I remember thinking at the time that rates of childhood depression were way higher than I would have expected. I don’t think it’s totally off base to find a therapist for Alex to talk to. Even if that’s not what it is, he clearly needs someone more qualified to help him work through this.”

The more she thought about it, the more determined she was to pursue that course of action. She began drafting a conversation in her head, already making plans to call a therapist the next morning. It wasn’t until some minutes later that she realized Jaime still hadn’t spoken.

When she turned back to him, his face was furrowed with an agonizing thought.

Why am I not enough?

Arden’s blood ran cold. It had been so long since he’d doubted himself like this that she’d vainly hoped they’d moved beyond it. Her husband’s sensitivity was one of the things she loved about him most, but it had a tendency to make him vulnerable at the worst moments.

“Jaime, whatever’s going on with him has nothing to do with you.”

“But I’m his dad. Fixing things is part of my job.” He rubbed his temple, expression still strained.

Rolling closer to him, she splayed a hand over his chest. The hard muscles eased under her touch. “It’s impossible to fix everything,” she murmured, needing to hear the words every bit as much as he did. “And don’t you dare sell yourself short. As far as I’m concerned, all three of them are the luckiest kids in the world because they get to have you as their dad.” 

“You’d never know it from what happened tonight.” 

She hushed him with a tap of her finger. “Humor me for a second.” When he remained silent, she continued. “What were you doing outside with Will yesterday after they got home from school?”

His face softened, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Kicking around a soccer ball.”

“Exactly. Babe, you’ve seen me play soccer. I fell over once because I wasn’t coordinated enough to kick with one foot at a time. Do you think Will would have had nearly as much fun if I’d been out there instead?”

“No,” he agreed grudgingly.

“And do you realize that you might be the first man in Sophia’s life that actually deserves to earn her trust? You can’t put a value on how important that is.”

“Then why can’t I get my own son to talk to me?”

Arden stopped short at the pitiful question. “It’s not just you. Sometimes I feel like ninety percent of what I know about that child comes from Sophia. He still isn’t ready to come out of his shell around the two of us, and I guess we’re going to have to be okay with that for now. It’s easier with the other two, sure. We keep seeing progress with them. Sooner or later, we’ll see it with Alex too.”

He turned toward her, capturing her in his embrace. She held fast, sighing with relief at the security in his arms. “I can probably count on one hand the number of times you’ve been the one telling me to be patient.”  

Arden’s laugh came out in hot breaths against his shoulder. “See? That’s just another reason why I need you in my life. Can you imagine all of the trouble I’d get into without you?” For long moments, he held her tight, strength coursing through every inch of skin that touched. “We’re going to make it through this.”

“We’re not quitters,” he added, combing a hand through her hair. 

“Especially not when the prize is worth it in the end. Those kids downstairs are so worth it. Our family is worth it.” 

I love you. 

The corners of her mouth tipped up at his thought. “I love you too, babe. So, so much.” 

Three months into parenting, they felt so far from where they wanted to be. Yet, as they clung to one another that night, both dared to believe that it was still within their reach.

#tw: depression #tw: self-harm #playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #wishful thinking #jaime lewis #jaime x mc

[confetticleanersbadwritings]

another abomination

same deal with 'the abomination'. was for a class. i'm not proud.

I woke up with a colossal headache. The intensity of the pain biting at my skull, incapacitating me for a few seconds, I lay there, glaring at the posters my roommate put up on her wall. Their bright colors, bold blues and hot reds, and the indifference I felt for their contents, space lovers and planes, always built an agitating contrast. They were always shouting at me to look at them, but not offering anything interesting to look at.

I tried to find the cause of the pain and after eliminating a couple of ideas --stress because it is not a distinctive factor in my life anymore for it never leaves, loud noises because I especially avoid them, extreme socialization because it just doesn't happen unless my family is involved-- I realized that I had slept for 18 hours. It had been a bad day and I had resorted to sleeping.

Unwillingly, I got out of bed, dragging my mind, which was a sack of disconnected images and words drooping out of my head, after my body. And then I started my morning routine. It consisted of three main elements; checking to see if my roommate was in the room, using the bathroom, and sitting down at my desk to plan the day or eat an utterly unappetizing breakfast. All of these felt tasteless that day, unappealing and unexciting.

My roommate was not in the room which gave me the feeling of relief I had every time I was alone. I didn't have any problems with her, she was reasonable and most importantly not clingy, she left me alone most of the time and minded her own business. She was interesting even, she possessed an immense fascination for aviation and space. On her side of the room, there were pictures of planes everywhere. As much as I liked to observe her, however, I didn't want her as a friend. There was a fine balance in our relationship that I wouldn't intend to break. Oftentimes it felt as if we were two feral animals, dancing around each other, being infinitely careful not to step on each other's tails. Rarely we would talk, have a casual conversation about our daily lives and I would manage to not run out the door -or the window-. It would feel like I was wound up too tight, and I would imagine ways to end the conversation from the moment we started it. This was hardly her fault, of course. We were just not compatible.

When I was washing my face I saw myself in the mirror and realized that the day didn't need me. I wasn't going to bring any good to it, change anything, or change myself. I would make no difference in the world, and yet here I was. I dragged my puny existence out the bathroom and started to make some coffee.

For a while, my thoughts wandered around. Endless sentences, lists that I kept checking, a complete inventory of my food supplies, my classes for the day and messages I got from my friends and family... I sat down with the cup of coffee in my hand and looked out the window. I hated the fact that it wouldn't open. I had asked for the key but the cleaning lady had said that she didn't have it. From where I was on the fifth floor I could see the roofs of the buildings as they descended towards the sea down the slope. I could also see the garden of the cafe that my peers would frequently occupy. I liked scanning the place to see how many tables were full and who sat on the porch swing.

I had a lesson in the afternoon. I decided to go out and go to the market. Buy cheap and additive filled food and maybe some vegetables to balance it out. Not that it could but I didn't really care at this point.

So I went out. Took my keys and left the room. Inside the elevator was a girl, dark-haired and pale-skinned, dressed fashionably in black and white. The smell of her perfume hung heavily in the air, so strong, so sure of itself. It didn't only claim the air, it also filled my lungs, painting them slick black. When we stopped, the girl and her audacious perfume walked out the elevator before I did. I hung back for a while to not fallow her cloud of lavish perfume.

I was apprehensive while walking past the ladies at the front desk because I couldn't gather up the courage to say hi to them. They were awfully nice and having a close relationship with them would be wise. Instead, I looked down, all the while hating how it made me feel timid and troubled, and I walked towards the door. My every step felt wrong; my body, the way I held myself, my height and weight were all wrong. I could fall down any minute, I could do something abrupt and draw attention any minute now. I hoped that people wouldn't see me. Would I look grotesque? A creature slowly melting down towards the depths of the earth, bearing no resemblance to a person. Perhaps they would see my eyes and realize that I wasn't a monster but merely a pitiful human.

Just like I did with the headache, I pushed this feeling away because I was used to it. For years I had felt it, every time I went out, every time I went to school. It had started to become an undercurrent.

I quickly got out of the building. I kept trying to fix myself, things I could never reach. The amount of discomfort and my will to keep my head together clashed over and over again, tenaciously, until I was away from people. Other thoughts started to show, then, scared and tattered, and I examined each one with great care. I held on to them to forget.

I shopped and got back to the school. My clothes stuck on to me, clammy and too hot. I raced through the same feelings as I walked in and went into the elevator. In front of my door, I listened closely to hear if my roommate was back. I wished that she didn't.

She wasn't inside. The solitude of the room was something of a luxury now. She wasn't in the preparatory program anymore so her lessons were all over the place. And because I never paid enough attention to her routine I never knew when she would be gone.

I turned my computer on and got lost in the ocean of infinite information. Two or three hours later, while I was reading the story of the survivors of a plane crash who had to resort to cannibalism I realized it was time to get ready for the class.

The images and the survivor's words were haunting me. It didn't necessarily bother me, I just couldn't let it go somehow. An angry, scrupulous part of me scolded me. "Why are you doing this to yourself? Why do you expose yourself to these things?" I had no answer to that. It could've been curiosity or an element in them that drew me to them. In this case, it was probably the fact that they had eaten their friends. How did doing something so abominable, eating the flesh of what once was a living, breathing, conscious creature who talked and smiled, and called you his friend, felt I wondered. It must've been dreadful, certainly. Cutting him, slicing him, taking pieces of him... The survivors had given lots of interviews. Talking about the incidents, their decisions, their religions and the heaviness of the resolve. The families of the dead had given them their blessings after their return. They somehow understood that they had to do it to survive. Besides the eating of flesh had a place in their religion, so they had something to help them make sense of all this.

I got to the class with all sorts of thoughts in my head, with the occasional occurrence of cannibalism, and took a seat in the back. When we took a break I left the classroom for a smoke. In front of the back door, among the crowd, I remembered a book that I was reading, a fine book that had been forgotten among other projects of mine. I found it on my phone and read a part. It was about finding yourself through someone else. I get boundlessly uninterested when love becomes the main theme in a work, so that must've been the reason for its loss, I thought.

A car pulled up, and then another, and soon there were more cars than there was road, so they all stopped and started to blow their horns. I regarded the road and saw that someone needed to go back if they didn't want to get stuck this was forever, then I smiled. "Why are you smiling?" I thought. "It's the mayhem," I said. Though it didn't make sense. Did I enjoy this because I was not in the situation? A feeling of catharsis, maybe. Or was it what my mind had said to me? That I enjoyed it because I simply did. I went back inside but the eerie feeling clung to me. Lingering, not taking its leave and entailing questions. I had started to question my morality again, but as always, neither the questions nor the questioning bothered me. The lack of concern did. "Well," I thought with more lack of concern. "Maybe it's the headache.

[loquaciousquark]

30th Wintermarch. Sunlight peeked through the cloud cover for almost a full two minutes this afternoon and I nearly took flight from joy

I’ve been reading Art and Shame: Forbidden Wonders of Faith by Foisine De Petitforet, and aside from the forbidden wonder of Foisine’s name, I am vastly intrigued by the asides she keeps adding in the margins of the more controversial pieces. One of them talks about how she believes the absence of clear power always leads to the worst person possible seizing it, and I couldn’t help but think about Kirkwall.

The viscount’s seat has been empty almost three years now. There are more templars than city guard in the streets these days, and Aveline says Meredith’s officers keep coming to her demanding she account for herself whenever she makes a decision that doesn’t involve them. She’s refused them so far--she says she won’t ever turn over the city’s authority to what ought to be a Gallows-restricted arm of the Chantry, no matter how much they press, but Donnic looks uneasy when she says so.

Well, it’s not

Hm. I was going to say it’s not any of my business, but somehow it feels like everyone will be caught up in it whether they like it or not. (Elthina would prefer not, according to Sebastian, but I think she thinks Meredith and Orsino are more reasonable than history has shown me.)

Well! I shall remain optimistic. Until the city starts coming down around us, anyway, and then I shall take my dog and my favorite blanket and flee into the hinterlands to live as a hermit for the rest of my days, eating rabbits and the moss that grows on trees and shaking my staff at passersby.

13th Guardian. Shocking cold front came through last night--all the world’s icy glass. Very pretty and violently annoying, especially when one’s great hall holds heat as well as a linen dropcloth

Was at Elegant’s today for tea, and Tomwise came! It was the first time she and he and Worthy and I had all been in the same place since before I moved to Hightown. Had a marvelous time reminiscing about simpler (poorer) years, and then Elegant’s husband came in to say hello and we all went prim as roses. He knows, I think, but he’s awfully dour about questionable legality, so she’s asked us to avoid the more overtly murderous stories when he’s around.

Reminds me of Stinton, to be quite honest, with the difference that Elegant seems to genuinely like her husband. Curious!

Tomwise did say business has been worryingly good lately. He said the Coterie’s been ordering poisons in bulk, that everyone seems to be feeling the tension lately. Not much any of us can do for it from Elegant’s tea-room.

Oh! And Elegant told me Aveline’s not the only one with Chantry bells ringing--Jule and Pelarie are getting married in the summer! I’m to be invited over Lady Ashbridge’s objections as I’m the one who introduced them. I’m so glad for them--and if nothing else, they’ll be able to get away from their mothers now. Oh, good for them both. Maker keep them in health and happiness, at least until they’ve managed their own place.

19th Guardian. Not quite as cold, but "brisk” is the most generous of interpretations

Rarely does a trip to the market leave me quite so wrung. Then again, rarely do I eavesdrop quite as blatantly as I did (I’m normally much more surreptitious), so perhaps it’s what I deserved.

I just wanted some sweets. There’s a chocolatier beside Jean-Luc’s who makes the most amazing honeyed almonds and nut brittle, and I thought it might be a nice surprise tomorrow at cards. Merrill’s been bringing this sweet dessert-y liqueur along lately, and it seemed like it would match well. (I also managed to find the owner of that little carved figurine with “Bright Heart” engraved on the bottom--turns out it belongs to a little girl who lives just down the road from Jean-Luc, a gift from her father for her seventh birthday. It had fallen out of her bag and he’d taken her all over the city without luck. Glad I could find that one’s home again.)

Anyway, after I finished off the first little bag of almonds myself and had to go back for a second to actually bring to WG, I was walking back through the Hightown Market and happened to glimpse Orana standing at a stall I didn’t recognize, one of the new ones that came in with that Orlesian caravan last month. It was covered in fancy silks and the trader wore a silk half-mask lined in jewels. (I wish I were joking. And considering I strongly doubt an Orlesian would be caught dead in paste rubies, that mask was almost certainly worth more than my entire wardrobe.)

She was asking about a pipe. I knew why the moment I saw it--it’s perfect for Bodahn--he’s been looking for something like it for years, as long as I’ve known him. It was made of meerschaum and had a lovely intricate geometric pattern carved into it. Very beautiful and very dwarvish. And very expensive, which is why the merchant wore a sneer so enormous it knocked his mask askew.

I tell you, journal, I was ready to storm him like the Black City. I was halfway across the square when I saw Orana draw herself up in that way that usually means I’m about to be crushed like a beetle, so I--well, I stopped, and ducked in the most awkward fashion behind Hubert’s stand so she wouldn’t notice.

Orana’s trade is very good. I forget how good, sometimes, aside from the occasional odd sentence structure, because she has hardly any accent. That changed for this merchant. She went full Tevinter on him--cold as ice, her accent thickening with all those heavy vowels that could make anyone sound noble, even a slight elf of barely twenty, and even though she didn’t raise her voice in the slightest she made it perfectly clear that her patronage was an honor to him instead of the other way around, that everyone in this city knew who she was and in whose household she served, and that if he didn’t improve his demeanor immediately he would find his tariffs of import abruptly so high he’d have to forgo the feed for his mule and pull his silken cart himself.

Flames, but he went white. Gave her a mighty discount, too, and flinched when she scattered the coins on his stand instead of handing them to him directly, as if she couldn’t bear to touch him. I didn’t even know her face was capable of haughty. Haught?

I didn’t know what to make of it. I’d half a mind to go after her and make sure she was all right, if nothing else, but then who should come around the corner but Fenris, and when Orana saw him she went straight up and said something in Tevene I couldn’t follow. He looked concerned, but not unduly so, and said something back in the same language, and then he turned and went with her back up the stairs towards the Amell estate and out of sight.

I’ve been thinking about it all day.

Did she learn that behavior from Hadriana? She must have--I can’t imagine someone as gentle as she says her father was teaching her such things. It was certainly effective in putting that snide little man in his place, but...surely it must rankle to have to pull on lessons learned during slavery when you thought you were free, learned from someone infinitely cruel, who taught only by example on you and on the ones you loved.

Or is it worth it? If the payoff is forcing someone to respect you at last, when no one ever has before. When no one ever thought they should.

I wondered if Danarius

I think Merrill would say everyone ought to respect everyone else just because they’re people. I wish someone had taught the Orlesian merchant that lesson.

I asked Varric to help temporarily misplace some of his paperwork on the way out, though, just out of spite.

25th Guardian. Drizzly, chilly

Fenris said Orana was a little shaken but otherwise all right. She hadn’t meant to make a scene but his mask had reminded her of a man who used to attend Hadriana’s parties who made the slaves’ lives miserable, and she grew so angry she had to stand up for herself, and by proxy for them. She hadn’t thought it would work quite so well and was a little afraid he’d come after her, which is why she’d asked Fenris to help her get home.

He didn’t elaborate further, and I didn’t ask. Even I can tell when there are parts of a story I’m not meant to hear.

I will say Bodahn adores the pipe, and Orana looked so proud as she gave it to him that it all seemed worth it. Though I suppose that’s for her to decide, not me.

(I’d still very much like to give that fellow a knock right over the Hightown wall. Hmph.)

9th Drakonis. I hate Drakonis. What a miserable month

Letter from Carver today I’ll tuck in for safekeeping later. He reminded me of how he and Bethany used to talk in their own language and make me so angry at being left out. For whatever reason they’d slowly stopped using it as they grew up, and I’d forgotten all about it... Apparently there’s a set of twin sisters in one of the Warden units and they can read each other so well they don’t even have to speak.

I wonder if they have a sister at home waiting for their letters too. I’m wondering all sorts of things these days, it seems.

14th Drakonis. Toby took two steps out the back door this morning and immediately came back in soaking wet and exceedingly indignant

Spent most of the morning’s trip out to the Coast wondering why Fenris’s scarf looked so familiar. I’d forgotten it’s the one I’d given him two Satinalias ago, oops. At least it looks very warm.

Came home in time to hear Orana reading off a shopping list to Bodahn, and had the realization three damned years late that for all the time I spent teaching Fenris to read, it never one flaming time occurred to me to ask if Orana could.

Bodahn said her father had taught her a handful of letters in secret, and Bodahn himself had taught her the rest, a few months after she’d arrived. He didn’t mention it because it was right after Mother had died and he’d thought I’d had enough on my plate.

Not too much for that, though. I wish he’d told me. I wish it had occurred to me any moment before today.

He said she had been a very quick study but hadn’t wanted me to know, in case I’d been angry she’d learned. Then she’d grown to understand us all better, but by that time it hardly seemed worth bringing up because everyone around her was reading, anyway.

Damn.

Damn!

25th Drakonis. Almost comfortable outside, which is saying a great deal

Got Orana a little journal. I haven’t the faintest idea if she’ll use it, but burn me at the pyre if she doesn’t at least have the chance. 

Had such vivid dreams of Fenris last night I was quietly panicking about desire demons all morning, but Merrill says she’s not noticed anything lately. (That could be because she’s been so deep in the mirror issue she hasn’t seen daylight in weeks, but who am I to break mirrors, no matter how much I might wish to?)

In other news, Aveline marries in just under six weeks! Had Sebastian and me over yesterday to help her with a few details, since Sebastian has an in with the Chantry and I have exquisitely fine taste. And the willingness to carry things from room to room, which I suspect is more the purpose Aveline wished. She said Donnic intends to ask Fenris to stand up with him and she wanted to be sure I was all right, since I’m standing up with Aveline. Of course, said I, almost entirely meaning it, but it was at least enough to convince her to drop the subject.

I made her show me her gown at the end. White and gold, and Merrill’s going to make her a crown of marigolds for her hair.  She will be beautiful. Is, too, but when they open those doors Donnic will see the light of the Maker coming to meet him.

Aveline told me (very gruffly) that she’d sent an invitation to Isabela’s last known location, but hadn’t heard anything in return. She knows as well as I do not to expect anything from that quarter. If three years without my scintillating company hasn’t brought the pirate wench home again, Aveline’s wedding hardly will either.

Ugh.

I know very well that the only reason I’m so bitter is that I miss her dreadfully. How tedious, to be so aware of one’s faults and too stubborn to do a single thing to rectify them.

19th Cloudreach. The sun shone today so brightly the sea nearly looked warm

Drowning in wedding preparations. Should I ever marry, I will stand before a Chantry mother with no one else present and not an ounce of cake. I’m not even sure I’ll allow my spouse-to-be to attend.

25th Cloudreach. Went out without coat or scarf today and skipped across Hightown at how light it felt

Anders has been rather withdrawn lately, so I went to Darktown this morning to help him out at the clinic. I’d made up some potions and poultices from the cache of elfroot we found rooting out those slavers last month, and I thought that’d be enough to please him. Instead he looked hollow-eyed and thin as paper, and barely said “thank you” before asking me to help him dig through sewer waste. 

He looked as bitter as he did during that whole mess with Alrik a few years ago, down in the tunnels beneath the city. There weren’t even any innocent girls to nearly kill this time, so I haven’t any idea why he’s so faint.

He did say there had been unfortunate circumstances regarding certain underground factions. He wouldn’t tell me anything else.

That man used to trust me, once.

30th Cloudreach. Promise of clear warmth on the horizon--it better follow through, too, or I’m taking it straight to Andraste

Night before Summerday, and the night before Aveline’s wedding! She’s staying here at the estate tonight so we can all help her get ready tomorrow. It’d have been a shorter walk to the Chantry from the barracks, but she’d have also had to walk through the barracks in her wedding dress, and even now I think there are some things she’d like to keep private. Even if she does look splendid in this gown.

We hosted a small dinner for her and Donnic tonight--the big wedding feast will be tomorrow, but this was just for us and two of Donnic’s brothers. Anders came--I doubted, but he did--and Merrill, and Sebastian and Fenris and Varric, and everyone was so civil to each other I nearly fainted from shock.

One of Donnic’s brothers also asked to take me to dinner some time, which was very funny. Not at the time--I know my eyes flickered a bit helplessly between all involved and utterly oblivious parties scattered across the room--and then I shrugged and said I was complicatedly in love with someone who either complicatedly returned the sentiment or just deeply enjoyed stringing me along, but I’d look him up should it ever fall through. He laughed and thanked me for my honesty, and brought me another glass of wine to drown my sorrows.

I asked Aveline, later, how she was feeling. Bittersweet, she said... she had been thinking of Wesley a great deal, and wondering about Donnic’s parents, and daydreaming about how their lives might change over the next few years. She said she’d worried about falling in love again, once upon a time, until my mother had sat her down and talked the sense right into her again. She’d told her hearts always found a little room to grow, no matter the scars, and that happiness could sometimes be all the sweeter for the grief that came before.

I will say only it had better not show the slightest peep of a cloud tomorrow. After everything else, she deserves to have decent weather on her wedding day.

1st Bloomingtide, Summerday, clear as a glass and warm and beautiful in every way, thank you Andraste for your kindness, I’m blowing you dozens of kisses

They are married. Beautiful weather, and a beautiful ceremony--as I’d thought, Donnic nearly toppled over as he and Aveline came out the doors towards each other and he tripped twice walking her down the aisle to the Chantry mother. Merrill’s marigolds shone in the sun like little suns of their own. She’d done a circlet of sorts that trailed down in the back and wove through Aveline’s hair, which was loose for the first time in my memory and softened her so much I should hardly have recognized her if I hadn’t been the one helping her do it.

Donnic looked marvelous, too. He wore a simple brown suit and a white vest with just a trim of gold around the buttons--a sound decision, given he’s so steadfast and calm, and leagues better than the flashy embroidered nonsense all over the last society wedding I attended with Mother. Not that I think he could see a thing aside from Aveline’s face the whole hour the mother spoke, anyway.

Fenris and I were right behind them, and I’m delighted to report, journal, that I was so preoccupied with my overweening gladness for Aveline that I handled myself with more aplomb than I’ve ever managed in my life. He wore the same coat he did the night he came to the Champion’s ball for me, and I must say it looked sharp as a knife next to my own dark yellow gown (less fine than Aveline’s, naturally, but it was kinder to me than some shades she nearly chose).

I will also say I was very, very pleased at the attendance. More of the guard came than I expected, and all our friends, of course, and Donnic’s enormous family, but so too came quite a few friends of both Aveline and Donnic I hardly knew aside from the faces. We didn’t quite fill the Chantry, but it was awfully close, and anyway they all looked glad enough for the two of them I was satisfied.

The feast after was enormous and had excellent wine. Varric found some artisan pâtissier straight from the Winter Palace who is the direct cause of my pants not fitting tonight, and between the glorious Fereldan-style flat cake and the three-tiered champagne glass tower, it’s a wonder anyone will be able to roll out of bed tomorrow.

Aveline and Donnic are away tomorrow morning for a honeymoon in Orlais. No one will say precisely where, though I’m certain Varric knows, and for once I’m glad she’ll be away so long. We’ve all promised to keep an eye on the guard in her absence, just in case the templars begin edging somewhere they shouldn’t. (Not, in retrospect, that I’ll likely be able to do much, but a promise is a promise.)

They played Fereldan fiddle songs once everyone was deep enough in their cups to dance without worrying about what their neighbors might thing. I haven’t danced the River Dane’s Line since Lothering, though more people knew it than I’d thought, and then they played Those Sweet Brown Eyes, Oh, and before I could help it I looked over and saw Fenris across the room looking back at me. It was the same tune we danced to a hundred years ago at the Hanged Man for Satinalia, when Mother was still alive and I was wondering if we’d ever be friends again.

He smiled when he saw me looking. Neither of us danced--the whole room was between us, and by the time I’d have reached him the squares would have been set, but I could see the memory was as plain for him as it was for me, and as pleasant.

He did come over after and compliment both my dress and the decorations (part of my wedding present). This time I had the presence of mind to admire his coat in candlelight, instead of the shadows behind shrubbery, and it looks as good on him as I’d thought. It has just the barest lining of gold thread at the sleeve cuffs and the trim of the wide belt, and he wears it so very well.

One final note, and then I must sleep: towards the end of our conversation, Donnic’s brother (the middle one, who asked me to dinner the other week) came up and joined us in the conversation. He said nothing overt and was as pleasant throughout as any family of Donnic’s ought to be, but at the end he bowed over my hand and told Fenris that should he ever cede the war, he’d be happy to take up the colors in his place. 

Fenris looked confused long enough for me to stumble over some nonsense explanation as Donnic’s brother left, but I’m certain he put it together soon enough. One day I should like to meet someone who declines to heckle me to my face.

It was a beautiful wedding, though.

#fenris #hawke #fenris/hawke #dragon age #quark writes #hawke's journal tag #and some #aveline/donnic

[brokaw22]

Fic: The Wager Chapter Two

ff.net

Story Synopsis: Jason and Roy have a bet going involving Dick, and Tim...well, Tim is just there to clean up the mess.

Tim sighs heavily. He’s exhausted after finally cleaning his kitchen and settling both Jason and Roy in his living room. He’s sure that those two are going to argue over the couch some more, but that’s hardly his problem. He walks into his room to see Bruce sitting on his bed, back against the headboard, with a newspaper held in front of his face. Tim has no idea where Bruce procured the newspaper, but that’s hardly the most pressing matter at the moment.

 Dick is passed out, using Bruce’s thigh as a pillow. He has both of his arms wrapped around Bruce’s middle, and Tim figures it’s probably for the best to just back out of the room slowly. However, he doesn’t get very far before a corner of Bruce’s newspaper folds over to reveal a very Batman glare directed straight at him. Tim holds up his hands in the air defensively. “Don’t mind me. I’m just gonna grab a pillow, and…”

 “Sit.” The command is immediate, but Tim’s fairly certain that he can work his way out of this as long as he just makes his intentions clear.

 “It’s okay, really. I can just grab a pillow and blanket and be on my way. Pajamas are totally negotiable. Besides, we wouldn’t want to disturb Dick, right?” Tim’s hoping the reminder that Dick is sleeping right there on Bruce’s lap will end this discussion before it begins, but Tim knows better.

 “Tim, sit.” The command comes out softer… a bit gentler, but the authority behind it doesn’t change.

 Tim sighs heavily as he pulls out the chair in front of his desk and sits down. “Would it help if I apologized? I really did intend to call you.”

 Bruce abruptly folds the newspaper and puts it down beside him on the bed. “I’m not mad. I’m concerned.”

 Tim hangs his head and just breathes. Somehow a concerned Bruce is infinitely worse than a disappointed or angry Bruce. After all, he’s far better acquainted with disappointed and angry Bruce. “Concerned about what? I really was on my way.”

 “You’ve missed our other meetings this month and one of your weekly chess games with Alfred. You haven’t been sleeping.”

 Tim’s tempted to curse Alfred. They all know that Bruce neither notices nor particularly cares when they haven’t been sleeping. “I’m fine. It’s just been a busy month.”

 Bruce pointedly glares at him, and Tim’s well aware that his excuse isn’t adequate enough, but in his defense it’s been a stressful day. “Sleep, Tim.”

 Tim breathes out a breath in a very put upon manner. “Sure, let me just grab my…” Suddenly a pillow and blanket are thrown in his direction. How Bruce managed to grab both without disturbing Dick’s head on his lap, Tim will never know. “Night, B.”

 “Night, Tim.” He can tell that Bruce is smirking on the inside, but Tim decides to leave before anything else can happen.

 Unfortunately, when Tim enters his living room Jason and Roy are still fighting over the couch. Jason elbows Roy and settles down on the couch. “I’m telling you, Bats get the couch. Arrows get the floor.”

 Roy shakes his head as he drags Jason off of the couch. “And I’m telling you, Bats can either learn how to share or deal with the floor.”

 Jason tackles Roy before he can reclaim the couch. “I am not sharing the damn couch.”

 Roy manages to kick Jason off of him and tries to slide past him to get back onto the couch. “Now, now, Jay, just think, what would Alfred say?”

 Jason grabs Roy’s arm and bites him. Tim figures he should probably step in before the two of them draw blood. Tim dives between them and lands on the couch in a sprawl. “Actually, it’s my living room and my couch, so neither of you is getting it. Go make yourselves comfortable on the floor.”

 Jason balls his hand into a fist as he growls. “Like hell I’m giving into you, baby bird.”

 Roy’s got his hand on Jason’s shoulder, pulling Jason away before he can punch Tim in the face. Tim’s about to respond, but before he can, they’re all interrupted by a familiar growl. “Boys!” That’s all it takes before Roy is pulling Jason away from the couch and settling down on the floor.

 Tim rolls onto his side as he lays his head down on his hand. It’s completely silent and he’s just about to doze off when Jason starts grumbling to himself. “This is ridiculous.” He nudges Roy as his voice increases in volume. “We’re grown ass adults.”

 Tim rolls his eyes as he huffs out a breath. “Then leave.”

 Roy abruptly sits up and glares at him. “Are you crazy? He’s Batman. He will chase us down and make us regret leaving.”

 Tim sighs again and reconsiders why he ever wanted a large family when he was younger. Sure, it was lonely, constantly being left on his own in an enormous, empty house more often than not, but he honestly doesn’t know if this is any better. He doesn’t know when he became surrounded by idiots.

 Roy and Jason are still complaining back and forth and Tim doesn’t think he can take any more. He groans as he turns over again and tries to block out the sound with his pillow. “Will you two just shut up? Is this my punishment for taking the couch?”

 They abruptly fall silent, and then both of them begin snickering. “Of course not, baby bird.” Jason doesn’t sound the least bit convincing.

 Tim immediately bolts up into a sitting position. “Really, you two? Really? You’re this petty?”

 Jason and Roy both glance over at each other before shrugging. “Yeah.”

 Tim glares at them both before kneeling on the couch and leaning over the armrest to grab his laptop. “Well, fine, be that way.” Tim instantly opens the laptop and pulls up the last thing that he was working on. If the other two are going to refuse to let him sleep because he took the couch, then he’s going to sit here and work.

 At least that’s the plan until he hears Bruce call from the other room, “Timothy, typing isn’t sleeping.”

 Jason practically cackles as Tim sighs heavily. “Oh, someone got full-named. You’re in trouble now.”

 Tim rolls his eyes at Jason’s antics. “Being around these two blabbermouths isn’t conducive to sleep either, B.”

 “Enough! Now, all three of you go to bed.” Bruce growls and Tim wonders how even an intoxicated Dick is sleeping through this.

 Jason grumbles as he pushes Roy away from him. “I’d love to but someone won’t just let me go back to my apartment.”

 “Tell me about it.” Roy huffs as he pushes Jason back.

 Tim rolls his eyes at the two of them as he shuts his laptop, knowing that no matter how softly he types, Bruce will still hear it. “And my bed is currently being taken up by Goldilocks and a very angry bear.”

 Jason and Roy both snicker at Tim, but all three of them still as Bruce’s booming voice floats in from the bedroom once more. “Boys, if you wake Dick, none of us are going to have a good night.”All three of them fall silent as they shift to get more comfortable and slowly drift off to sleep.

 Hours later Tim awakes to the sound of vomiting, and Bruce’s soothing rumble of comforting nonsense. Tim gets up, grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, and then wanders into the bathroom to see Dick miserably leaning over the toilet bowl and Bruce massaging his back. Tim wordlessly waits until Dick has finished and then hands him the glass of water. Dick smiles weakly as he swishes the water around in his mouth. Tim then wets a washcloth and hands it over, but before Dick can take it, Bruce grabs it and gently starts cleaning Dick’s face.

 Tim grabs another washcloth and gets it as cold as he can, and then places it on the back of Dick’s neck. Dick gives him a grateful little nod, but Tim can tell that it causes him pain. Bruce holds the washcloth to Dick’s neck and starts ushering him out of the bathroom.

 Tim doesn’t know how Jason and Roy are sleeping through this, but their snores are almost deafeningly loud in the silence of his apartment. Dick, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice or care as he leans into Bruce’s side as the three of them shuffle back into Tim’s bedroom. Tim checks the bed to make sure that it’s still clean, and then it’s just a matter of prying Dick off of Bruce long enough for Bruce to settle down and Dick to retake his spot from earlier.

 Tim takes the washcloth off of Dick’s neck as Dick makes a small noise of protest, but Bruce shushes him as Tim runs back to the bathroom to rewet it. He wants the washcloth to stay cool for as long as possible, so he doesn’t wring it out completely. He’s sure that neither Bruce nor Dick will care about the water droplets dripping from it in a steady stream as he places it back on Dick’s neck.

 When Dick sighs contently, Tim can’t bring himself to care that there are already wet spots on his pillow and sheets. It doesn’t take long to get both Bruce and Dick settled, and then Tim just stands next to the bed awkwardly. He knows that Bruce has this handled, but Tim doesn’t like seeing Dick so miserable.

 It’s another minute or two before Bruce nudges Tim’s arm. “He’s asleep and you should follow suit.”

 Tim nods, but he’s still reluctant to leave. “Yeah, but what if…”

 “He’ll take some painkillers the next time he awakens, and I’ll wake you, if I need you.”

 Tim knows a dismissal when he hears one. He sighs and returns to the couch. He thought that Roy and Jason were just pretending to sleep through Dick’s illness for lack of wanting to deal with it, but since neither of them stole his spot while he was gone, he guesses that they both legitimately slept through it. He’s not sure if he envies them or wants to mock them for it later. Tim huffs out a breath as he snuggles against his pillow and shuts his eyes. He’ll figure it out later.

 When Tim awakens the second time, it’s because someone is poking him in the side. He opens his eyes to see Dick standing over him with a giant smile. “Hey, Timmy.” He whispers as he settles down on the couch next to Tim. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but what’s up with the giant sleepover?”

 Tim stretches to the best of his ability and sits up. Roy and Jason are still sprawled out on his floor, snoring, and he can hear Bruce’s quiet breathing from his room. He’s more than a little surprised that Bruce actually fell asleep, but…well, it’s been a long night for all of them. “Do me a favor, the next time Jason and Roy offer to take you out drinking, don’t agree.

 Dick groans as he rubs his temples. “Well, that explains the headache, and I think I remember something about vomiting earlier.” At Tim’s nod, Dick continues. “How mad was Bruce?”

 Tim just shrugs as he leans against Dick. “He’s still here, isn’t he?”

 Dick’s face scrunches up with the realization of what that means. “So, he hasn’t had a chance to give his big lecture, then?”

 Tim rolls his eyes “Nope, and I can’t express how much I’m looking forward to that.” His dry tone has Dick looking even less pleased with the imminent lecture, but Tim thinks he’s earned it.

 Dick wraps an arm around him. “Hey, what are you in trouble for? You weren’t even there.”

 Jason suddenly sits up and hits Tim with a pillow. “The idiot forgot to tell Bruce he wasn’t going to make it to their meeting.”

 Dick’s eyes widen at his little brother. “Again? That’s the third time this month. What’s up with you?”

 Roy sits up next and yawns. “Dude, even I’m not that bad.”

 Tim isn’t surprised that Dick knows about the other times Tim failed to meet up with Bruce, but there’s really no reason to discuss that with both Roy and Jason, so Tim decides now is a perfect time for a distraction. “Less talk more coffee.”

 All three of them perk up at the prospect and follow Tim into his kitchen. Jason’s stomach grumbles right as Tim turns on the coffee maker, and he wordlessly makes his way over to Tim’s refrigerator. However, after opening it and seeing what little is inside, Jason sighs heavily. “I know you like to live on nothing but caffeine, but some of us need real food, baby bird.”

 Dick grins as he hops up to sit on Tim’s counter. “How about we just have some cereal?”

 “NO!” All three of them yell in unison.

 Dick raises his hands in the air defensively. “Okay, okay, calm down. No cereal, but it’s not like Tim has much else in his kitchen.”

 Tim is about to mention that in his defense, he doesn’t usually have this many people over at once and coffee is a perfectly acceptable breakfast in this family, but before he gets a chance there’s a very distinctive clearing of the throat behind him. “Alfred will have breakfast ready when we arrive, and we are all going.” Bruce pointedly glares at both Jason and Roy, and for once neither of them protests, knowing that the lecture they’re going to get in the car will only be worse if they do.

 Dick lets out a whoop of delight, and then dashes off in the direction of Tim’s bedroom. However, he stops and back pedals when he reaches the door and realizes no one is following him. “Well, come on, we’ve got to get dressed. Jay and Roy can borrow some of the spare clothes I keep here.” Dick gives Bruce a once over. “Sorry, B. I don’t think I’ve got anything that will fit you.”

 “I’ll manage.” Bruce’s tone is extremely dry, but they can all tell that he wants to smile.

 Dick grabs both Jason and Tim by their wrists and drags them out of the room. Roy follows silently behind them -- mostly likely so that he won’t end up alone in a room with Bruce. They all change quickly.

 After all, none of them like the idea of leaving Bruce waiting, knowing that they’re all in enough trouble as it is. Tim sighs heavily as he ponders how this will go. After all, no amount of Alfred’s cooking is going to somehow improve his day and the impending lecture. Still, Dick looks ecstatic to have two of his little brothers and one of his friends with him, so Tim figures he can suffer through it for Dick’s sake.

 After all, he knows that this is exactly why Bruce forced them all to stay last night. Nothing makes Dick happier than having the people he cares for around him, and Dick must have really been feeling lonely if he so readily agreed to go out with Jason and Roy without at least some suspicion as to what they really wanted. Tim glances over at Jason and Roy and knows that they know it too, and after their little bet, Tim thinks they both deserve a day of Dick’s special kind of exuberance and Bruce lectures, and if Tim is choosing to ignore that he might also be deserving of the same things, then oh well. He plasters a smile on his face as he nudges Dick with his elbow. “So, are you planning to get back at these two?”

 Dick smiles mischievously. “Oh, I’ve got plans.”

 The other two groan as Tim smirks. It might be an interesting day, after all.

 The End

#dick grayson #Tim Drake #roy harper #Jason Todd #bruce wayne #fanfic

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teaser: VENTURESS by Betsy Cornwell!

If you loved MECHANICA, the steampunk retelling of Cinderella, you will love the sequel, VENTURESS! After what happened in book 1,  the young inventor Nicolette Lampton is living her own fairy-tale happy ending. She's free of her horrible stepfamily, running a successful business, and is uninterested in marrying the handsome prince, Fin. Instead, she, Fin, and their friend Caro venture to the lush land of Faerie, where they seek to put an end to the bloody war their kingdom is waging. Mechanical armies and dark magic await them as they uncover devastating secrets about the past and fight for a real, lasting happily-ever-after for two troubled countries—and for themselves.

You can read the first few chapters of VENTURESS below! 

Ten days into our journey, Wheelock declared the wind conditions safe enough for a low-flying day. This meant first of all that billowing nets were cast out from the sides of the boat to catch fresh fish for the galley, and second of all that Fin, Caro, and I were given the all-clear to use the bathysphere pods.

It was amazing how quickly we'd all adjusted to life on the Imperator. My motion sickness was entirely gone, and once I’d even scurried up the ropes with the crew, to inspect the workings of the segmented balloon that kept us afloat, or the dozen folding, fin-like sails at either side of it that caught the wind. We needed stiff breezes for this voyage, especially if we really were to reach Faerie in only a month, but a few slow days were necessary too if we wanted to eat any fresh food at all.

After my years of eating the Steps’ scraps, I knew better than to complain about having any kind of plentiful food at all, but I was still looking forward to a fish fry instead of the salted-meat stew that had become our standard dinner fare. The luxury of the first day's refreshments had turned out to be just a ceremonial anomaly. I yearned for rhodopis berries, which could pop back into freshness at the touch of a finger, and I felt more annoyed than ever about the embargo on Fey goods.

Once we got there, at least, that was one of many things that Fin and I would try to fix.

On the morning of our voyage underwater, all three of us woke up early and excited. Caro woke before dawn every day, in order to return to her own bunk undetected, but on that particular morning we were all up and dressed with starlight still whispering through the portals in the royal suite.

I'd known that Caro had to be discrete when she left in the mornings, but I'd never spent too much thought on what that must feel like, a neglect that embarrassed me now as we slipped silently through the dark corridor together. I knew that we weren't doing anything dishonorable. Besides, I had always told myself that I didn't care in the least what other people thought Fin's, Caro's, and my friendship entailed. But I still breathed deeply with relief when we got through the corridor without anyone coming across the three of us, so closely grouped together and so obviously recently asleep.

When we came out onto the deck, it was so dark that we might have been walking on the night air itself. Clouds blotted out the stars, and there was no bright moon as there had been on the first night of our voyage. I had a disorienting sense that I really was standing on nothing but the thousands of feet of empty void that separated my one frail human body from the deeper void darkness of the sea.

Here be monsters, the map had said. I could still see the drawings of writhing serpents dipping in and out of the paper waves, tentacled beards frilling around their toothy jaws.

When Fin lit the first candle in the galley, the sense of floating through the endless void vanished at once. We were safe inside a cozy, limited compass of yellow light. I turned the crank for the automatic kettle, and we all settled down to wait for our tea and for daylight.

Wheelock brought us to the library an hour after breakfast. He watched with a little envy in his eyes as Fin and I settled ourselves onto the brass seats inside one triple-sealed shuttle, and then he helped Caro into the other.

When the porter arrived to unwind the crank that would lower us into the sea, Wheelock’s expression of quiet longing only increased. room.” “Won’t you join me, Wheelock?” Caro asked with a smile. “There’s plenty of

A surprisingly youthful smile swept across Wheelock’s face for a brief moment. When his formal old gentleman expression came back, it seemed almost like a mask.

“Thank you very much, Miss Hart,” Wheelock said. “However, the rule is generally that a captain must remain with his ship.”

The porter, a hardy-looking man named Walsh, let out an amused but frustrated huff.

Wheelock spun around and fixed him with a lofty glare. “Yes, sailor?”

Walsh quickly saluted, looking both ashamed and genuinely embarrassed. “Meaning no offense, captain. It’s just, you’ve talked of hardly nothing else but—it’s nothing, sir.”

This was a surprising development, as was the evident friendship between Walsh and the inscrutable young captain; they both smiled a little even as the porter submitted to his captain’s authority.

Wheelock sighed. He looked at the empty seat beside Caro in her glass pod, and finally he gave one curt nod, as if convincing himself rather than accepting her invitation.

“You won’t be leaving the Imperator, you know,” said Fin, a twinkle in his eye. “The pods stay attached to the hull with those telescoping pipes, and therefore they’re part of the ship, don’t you think?

In spite of himself, that youthful smile stole across Wheelock’s face again. “Indeed, your highness,” he said. Turning back to Walsh, he added, “Gunning’s been wanting to give his first-mate duties a real run, has he not?”

“Aye, sir.” Walsh smiled and stepped aside to let Wheelock past. The captain stepped into the bathysphere pod and settled down beside Caro, his posture ramrod- straight, his face severe and formal again. But I was sure that youthful spark was still hidden somewhere . . .

But I didn’t watch Wheelock’s face very long, because as soon as the porter started to turn the crank, I felt Fin’s and my pod begin to move.

I flinched and reached blindly for Fin’s hand, my vision unfocused. I’d looked forward to this part of the voyage more than any other ever since I'd learned that it was possible, but my heart was still beating wildly as the glass egg in which we sat detached from the stability of the airship.

Fin caught my hand at once and held firm. That more than anything gave me the courage to look around me. Once I did, I was so very glad.

The airship had descended during the night even further than I'd realized, and we had only thirty or so feet to go before we would skim the surface of the water. Our pods were connected to the larger ship by a series of reassuringly strong, thick, metal-enforced ropes, and two telescoping pipes. One of these attached to the glass pod's brass fittings, and was clearly structural; the other was thin, jointed, and flexible, and it led through the three reinforced layers of glass to a perforated brass circle, the purpose of which was mysterious until I heard the voice of the porter coming through it, tinny and barely comprehensible.

"All well on board?" the porter asked. "All well here, sir," Fin said loudly. "All clear, so!" the porter shouted, and then the pod touched water. I stood up involuntarily. For a moment it was like walking on waves,

skimming ahead toward the horizon as sea foam frothed at my feet. "Oh!" I gasped.

"I know," Fin said, laughing, standing up with me.

We were going under, smooth and slow. The waves swallowed up our bathysphere, reaching first the brass reinforcement at our waists, and then the level of our eyes, and at last with a small gulp the water closed over the top of our little pod ...

The light underwater was green and gold at once, streaming down in changing ribbons that looked sometimes like swords and sometimes like long golden hair. The space around us receded infinitely into a green, green gloom.

"The nets, Nick, look," Fin said joyfully. His voice sounded different now that we were underwater, more enclosed, bouncing off of the curved glass walls.

The nets stretched and billowed in the water, and already I could see a few little fish struggling against their filaments. I couldn't help feeling a little badly for the fish in that moment, even though I knew that I would be more than happy to eat them for dinner that night. I admonished myself for hypocrisy.

I saw Caro and Wheelock in their pod off to our other side, and I waved even though my arm shook a little. I loved this so much, and it scared me so much at the same time, on such a basic, instinctive level.

Caro waved back, looking perfectly delighted. Wheelock patted the oilskin life jacket he wore and nodded at me reassuringly. I remembered what he had said that morning: if anything happened we'd be pulled back onto the ship in less than a minute, and our life jackets would keep us safe in the meantime.

I took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the sightseeing, the streaming gold- green light, the billowing nets, the schools of little and not-so-little fish that plunged around our pod.

And then I decided to look down.

Everything I'd imagined about the void that morning came rushing and yawning into reality below me, where he water grew darker and darker until nothing was there at all except black. I could never have guessed how deep it was; it seemed utterly endless.

I knew there were many places in the ocean where even our deepest anchors could not reach. In bad storms far out at sea, it was safer for an airship to go above the storm than to try to anchor below it, Wheelock had told us. But we hadn’t had to weather any real storms yet.

I wanted to tell Fin to look down, so that at least I wouldn't be staring into that void all alone. But my mouth was dry; it took me a moment to find my voice.

I saw something in that moment that I will never in my life forget. It was just a shape, rising up out of the darkness and into the green ribboning light, so quickly I nearly didn’t see.

Just a shape with a tail, that was all. But it also had arms. And a head. And I would have sworn, even in that brief moment, that it had a human face. I found my voice. "Fin!" I rasped. "Fin, a merman!"

"What on earth?" Fin looked down with me, crouching on the glass floor so that he could see better, but it was gone. Fin looked up, disappointment and doubt blending together on his face. The shape had come out of the darkness and then vanished so quickly; I began to think myself that it had only been a strange kind of fish.

Fin and I returned to watching the changing light around us as we slipped through the water, and the schools of fish collecting in the nets. Every few moments we turned to wave at Caro and Wheelock, too, as if seeing their safety could reassure us of our own. They usually smiled and waved right back, although sometimes they were too entranced with the view to notice us. Wheelock, especially, looked around at the ocean with the rapture of a child.

I checked my pocket watch. It would only be another five minutes until we were scheduled to come back aboard, even though we had at least an hour's worth of air remaining in the chamber with us. I had to admire the design of the pods, and the many safety features had made me feel much safer about our underwater adventure.

But now I found that I would miss my sojourn here when I returned to the ship. As relatively secure as I would feel up there—and I would feel far more secure back on land, even in Faerie—there would probably always be something I’d miss about this green light, this infinite liquid space, this little bubble where all the water in the world rushed over and under and around me while I stayed safe and dry.

Then that bubble shattered the surface."No!" Fin hit the glass wall so hard that a fissure crack appeared in its

"Fin, don't!" I cried, frantically reminding myself that there were three layers of glass around us, not just one, and that we were perfectly safe. Perfectly safe.

"Look, Nick, look! They can't, they can't!" Fin hit the glass again, and a few splinters fell to our feet.

I looked where he was looking, and my breath stopped. There was a shape, a shape with a tail and arms and a human face, tangled up in the fishing nets.

The merman tore at the ropes with his translucent webbed hands, thrust his powerful, sickly-white tail through the water, and bit at the ropes with astonishingly long and sharp teeth, but the nets only wrapped more closely around him. The wire- reinforced ropes sawed against red gills in his sides, and red blood began to cloud in the water around him.

The merman's movements grew slowly weaker as the ropes wore away at his gills. The water around him turned muddy with blood. He sagged against the nets, and his strange, clear eyes fluttered closed.

Fin punched the glass a third time, and he breached the first pane. He heaved his body against the side, and the second layer of glass began to crack. colony." "They can't get him," Fin said. "They can't know. I won't let there be another.

He took the emergency hatchet out of its place under our seats, then grabbed the brass speaking-pipe that led back up to the airship. "Our hull has been breached," Fin said. His voice was low and angry. "Pull us up now." He tore off his life jacket.

He pulled me in for a quick, rough embrace. "Less than a minute, Nick," Fin said, pressing a hard kiss against my cheek, then turned away and threw himself as hard as he could against the third layer of glass.

The glass shattered and Fin plunged out. Salt water colder than I could have imagined flooded the pod. I had barely enough time to take in one deep breath before the water closed over my head.

Fin swam as fast as he could toward the trapped merman. The pod was already reeling back up to the surface, and Fin shrank below me as I pulled up and away.

I clutched at Fin's abandoned life jacket, frantic. I had gone swimming as a child in a little lake in Woodshire, and a few times with Fin, Caro, and Bex in a pond behind the royal horses’ paddock. That was nothing at all like swimming in the ocean, of course . . . but if I would struggle to swim here, I knew that Fin would too.

My broken pod pulled up into the air, and the water came pouring out. I gasped for breath, and the pod quickly pulled me closer to the airship and to safety, away from Fin.

His life jacket clutched in my arms, I jumped out of the pod and down into the open sea.

I hit the water with a juddering smack that disoriented and frightened me for a few seconds that I couldn't spare. I looked up, briefly saw Caro pounding frantically against the wall of her own swiftly rising pod, Wheelock doing his best to hold her back.

I made for the nets.

I couldn't see what was happening under the surface, but I knew Fin hadn't come up yet. I kicked my way over to the nets, and I tied Fin's life jacket to the rope that connected them to the ship. Working against the buoyancy of my own life jacket, I gripped the edge of the net and used it to force myself hand over hand underwater.

I couldn't see nearly as clearly when I opened my eyes under water this time as I'd been able to see through the glass. I could only make out vague, blurry shapes, more color than form. But I could follow the line of the net with my hands, and it led me true.I saw two blurry shapes in below me, one dark and one white: Fin and the merman struggling. Fin sawed at a rope with his hatchet, and the merman at least seemed to understand what he was trying to do, and wasn't fighting. But the merman's desperation meant that he still struggled wildly against the net itself. Fin would never be able to get all the ropes loose on time, and the merman’s thrashing threatened to entangle Fin in the nets too.

I pulled myself the rest of the way down, and I pulled the rope away from Fin's hands. With every ounce of strength I had, I could just barely tear the frayed rope apart. Fin didn't acknowledge my presence at all, but just moved onto the next section of net, sawing at it yet again with his hatchet.

The merman's gills were so badly torn that it was painful to look at them, even through the blurry lens of the water. I reached out carefully to pull the ropes away where they lashed at him most tightly.

Someone grabbed me from behind, and I felt myself yanked up and backward, the rope tearing out of my hands and drawing a little of my own blood to mix with the merman’s. I saw someone else ahead of me in the water: another of the sailors diving toward Fin, a thick rope and harness around his torso.

Fin shoved the sailor away and kicked harshly behind him as he sawed through the final rope. The merman flashed away so quickly I couldn’t have said which direction he took.

The sailor was the better swimmer, and he overpowered Fin again quickly, pinning his hands behind his back. My own rescuer clamped his arms tightly around my waist as we broke the surface. I felt the shock of my own gravity returning as the thick rope pulled us away from the water, reeling quickly back up to the waiting ship.

When we collapsed on the deck, panting and shivering, Caro rushed at us and covered us both with kisses. "I could pummel you!" she kept saying to Fin. "Why would you do that?" And to me: "You were safe and sound, how dare you risk that I might lose you both?"

"I had to save Fin," I said. " You would have done the same if you'd had the chance."

"I'd have looked after myself, with a mind to the people who love me!" Caro retorted hotly, still holding both of us tight.

With every breath my lungs were slowing down, calming, and the pressure in my chest was fading away. "I saw you pounding the glass on your pod," I said. "You’d have broken through and come after us if Wheelock hadn’t held you back, and you know it.”

"Yes, well—"

"Shut up, both of you," Fin whispered. "I'm sorry I made you so afraid, and that I endangered both of you, I'm more sorry than I can say. But we can't let them know what we saw."

Caro looked at Fin in bafflement, but I remembered what he'd said as he broke out of the pod.

Wheelock had sprung into action as soon as we came back aboard, and he was now directing two crewmen who carried wool blankets and robes toward us. The porter wheeled out a tall panel behind them, and I didn't understand why until Wheelock bustled me behind it and stripped off my sopping dress. He pulled a flannel robe around me and wrapped me in a big wool blanket so quickly that I hardly had time to notice him doing it, let alone feel embarrassed, and when I realized that both the robe and blanket had been warmed, I couldn't think of anything but the soft, dry comfort that surrounded my shivering wet skin. Fin was similarly wrapped up when I came back out, and Wheelock decorously but firmly pushed mugs of hot black tea into our hands, and into Caro's, too. She was shaking perhaps worse than Fin and I

were. "Come inside out of the wind, your highness," Wheelock said with a respectful bow that almost hid the residue of real fear in his eyes.

"They can't know, Wheelock,' Fin said fiercely. His lips still quavered, but they were starting to return to their normal color. "Don't tell them anything. Don't tell anyone."

"As you wish," Wheelock said quietly, his steady gaze meeting Fin’s angry one. "Now, please, come inside. You'll need to stay warm if you don't want a case of pneumonia when we arrive in Faerie."

Whatever Fin saw in Wheelock's eyes made him nod, sad but resolute. Wheelock led the three of us to Fin’s suite, and when Caro walked inside with us he didn't show the least surprise. Had our discretion been for nothing? 

It didn't matter. Not now. Wheelock laid his hand on the door handle. “If you need anything at all—“ "Stay a moment, Wheelock," Fin said, easing himself down onto the window

"Yes, your highness?" The captain about-faced and put both hands behind his back, as if he were waiting for orders.

"I don't know you very well," Fin said, "and I wish you hadn't seen what happened—I wish you hadn't seen who was in the water today. Truth be told, I wish none of us had. I wish no one from Esting would ever find out if there's really such a thing as a merman." He shifted, wincing, and it was obvious that his shoulder was acting up again. I went to him and started gently pressing his shoulder blade the way the chirurgienne had explained to me after his operation.

Fin looked at me with gratitude, and with a level of humility that astounded me. "Thank you, Nick," he said. Then, his voice a little stronger: "Wheelock, forgive me for saying that I don't know yet if I can trust you. But it doesn't matter, because I have to trust you now. I have to beg you, please, not to tell anyone else on the ship, anyone else ever, what you saw in the water. If my father knew there was another race of people in the world, another nation he could conquer, or the Brethren convert . . . " Fin trailed off and shook his head. "I can't let that happen. Please, Wheelock. I don't know how you feel about Faerie, or about what should be done there now, but perhaps you can understand why I hope that we won't get into another war like this one, another bloody struggle for power. Another nation enslaved." Something of the leader had come back into Fin's voice. Even though he was speaking quietly, I could almost see the podium in front of him, the adoring crowds. This was what he was born for.

"I understand, sir," Wheelock said, in his usual formal tones.

But then I saw him lose his stiff formality again, and not just for a moment this time. He shrugged it off like a heavy cloak.

He stepped closer to Fin, and even his gait was different, the way he held himself: suddenly he seemed like the young man he was. When he spoke again, the bright spark I’d glimpsed that morning had returned to his eyes, a sincerity that had honesty and passion and even sweetness in it.

"You must understand, your highness," Wheelock said. "There are those of us who signed on for this voyage because we believe in what you believe, and we wish to help you if we can." He lowered his voice still further. "There are those of us who are loyal to you.”

“All of the crew?” Fin asked, a little incredulous. I thought of the silent Su doctor, the Brethren cleric who watched us so suspiciously.

Wheelock smiled, but he was shrugging on the weight of his formality again, and soon the smile vanished inside it. “The crew can be managed, your highness.”

He bowed impeccably as he left the room.

 --

The next few weeks of the voyage passed without incident. I spent most of my days in the suite's private storeroom, working on modifications for Jules while he slept the trip away. I missed my buzzers, who were magically asleep in the sort of hive I'd made for them inside a suitcase, with individual cubbies that I'd done my best to make comfortable.

There were a million little things I'd come to rely on the buzzers for, and their constant company was what I missed the most. But there were more practical things they’d done too, not the least of which was dressing my long hair in the mornings. It seemed foolish to wake them up for such a paltry reason, and I was plagued with fears that the strong winds would steal them away from the ship and they’d be lost, and my hair was hardly as important as that.

But I was completely incapable of the elaborate styles they'd done for me nearly every morning for the past year. I started wearing my hair down again, simply tucked back from my face with a narrow ribbon so that I could read and eat and do my work unhindered. It was unfashionable, but who on the boat would care? Fin, Caro, Wheelock, the crew?

It surprised me to realize that I'd grown a bit vain. After all, not long ago I had spent all my days covered in soot and dust, clomping around in old boots and patched coats three sizes too big.

But I slowly realized that my new vanity was a reaction to how I'd used to live. Now that I could look nice, I wanted to do so. Returning in any way to my former life, even in appearance, was more frightening than I liked to admit.

When I came to dinner with my hair down for the first time, the expressions

on Caro's and Fin's faces told me I didn't need to worry about vanity. "Ooh, you look lovely, Nick!" Caro said. "I wish my hair would grow that long.

It's so shiny, too." "And more chestnut than brown," Fin added with an admiring smile. "There

are red lights in it, you know.” "Well, thanks, but come off it, both of you," I said, unable to keep from smiling

myself, or from touching my hand to my head. "You both have beautiful hair, as you know well.”

"You’ll get no argument from me," said Fin, tossing his sable curls.

Wheelock and the crew laughed, and Caro and I shared a look. No matter how vain we might get, Fin was always miles ahead.

-- As the days wore on, the weather grew increasingly worse. We would never

have gotten the chance to use the bathysphere pods again even if one weren’t broken, and even if Wheelock hadn’t forbidden it.

The Imperator spent more nights than not far, far above storm clouds that would have pummeled the airship, high enough that we could watch frost blossom on the porthole windowpanes as we ascended, where the air was too cold and thin to go outside at all.

We couldn’t stay up that high for very long; every ten hours or so we had to come back down and open the hatches to get fresh air into the ship, and to keep the buoyant gas inside the balloon from shrinking too much, or the sails from freezing solid. More than one morning we were warned not to eat breakfast, and then spent terrifying stretches of time clutching whatever chairs were bolted to the floor or wall, listening to wind howl through the open vents and trying to clench our jaws hard enough that our teeth wouldn’t chatter from the cold. Trying not to think about what could happen.

Wheelock kept apologizing, saying such storms were highly unusual over open water at this time of year, as if the weather were his own personal fault.

And yet sometimes, lying awake as the ship tossed and jumped in the air at night, I did start to think that there was something personal about the storms, something menacing that kept us so unbalanced and on-edge for days at a time.

But we didn’t see a real tempest until the day we reached Faerie.

                                                       ***

To find out what happens next, read VENTURESS! It publishes on 8/1, but you can pre-order it at the links below. 

Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-a-MillionHudson IndieBound Powell’s

#excerpts #hmh teen #hmhteen #excerpt #book excerpt #bookexcerpt #book quote #quote #quotes #book #books #booklr #bookish #amreading #steampunk #YA lit #YAlit #young adult fiction #mechanica #cinderella #fairytale retelling #am reading

[planar-echoes]

Thick-Headed Mage (Unknown Plane) By Matt Cavotta

What are they doing in here? An upscale mage’s emporium is not the place one would expect to see a couple of goblins. Oh, look at them. They’re perusing the wares as if they have a clue as to what any of this is for. I chuckle to myself and continue picking up the components on my list. I give the awful duo no more thought... Until I happen to catch a couple real words among the gibberish they spit and bark to each other. “Echo magic.”

You know, the reason that I understood those words is because goblins have no magic lexicon of their own. They steal our words and, as I suspect, they just steal our spells as well. They can hardly figure out how to use a fork and knife, let alone how to channel and convert mana into magical matter. I guess if they were to stumble upon some arcane secrets, they would end up foolishly buying into echo magic too.

Back at the Institute, we call them “dog spells.” You see, echo magic is like a dog, you feed it once and it keeps coming back for more attention and table scraps. In the long run, it’s a complete mind and mana hog. Of course, in the short term, the spells require very little skill or connection to the land. Now that I think about it, “dog spells” are perfect for goblins – who are just as likely to grovel and bark for table scraps.

You know, there was a time when a goblin mage was a rare thing. These days it seems like they’re running about all over the place, lighting things on fire, pretending to be real wizards. The good thing about goblin mages is that they’re blundering hacks. Since I am pretty sure that goblins have not evolved mentally, I can only assume that magic has evolved, evolved into something much more accessible – too accessible, if you ask me. Then again, with the timeline looking more like a scribble these days, it could just be that many versions of the same two or three goblin wizards keep popping into the now from one of the infinite thens. I don’t think about it too hard; goblin wizards are as unworthy of thought as treefolk sprinters.

But then I walk by the pair and, ugh, the stench. There they are, huddled over the frozen lava beads, stinking up the place. One of them, the one that seems to be the “brains” of the pair, gives the other a sharp smack in the head. I quickly shuffle by with my nose in the air to avoid catching the waft as I pass. You know, if I were to conjure a deathly cloud of noxious gas, it would be because I had made all the proper incantations, traced the proper runes upon the earth beneath my feet, and channeled the power of land and æther to bring forth a controlled plume. All goblins have to do is eat and then wait a few minutes. I am a wizard. Goblins are scum.

As I make my way by, I put them out of my mind. I have work to do and I need not be distracted by their comic wretchedness. Before I can turn to the next aisle, they scurry past me, actually bumping against my leg with their foul, callused skin. What’s worse is that they swipe the last of the diamond powder! I quickly recheck my list. Diamond powder. I feel my muscles begin to clench up and my mind cloud with rage. What could these two jokers need mana powder for? Oh, of course, to “feed the dog.” There is no way I am going to let them foil my plan just to waste the powder on echo spells.

“Excuse me, sirs,” I say, choking back the bile that slithers up my throat upon uttering the words. “I was just about to obtain this diamond powder when you barged into my leg, keeping me from it.”

“Too bad. Too slow,” one replies. Then it whacks the other on the top of the head with the pouch of powder. Take a breath, take a deep breath, I tell myself. Control. Intelligence. Success. Rage is for... well, for their kind. I gather my thoughts.

“I am working on a very important summons for a study at the Institute. Without that powder, I cannot complete it. Please,” (I want to tear my own tongue out). “Please, let me purchase the...”

About the point where I have a vision of myself gripping a hand saw and raking it across my own outstretched tongue I realize that the foul little duo has already slithered away to pay.

“Sir,” I call out to the proprietor. “Please, you must allow me to buy the diamond powder! I will pay double.”

“Sorry, sir. I have already taken payment for the powder.”

Control and intelligence are not bringing me success right now! I pay for what I have already gathered and huff out the door. I see the goblins shambling off down the street. Perhaps control and intelligence did not bring me success here in the mage’s shop... my eyes pinch, my brow furrows...but they would undoubtedly do so in a contest of spellcraft. My eyes widen. Yes. I will take the diamond powder from the lowly goblins once I soundly swat them with the power of high magic. I will teach these dogs a lesson about magic you don’t find in reeking mountain warrens.

I hustle down the steps and out into the street. I don’t want to lose sight of them – they could easily get lost in a crowd of much larger, and less stinking, folk. I take heart in the fact that, should I lose sight of them, I can always follow my nose. The thought was worth a chuckle, but was, ultimately, unnecessary.

They make their way straight out of the center of town and toward the hills in the distance. At this point, I assume that the goblin that keeps smacking the other is the “wizard” and the one with all the scars is the unfortunate pupil. I consider which one I will focus my attention upon once the duel gets heated. In the end, I guess it doesn’t matter. The two of them together do not amount to a single human wizard. I have a little chuckle at the thought of how many goblins brains it would take to equal my own. It would be a pile as big as a wumpus, I bet – and that’s working on the assumption that their brains are the size of tomato seeds.

When I finally walk them down we are a good mile or so out of town. This is good. I do not want to draw any attention to my little revenge duel. It would not go over well with the others at the Institute.

“You, stop where you are!” I bellow. “I will have my diamond powder now. I challenge you!” These words of challenge are common for wizards – real wizards. They are not hostile, but rather just the invitation to a test of skills. The goblins will probably not understand, requiring a little more provocation. Again, I laugh at myself as I treat these animals as if they were actual learned mages. No matter, this duel will be over soon.

Surprisingly, they seem to understand the challenge. I am spared the humiliation of “speaking their language,” the language of rage and savagery. I delight in the fact that they give me this opportunity to show how a noble mage conducts himself in challenge and in victory.

In pure Institute fashion, I make no aggressive move. Instead, I ready a simple unsummons. The Institute teaches, as I have stated earlier, that control and intelligence lead to success. Counterspellmagic, they teach, is the perfect early move. In one simple spell I control the magic on the field and I learn what sort of spells my opponent aims to use against me. Control and intelligence. Still, I ready the unsummons. I feel a little sly, given that I already know what sort of spells these hacks plan to use against me. Dog spells. Ha! A simple unsummons can thwart all the plans of an echo mage. While they are busy minding their mana and the spells they have already cast, I can create threats of my own or just sit back and ready another control spell.

I see the two of them bickering at each other. They keep pointing off in the distance then back at me. Finally, the other one gets a whack in the head and he produces a small stick and some other trinkets from a leather pouch. Then they get to work. As they prepare their “magic,” they keep looking over at me, scowling and growling. I am not worried. I assume that it will take these two wickless candles a long time to get to where I have been since moment one. I am sure they are puzzled by the fact that I have not come out and summoned an attacker – aggression and violence are all they know, after all. Besides, I already have the answer before they even produce the question. Still, I watch in amusement as they labor over a summoning circle. I do cringe at the fact that they immediately use up the diamond powder to draw it upon the ground. Strangely, I do not mind. The powder, as it turns out, is not my quarry after all.

They draw the circle, and then another circle inside of it. Then, here’s the best part, the one starts jumping and bounding about performing the most crude and, quite honestly, embarrassing summoning ritual I have ever seen. The other one stands close by, shouting... something. Encouragement? Ridicule, most likely.

There is a flash within circle. It burns away to reveal...I’ll give you one guess – another goblin. This one is armed with a pointed stick. Ooooh, very frightening. It just goes to show how stupid goblins are. You give them access to magic and the wide world of possibilities it opens and what do they create but the same dumb thing they would be creating on a boring night down in the warrens. I stand tall and show no fear. The new goblin glares at me, then charges as the summoner barks out some buffoonish goblin command. I move not a muscle. I pay the attacker no mind. Instead I watch the mage, waiting for him to jump and bound about again, calling up more mana to feed his attacking dog. Once he does, I will flick my unsummons from the tip of my finger and send it whimpering back to its hole. A-ha, there he goes.

Just for fun, I wait until the goblin gets close enough to really taste its rage. Then, just... when... he... lifts... his... stick. Poof. That was too easy. Maybe I should consider a different tactic for his next spell. Hmmm... What! Another summoning flash takes me by surprise! I turn my attention to the summoning circle and... how? Another goblin materializes from the flame. How did they channel enough mana? How did they feed both dogs? It must be the diamond powder! That powder should have been mine!

I backpedal quickly. This one does not bother to wait for an attack order. I try to come up with a simple spell I can cast on the run – something that could keep this goblin at bay while I get more powerful magic ready. Before I can think of a proper defense, plain old defense is all I can come up with. I quickly recall my first basic summon spell and, against my better judgment – I speak the word and put my hands together, making the trivial little flapping motion. With little fanfare, it appears. I should be safe for a moment while I find a real answer. The contraption manages to click and grind and flap its wings once or twice before the goblin smashes headfirst into it.

The ornithopter shatters and falls to the ground. Almost without thinking I snap off another unsummons, but not before I feel the heat of another summoning flash. Somehow the goblins are accessing enough mana to stay one step ahead of me. I have to look away a moment, to call up another spell. My mind washes and I see the faraway seas. I feel their power and I look into their depths. I do not trust what I see. It is not countermagic. It is not divination. It is not even a formidable denizen of air or sea.

With two more goblins barreling toward me, I question not the vision and begin summoning the a wall of ice. Before I can cast the spell, before I can even begin feeling the humiliation of summoning a wall, I feel upon my face another flash of heat, and then another. Through the ice’s rippling translucence I can see the two goblin forms streaking off to find a way around the wall with two more following closely behind. Then, all too clearly, I see a fifth goblin – a rabid, weathered looking creature wielding a most peculiar implement. I see every detail of the iridescent, multi-lashed scourge it snaps back and forth. I do not fear the creature so much as the fact that my view of it is not diffused by a thick slab of ice. It does not bother to attack me. Why should it, when the other four goblins have just cut straight toward me... now that I am unprotected. I run.

It is a good thing for me that goblins should have such short legs. I outrun them easily. Or maybe they decided to turn to some easier prey, or on each other. Goblins are bullies and cowards like that. Whatever the case, I make it back to town and am clear of danger.

I catch my breath and begin to collect my thoughts. Control. Intelligence. Control. Intelligence. Yes. Yes, I must use what I have learned to take command of my situation. I must take what I have experienced and use it to achieve success. Today I saw the power of echo magic. The others at the Institute will never believe me, not until I can prove it. I will get to that later. For now, I must find some diamond powder. I am sure that it is the key to unlocking this mystery. The goblins stumbled upon something. They bumbled into a discovery. Diamond powder has some natural affinity for echo magic. Of this I am sure.

I will study the relationship between echo magic and the diamond powder. I will find and master the secret upon which the goblins stumbled. Then, amid much fanfare and adulation, I will unveil my discovery to the Institute. But first I will seek out the two stupid goblins and use their own trick against them. They will see how a real mage does his work. They will see how a real mage crushes an opponent. They will see me, a man, do this how a real mage does it – alone. Without some sniveling little sidekick to carry my things and feel the back of my hand.

#magic the gathering #vorthos #planes #mana #lore #goblins

[eddiejpoplar]

The Last True Supercar: Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder

A blip of the throttle unleashes a maelstrom from the V-10’s exhaust. The fury vibrates through my body and bounces off the concrete chasm that surrounds the Automobile office. Ever since I hung that orange Diablo poster on my bedroom wall as a child, I’ve been dreaming of this day. Hardly original of me, I know; if I were a few years older, the poster would have been of a Countach. And if my time in the 2017 Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder stopped here, simply revving the engine in a parking lot, I’d probably die with a smile plastered on my face.

Not so long ago, Lamborghinis were wild, feral beasts prone to making grown men and women cry due to any number of maladies and axe-murderer tendencies—or die of heat exhaustion. Lamborghini’s HVAC output felt like the Italians had stuffed an asthmatic 90-year-old man blowing hot coughs through a sieve-like straw. Entry and exit were an absolute pain in the ass and had the habit of causing a great number of wardrobe malfunctions with the brand’s heiress clientele. Maintenance was even more loathsome and expensive, since depending on the part in need of service, it sometimes required removing the entire engine, transmission, and even the silly-but-awesome scissor doors. More rigorous maintenance necessitated the expertise of a time traveler from the year 2341, even though most of Lamborghini’s components were old enough to qualify for AARP.

Then along came the Volkswagen Group. The Germans poured heaping mounds of cash into the brand and brought Lamborghini into the 21st century. It transformed the company’s supercars from breathtaking works of art that only worked as two-dimensional bedroom posters to world-class supercars able to go head-to-head with Maranello and no longer needing a golf handicap or extra insurance for self-immolation.

Model after model, each new Lamborghini exiting the marque’s Sant’Agata factory became a more useable supercar. All-wheel drive tamed the cantankerous rear-wheel beasts of yesteryear. Their air-conditioning worked but still not as well as the average Volvo. And the styling evolved, drawing closer to that of corporate sister Audi, with softer curves and more livable doors. But the increased focus on livability made it seem like Lamborghini lost sight of its heritage and the wildness that attracted so many to it in the first place. And while the company has brought out some truly outrageous creations (i.e., Veneno, Centenario, Egoista), its main lineup consists of AWD supercars that can almost be daily drivers. Most wouldn’t call the Huracán and Aventador boring, but they also weren’t as farcically ludicrous as the Countach, Diablo, LM002, or Miura in terms of styling and that extrasensory feel of “specialness.”

This Huracán Spyder, however, is something else. It doesn’t feel like the “Volkswagen generation,” as it’s been described to me. It’s what I’d imagine from Lamborghinis of old. Cheese-grater surfaces cover most of the supercar’s exterior with air inlets and tunnels forcing air through the carbon-fiber bodywork. Its exhaust, unlike most modern turbocharged supercars, sounds like it has the ability to summon the darkest of hell’s demons. And that Kraken-like V-10 sends its 580 horsepower and 398 lb-ft of torque to the rear wheels alone, which is plenty to keep your hands and brain busy as the rear wheels struggle to maintain traction while launching from a set of traffic lights like the Roadrunner speeding away from Wile E. Coyote. Lamborghini brought its historical ethos back but left the fiery, unreliable qualities in the past.

Unfortunately, after pulling out of the office parking lot slowly, my first experience with the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder didn’t include raucously spinning the tires and bellows from the V-10. I was stuck in the hell of California’s Interstate 405 at rush hour. Fifteen miles took two and a half hours. This is not where the Lamborghini shines, which is good and bad. (The really good news is, this modern Huracán did not melt itself to the ground while idling in rush hour, something you might not have been able to count on once upon a time.)

While I never doubted the carbon bucket racing seats would keep both driver and passenger secure while whipping the Giallo Tenerife (yellow) Huracán through Nürburgring-like corners, they caused flareups of prior spinal issues. When I finally extricated myself from the cockpit, I felt like I had aged 40 years. The confining seats compressed my spine to the point it felt like two or three of my lumbar vertebrae had been surgically fused. I practically fell out of the car, now in a perpetual hunched position, moaning, and looking for Advil or a double pour of bourbon to ease my aching back. I dropped to the ground and stretched out to loosen my muscles and aching bones. With only T-shirt and jeans separating me from the sizzling tarmac, my back and butt sizzled. The warmth on my bruised and battered spine, however, felt blissful, and I could’ve stayed there for hours. Some things never change.

While staring up at the sapphire blue Californian sky, I considered the Lambo’s suspension. To its credit, the passive, old-school, non-magnetorheological suspension (MR is available as an option) soaked up almost every bit of the fragmented 405 tarmac and was far less harsh than Ford’s punitive Focus RS suspension, which in my opinion, should be reported to The Hague for crimes against humanity.

The Huracán’s standard suspension, however, is smooth enough for daily use, rolling over bumps and potholes, staying perfectly composed and never causing the car to sashay or pull the wheel out of your hands. And although it’s softly sprung, the Huracán is stable enough for when you get on the longer right pedal and the scenery goes plaid. To the outside observer, though, my supine appearance may have not conveyed that fact or made me look as if I was eager to return to the slightly agonizing buckets. However, ahead lay 11 miles of the most pristine, jagged, and desolate mountain roadways in California. With the spritely spirit of my inner 12 year old, the one with the Diablo on his wall, I hopped back into the Huracán and shed the aged feeling.

Nothing quite measures up to the percussive personality of the naturally aspirated V-10 reverberating off a canyon’s granite walls. The heavy metal band Megadeath would likely describe it as a symphony of destruction. And although superbly sonorous in the supercar’s standard mode, with the push of a button its howl magnifies. Shove the Huracán’s mode selector into Corsa, and the V-10’s yowl culminates with a staccato, .45-caliber overrun that’s sure to send a new barrage of shivers down your spine. Everything about this engine is meant to entertain, and does it ever.

Along the canyon’s tight blacktop, and Huracán’s fast approaching 8,000 rpm redline, first and second gear are the only gears necessary, and even then upshifting into second is rarely clicked for faster, straighter sections. When shifting is obligatory, the Audi-sourced dual-clutch transmission changes crisply and without violence. The shifts themselves are almost imperceptible, occurring in fractions of a second. Speed just continues to build, with the only distinguishable variance in gear selection being the exhaust’s tone. And as fast as the transmission upshifts, the downshifts are just as good, although slightly more fierce. Under hard braking, the supercar tends to twerk its hindquarters like Miley Cyrus, something that is likely reminiscent of Lamborghini’s previously untamable persona.

Keeping the car’s rear from spinning around and likely off the mountain’s side, however, were the company’s standard steel brakes and big six-piston calipers.  Although many supercar owners would likely balk at selecting the less expensive steel rotors over carbon-ceramic brakes, the ones on the Huracán never once lost pressure, they cost infinitely less money, and they handled the abuse of a three-quarter speed, 11-mile run up one of the tightest and twistiest roads outside Germany’s 12.9-mile Nürburgring Nordschleife. Through the entire canyon flog, there was never a need for better braking or heat management. Maybe if I had gone to track the car for dozens of laps, the carbon ceramics would’ve been helpful. But for everyday use, which is exactly what this car will see, the standard rotors are wonderful pieces of equipment and enough to stop its 3,300-pound curb weight.

The same goes for the Huracán’s standard steering unit. For a few thousand more, Lamborghini will deliver a Huracán with variable geometry steering, which has the ability to change the steering rack’s resistance ratio from soft for around-town cruising to more forceful when the driver gets on the throttle and starts hucking the chassis into corners. After driving the standard unit, I’m not sure you need it. The standard steering provides an exactness that most modern supercars would kill for, adeptly communicating the road’s flaws to your fingertips. You’re never probing for where the front tires are, trying to discern the surface’s nuances. Just twist the wheel and lay into the throttle. The will understeer, or course, but you can counter it with a dash more throttle and opposite lock to kick into the car’s RWD oversteer abilities.

As the canyon’s tight walls continued, my mind tried to keep up with the manic, quick revving of the V-10 and lightning-fast shifts. This is very much a driver’s car. When you clip apexes and treat it with respect, it rewards you, but lose focus for more than a moment, and like supercars of old, it will bite you. Be prepared to pucker or need a new pair of underwear. And that’s what makes this Huracán so different from other modern Lamborghinis and other modern supercars. In an era when every supercar manufacturer has evolved its products into more civilized offerings, the frenzied, knife-wielding howler that is the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder has returned to the old ways. It’s a car you’re always smiling or laughing in, including those Kegel moments, which for some reason are ecstatically good fun too. It’s a loud, brash maniac, just like the Diablo that hung on my wall.

Yes, this Huracán is everything I could’ve asked for in a first experience. And it made me hope supercar manufacturers see the inherent fun of their wares being a little more untamed. Unfortunately, the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder is likely the last of its kind; supercar progress means smaller, turbocharged engines, more safety and autonomy, and better everyday usability. This sadly feels like one last hurrah as Lamborghini and the rest of the supercar industry take the next step into modernity. I feel like I just barely slid into the experience under the wire. I hope I’m wrong.

2017 Lamborghini Huracan LP 580-2

ON SALE Now PRICE $219,780/ $280,845 (base/as tested) ENGINE 5.2L DOHC 40-valve V-10/ 572 hp @ 8,000 rpm, 398 lb-ft @ 6,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed dual-clutch automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, mid-engine RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 175.6 x 75.7 x 45.9 in WHEELBASE 103.1 in WEIGHT 3,326 lb 0-60 MPH 3.2 sec TOP SPEED 199 mph

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#IFTTT #Performance Junk Blogger 6

[jesusvasser]

The Last True Supercar: Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder

A blip of the throttle unleashes a maelstrom from the V-10’s exhaust. The fury vibrates through my body and bounces off the concrete chasm that surrounds the Automobile office. Ever since I hung that orange Diablo poster on my bedroom wall as a child, I’ve been dreaming of this day. Hardly original of me, I know; if I were a few years older, the poster would have been of a Countach. And if my time in the 2017 Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder stopped here, simply revving the engine in a parking lot, I’d probably die with a smile plastered on my face.

Not so long ago, Lamborghinis were wild, feral beasts prone to making grown men and women cry due to any number of maladies and axe-murderer tendencies—or die of heat exhaustion. Lamborghini’s HVAC output felt like the Italians had stuffed an asthmatic 90-year-old man blowing hot coughs through a sieve-like straw. Entry and exit were an absolute pain in the ass and had the habit of causing a great number of wardrobe malfunctions with the brand’s heiress clientele. Maintenance was even more loathsome and expensive, since depending on the part in need of service, it sometimes required removing the entire engine, transmission, and even the silly-but-awesome scissor doors. More rigorous maintenance necessitated the expertise of a time traveler from the year 2341, even though most of Lamborghini’s components were old enough to qualify for AARP.

Then along came the Volkswagen Group. The Germans poured heaping mounds of cash into the brand and brought Lamborghini into the 21st century. It transformed the company’s supercars from breathtaking works of art that only worked as two-dimensional bedroom posters to world-class supercars able to go head-to-head with Maranello and no longer needing a golf handicap or extra insurance for self-immolation.

Model after model, each new Lamborghini exiting the marque’s Sant’Agata factory became a more useable supercar. All-wheel drive tamed the cantankerous rear-wheel beasts of yesteryear. Their air-conditioning worked but still not as well as the average Volvo. And the styling evolved, drawing closer to that of corporate sister Audi, with softer curves and more livable doors. But the increased focus on livability made it seem like Lamborghini lost sight of its heritage and the wildness that attracted so many to it in the first place. And while the company has brought out some truly outrageous creations (i.e., Veneno, Centenario, Egoista), its main lineup consists of AWD supercars that can almost be daily drivers. Most wouldn’t call the Huracán and Aventador boring, but they also weren’t as farcically ludicrous as the Countach, Diablo, LM002, or Miura in terms of styling and that extrasensory feel of “specialness.”

This Huracán Spyder, however, is something else. It doesn’t feel like the “Volkswagen generation,” as it’s been described to me. It’s what I’d imagine from Lamborghinis of old. Cheese-grater surfaces cover most of the supercar’s exterior with air inlets and tunnels forcing air through the carbon-fiber bodywork. Its exhaust, unlike most modern turbocharged supercars, sounds like it has the ability to summon the darkest of hell’s demons. And that Kraken-like V-10 sends its 580 horsepower and 398 lb-ft of torque to the rear wheels alone, which is plenty to keep your hands and brain busy as the rear wheels struggle to maintain traction while launching from a set of traffic lights like the Roadrunner speeding away from Wile E. Coyote. Lamborghini brought its historical ethos back but left the fiery, unreliable qualities in the past.

Unfortunately, after pulling out of the office parking lot slowly, my first experience with the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder didn’t include raucously spinning the tires and bellows from the V-10. I was stuck in the hell of California’s Interstate 405 at rush hour. Fifteen miles took two and a half hours. This is not where the Lamborghini shines, which is good and bad. (The really good news is, this modern Huracán did not melt itself to the ground while idling in rush hour, something you might not have been able to count on once upon a time.)

While I never doubted the carbon bucket racing seats would keep both driver and passenger secure while whipping the Giallo Tenerife (yellow) Huracán through Nürburgring-like corners, they caused flareups of prior spinal issues. When I finally extricated myself from the cockpit, I felt like I had aged 40 years. The confining seats compressed my spine to the point it felt like two or three of my lumbar vertebrae had been surgically fused. I practically fell out of the car, now in a perpetual hunched position, moaning, and looking for Advil or a double pour of bourbon to ease my aching back. I dropped to the ground and stretched out to loosen my muscles and aching bones. With only T-shirt and jeans separating me from the sizzling tarmac, my back and butt sizzled. The warmth on my bruised and battered spine, however, felt blissful, and I could’ve stayed there for hours. Some things never change.

While staring up at the sapphire blue Californian sky, I considered the Lambo’s suspension. To its credit, the passive, old-school, non-magnetorheological suspension (MR is available as an option) soaked up almost every bit of the fragmented 405 tarmac and was far less harsh than Ford’s punitive Focus RS suspension, which in my opinion, should be reported to The Hague for crimes against humanity.

The Huracán’s standard suspension, however, is smooth enough for daily use, rolling over bumps and potholes, staying perfectly composed and never causing the car to sashay or pull the wheel out of your hands. And although it’s softly sprung, the Huracán is stable enough for when you get on the longer right pedal and the scenery goes plaid. To the outside observer, though, my supine appearance may have not conveyed that fact or made me look as if I was eager to return to the slightly agonizing buckets. However, ahead lay 11 miles of the most pristine, jagged, and desolate mountain roadways in California. With the spritely spirit of my inner 12 year old, the one with the Diablo on his wall, I hopped back into the Huracán and shed the aged feeling.

Nothing quite measures up to the percussive personality of the naturally aspirated V-10 reverberating off a canyon’s granite walls. The heavy metal band Megadeath would likely describe it as a symphony of destruction. And although superbly sonorous in the supercar’s standard mode, with the push of a button its howl magnifies. Shove the Huracán’s mode selector into Corsa, and the V-10’s yowl culminates with a staccato, .45-caliber overrun that’s sure to send a new barrage of shivers down your spine. Everything about this engine is meant to entertain, and does it ever.

Along the canyon’s tight blacktop, and Huracán’s fast approaching 8,000 rpm redline, first and second gear are the only gears necessary, and even then upshifting into second is rarely clicked for faster, straighter sections. When shifting is obligatory, the Audi-sourced dual-clutch transmission changes crisply and without violence. The shifts themselves are almost imperceptible, occurring in fractions of a second. Speed just continues to build, with the only distinguishable variance in gear selection being the exhaust’s tone. And as fast as the transmission upshifts, the downshifts are just as good, although slightly more fierce. Under hard braking, the supercar tends to twerk its hindquarters like Miley Cyrus, something that is likely reminiscent of Lamborghini’s previously untamable persona.

Keeping the car’s rear from spinning around and likely off the mountain’s side, however, were the company’s standard steel brakes and big six-piston calipers.  Although many supercar owners would likely balk at selecting the less expensive steel rotors over carbon-ceramic brakes, the ones on the Huracán never once lost pressure, they cost infinitely less money, and they handled the abuse of a three-quarter speed, 11-mile run up one of the tightest and twistiest roads outside Germany’s 12.9-mile Nürburgring Nordschleife. Through the entire canyon flog, there was never a need for better braking or heat management. Maybe if I had gone to track the car for dozens of laps, the carbon ceramics would’ve been helpful. But for everyday use, which is exactly what this car will see, the standard rotors are wonderful pieces of equipment and enough to stop its 3,300-pound curb weight.

The same goes for the Huracán’s standard steering unit. For a few thousand more, Lamborghini will deliver a Huracán with variable geometry steering, which has the ability to change the steering rack’s resistance ratio from soft for around-town cruising to more forceful when the driver gets on the throttle and starts hucking the chassis into corners. After driving the standard unit, I’m not sure you need it. The standard steering provides an exactness that most modern supercars would kill for, adeptly communicating the road’s flaws to your fingertips. You’re never probing for where the front tires are, trying to discern the surface’s nuances. Just twist the wheel and lay into the throttle. The will understeer, or course, but you can counter it with a dash more throttle and opposite lock to kick into the car’s RWD oversteer abilities.

As the canyon’s tight walls continued, my mind tried to keep up with the manic, quick revving of the V-10 and lightning-fast shifts. This is very much a driver’s car. When you clip apexes and treat it with respect, it rewards you, but lose focus for more than a moment, and like supercars of old, it will bite you. Be prepared to pucker or need a new pair of underwear. And that’s what makes this Huracán so different from other modern Lamborghinis and other modern supercars. In an era when every supercar manufacturer has evolved its products into more civilized offerings, the frenzied, knife-wielding howler that is the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder has returned to the old ways. It’s a car you’re always smiling or laughing in, including those Kegel moments, which for some reason are ecstatically good fun too. It’s a loud, brash maniac, just like the Diablo that hung on my wall.

Yes, this Huracán is everything I could’ve asked for in a first experience. And it made me hope supercar manufacturers see the inherent fun of their wares being a little more untamed. Unfortunately, the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder is likely the last of its kind; supercar progress means smaller, turbocharged engines, more safety and autonomy, and better everyday usability. This sadly feels like one last hurrah as Lamborghini and the rest of the supercar industry take the next step into modernity. I feel like I just barely slid into the experience under the wire. I hope I’m wrong.

2017 Lamborghini Huracan LP 580-2

ON SALE Now PRICE $219,780/ $280,845 (base/as tested) ENGINE 5.2L DOHC 40-valve V-10/ 572 hp @ 8,000 rpm, 398 lb-ft @ 6,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed dual-clutch automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, mid-engine RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 175.6 x 75.7 x 45.9 in WHEELBASE 103.1 in WEIGHT 3,326 lb 0-60 MPH 3.2 sec TOP SPEED 199 mph

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[jonathanbelloblog]

The Last True Supercar: Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder

A blip of the throttle unleashes a maelstrom from the V-10’s exhaust. The fury vibrates through my body and bounces off the concrete chasm that surrounds the Automobile office. Ever since I hung that orange Diablo poster on my bedroom wall as a child, I’ve been dreaming of this day. Hardly original of me, I know; if I were a few years older, the poster would have been of a Countach. And if my time in the 2017 Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2 Spyder stopped here, simply revving the engine in a parking lot, I’d probably die with a smile plastered on my face.

Not so long ago, Lamborghinis were wild, feral beasts prone to making grown men and women cry due to any number of maladies and axe-murderer tendencies—or die of heat exhaustion. Lamborghini’s HVAC output felt like the Italians had stuffed an asthmatic 90-year-old man blowing hot coughs through a sieve-like straw. Entry and exit were an absolute pain in the ass and had the habit of causing a great number of wardrobe malfunctions with the brand’s heiress clientele. Maintenance was even more loathsome and expensive, since depending on the part in need of service, it sometimes required removing the entire engine, transmission, and even the silly-but-awesome scissor doors. More rigorous maintenance necessitated the expertise of a time traveler from the year 2341, even though most of Lamborghini’s components were old enough to qualify for AARP.

Then along came the Volkswagen Group. The Germans poured heaping mounds of cash into the brand and brought Lamborghini into the 21st century. It transformed the company’s supercars from breathtaking works of art that only worked as two-dimensional bedroom posters to world-class supercars able to go head-to-head with Maranello and no longer needing a golf handicap or extra insurance for self-immolation.

Model after model, each new Lamborghini exiting the marque’s Sant’Agata factory became a more useable supercar. All-wheel drive tamed the cantankerous rear-wheel beasts of yesteryear. Their air-conditioning worked but still not as well as the average Volvo. And the styling evolved, drawing closer to that of corporate sister Audi, with softer curves and more livable doors. But the increased focus on livability made it seem like Lamborghini lost sight of its heritage and the wildness that attracted so many to it in the first place. And while the company has brought out some truly outrageous creations (i.e., Veneno, Centenario, Egoista), its main lineup consists of AWD supercars that can almost be daily drivers. Most wouldn’t call the Huracán and Aventador boring, but they also weren’t as farcically ludicrous as the Countach, Diablo, LM002, or Miura in terms of styling and that extrasensory feel of “specialness.”

This Huracán Spyder, however, is something else. It doesn’t feel like the “Volkswagen generation,” as it’s been described to me. It’s what I’d imagine from Lamborghinis of old. Cheese-grater surfaces cover most of the supercar’s exterior with air inlets and tunnels forcing air through the carbon-fiber bodywork. Its exhaust, unlike most modern turbocharged supercars, sounds like it has the ability to summon the darkest of hell’s demons. And that Kraken-like V-10 sends its 580 horsepower and 398 lb-ft of torque to the rear wheels alone, which is plenty to keep your hands and brain busy as the rear wheels struggle to maintain traction while launching from a set of traffic lights like the Roadrunner speeding away from Wile E. Coyote. Lamborghini brought its historical ethos back but left the fiery, unreliable qualities in the past.

Unfortunately, after pulling out of the office parking lot slowly, my first experience with the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder didn’t include raucously spinning the tires and bellows from the V-10. I was stuck in the hell of California’s Interstate 405 at rush hour. Fifteen miles took two and a half hours. This is not where the Lamborghini shines, which is good and bad. (The really good news is, this modern Huracán did not melt itself to the ground while idling in rush hour, something you might not have been able to count on once upon a time.)

While I never doubted the carbon bucket racing seats would keep both driver and passenger secure while whipping the Giallo Tenerife (yellow) Huracán through Nürburgring-like corners, they caused flareups of prior spinal issues. When I finally extricated myself from the cockpit, I felt like I had aged 40 years. The confining seats compressed my spine to the point it felt like two or three of my lumbar vertebrae had been surgically fused. I practically fell out of the car, now in a perpetual hunched position, moaning, and looking for Advil or a double pour of bourbon to ease my aching back. I dropped to the ground and stretched out to loosen my muscles and aching bones. With only T-shirt and jeans separating me from the sizzling tarmac, my back and butt sizzled. The warmth on my bruised and battered spine, however, felt blissful, and I could’ve stayed there for hours. Some things never change.

While staring up at the sapphire blue Californian sky, I considered the Lambo’s suspension. To its credit, the passive, old-school, non-magnetorheological suspension (MR is available as an option) soaked up almost every bit of the fragmented 405 tarmac and was far less harsh than Ford’s punitive Focus RS suspension, which in my opinion, should be reported to The Hague for crimes against humanity.

The Huracán’s standard suspension, however, is smooth enough for daily use, rolling over bumps and potholes, staying perfectly composed and never causing the car to sashay or pull the wheel out of your hands. And although it’s softly sprung, the Huracán is stable enough for when you get on the longer right pedal and the scenery goes plaid. To the outside observer, though, my supine appearance may have not conveyed that fact or made me look as if I was eager to return to the slightly agonizing buckets. However, ahead lay 11 miles of the most pristine, jagged, and desolate mountain roadways in California. With the spritely spirit of my inner 12 year old, the one with the Diablo on his wall, I hopped back into the Huracán and shed the aged feeling.

Nothing quite measures up to the percussive personality of the naturally aspirated V-10 reverberating off a canyon’s granite walls. The heavy metal band Megadeath would likely describe it as a symphony of destruction. And although superbly sonorous in the supercar’s standard mode, with the push of a button its howl magnifies. Shove the Huracán’s mode selector into Corsa, and the V-10’s yowl culminates with a staccato, .45-caliber overrun that’s sure to send a new barrage of shivers down your spine. Everything about this engine is meant to entertain, and does it ever.

Along the canyon’s tight blacktop, and Huracán’s fast approaching 8,000 rpm redline, first and second gear are the only gears necessary, and even then upshifting into second is rarely clicked for faster, straighter sections. When shifting is obligatory, the Audi-sourced dual-clutch transmission changes crisply and without violence. The shifts themselves are almost imperceptible, occurring in fractions of a second. Speed just continues to build, with the only distinguishable variance in gear selection being the exhaust’s tone. And as fast as the transmission upshifts, the downshifts are just as good, although slightly more fierce. Under hard braking, the supercar tends to twerk its hindquarters like Miley Cyrus, something that is likely reminiscent of Lamborghini’s previously untamable persona.

Keeping the car’s rear from spinning around and likely off the mountain’s side, however, were the company’s standard steel brakes and big six-piston calipers.  Although many supercar owners would likely balk at selecting the less expensive steel rotors over carbon-ceramic brakes, the ones on the Huracán never once lost pressure, they cost infinitely less money, and they handled the abuse of a three-quarter speed, 11-mile run up one of the tightest and twistiest roads outside Germany’s 12.9-mile Nürburgring Nordschleife. Through the entire canyon flog, there was never a need for better braking or heat management. Maybe if I had gone to track the car for dozens of laps, the carbon ceramics would’ve been helpful. But for everyday use, which is exactly what this car will see, the standard rotors are wonderful pieces of equipment and enough to stop its 3,300-pound curb weight.

The same goes for the Huracán’s standard steering unit. For a few thousand more, Lamborghini will deliver a Huracán with variable geometry steering, which has the ability to change the steering rack’s resistance ratio from soft for around-town cruising to more forceful when the driver gets on the throttle and starts hucking the chassis into corners. After driving the standard unit, I’m not sure you need it. The standard steering provides an exactness that most modern supercars would kill for, adeptly communicating the road’s flaws to your fingertips. You’re never probing for where the front tires are, trying to discern the surface’s nuances. Just twist the wheel and lay into the throttle. The will understeer, or course, but you can counter it with a dash more throttle and opposite lock to kick into the car’s RWD oversteer abilities.

As the canyon’s tight walls continued, my mind tried to keep up with the manic, quick revving of the V-10 and lightning-fast shifts. This is very much a driver’s car. When you clip apexes and treat it with respect, it rewards you, but lose focus for more than a moment, and like supercars of old, it will bite you. Be prepared to pucker or need a new pair of underwear. And that’s what makes this Huracán so different from other modern Lamborghinis and other modern supercars. In an era when every supercar manufacturer has evolved its products into more civilized offerings, the frenzied, knife-wielding howler that is the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder has returned to the old ways. It’s a car you’re always smiling or laughing in, including those Kegel moments, which for some reason are ecstatically good fun too. It’s a loud, brash maniac, just like the Diablo that hung on my wall.

Yes, this Huracán is everything I could’ve asked for in a first experience. And it made me hope supercar manufacturers see the inherent fun of their wares being a little more untamed. Unfortunately, the Huracán LP580-2 Spyder is likely the last of its kind; supercar progress means smaller, turbocharged engines, more safety and autonomy, and better everyday usability. This sadly feels like one last hurrah as Lamborghini and the rest of the supercar industry take the next step into modernity. I feel like I just barely slid into the experience under the wire. I hope I’m wrong.

2017 Lamborghini Huracan LP 580-2

ON SALE Now PRICE $219,780/ $280,845 (base/as tested) ENGINE 5.2L DOHC 40-valve V-10/ 572 hp @ 8,000 rpm, 398 lb-ft @ 6,500 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed dual-clutch automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, mid-engine RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 175.6 x 75.7 x 45.9 in WHEELBASE 103.1 in WEIGHT 3,326 lb 0-60 MPH 3.2 sec TOP SPEED 199 mph

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